I stand there, frozen in front of the blue screen. The words blink before my eyes, mocking my intelligence and my shovel. Garbage Man. They didn’t even have the decency to call me a ‘Groundskeeper’ or even a ‘Shovel Knight’.
I look up at the Angel. She’s still floating up there, looking smug. “Is this a joke? I’ve got a shovel! I moved dirt and stone! That’s heavy labor, excavation! Since when does civil engineering count as waste management!? What the hell is this?”
The Angel floats down slightly, just enough to look down on me with even more contempt.
[Angel - Ariel]: Behavioral data analysis complete. You excavated slabs that the System reclassified as rubble. You dusted off a dirty pressure plate with your foot. And most importantly, your mouth spews a continuous stream of trash and vulgarity. The class perfectly matches your psychological and physical profile.
I grip the handle of my shovel so hard my knuckles turn white. “And the rank? Since when is there a rank below Common? What kind of shitty balancing is this? Even the NPCs selling turnips are Common rank! Why do we have a ‘Trash’ rank?”
[Angel - Ariel]: A correction is in order. These two classes, Porter and Garbage Man, did not exist in the initial database. They were hotfixed specifically for you, to adapt to your exceptional mediocrity. You have the distinct honor of being their first beta testers.
Chris drops his head into his hands, on the verge of tears. “Pathetic beta testers… Because of you, we’ve got the worst classes in the history of the game. We’re screwed, Uncle Ben.”
I raise a finger to cut off Chris’s whining, my eyes locked on the Angel. “Thanks to my ‘vulgarity’ and my shovel, I highlighted a critical flaw in your spaghetti-code architecture. In my world, we call that a Pentest, and it commands a six-figure salary. You should be thanking me for not crashing the whole server instead of punishing us.”
The Angel freezes. She seems to be listening to a voice we can’t hear. Her smooth face tilts slightly.
[Angel - Ariel]: A re-evaluation request has been submitted… Granted. “The One” recognizes the technical validity of your argument. A hotfix has been deployed thanks to your chaotic actions. As compensation for this involuntary debugging service, you are offered a unique reward.
A new window pops up in the dungeon’s stale air.
[Compensation: Bug Bounty] Choose a unique reward:
- [Software Optimization]: +1 Level to your Class Skill.
- [Item Reward]: A Legendary Item linked to your Class.
Chris wipes his eyes and sniffs. He looks at the two options like a kid in a candy store. “A legendary item…” he whispers. “If I take that, maybe I won’t be a useless Porter.”
He smashes the second option. A purple flash cuts through the dark. When the light fades, a backpack falls into Chris’s arms. It looks like an old, worn leather hiking pack, covered in pockets and straps.
[Item Obtained]: Atlas’s Burden (Dimensional Backpack - Rank: Legendary)
[Properties]
- Storage Space: Infinite.
- Encumbrance: Zero.
- Restriction: Soulbound (Cannot be sold, traded, stolen, or discarded).
- Special Function: “Mental Retrieval” (Desired items appear instantly in the user’s hand).
Chris strokes the leather, incredulous. He tries to shove his shield inside. The massive steel disc gets sucked in like magic. He thinks hard, and the shield pops back into his hands. “It’s… it’s not bad at all,” he says. “Wait, is this another joke? Do I really have the bag?”
[Angel - Ariel]: This artifact belongs to you now. It is bound to your spiritual fabric. You can carry the whole world on your back, little Porter.
I look at my own list. A legendary item for a Garbage Man? What, a diamond trash can? A laser rake? Not for me. Gear breaks or gets stolen. Code is eternal. “Keep your shiny toys,” I say. “I’ll take the skill point.” I click the +1.
The Angel vanishes in a rain of binary data. We’re alone again in front of the massive wooden door. Chris sniffs loudly, wiping his snot on his forearm. He’s got his legendary bag on his back, but he still looks like a kicked puppy.
“Stop whining, kid. You’re giving me a migraine. Open your [Attributes] tab. Not your class, your base stats.”
Chris looks at me with red, puffy eyes. “Why? To see how much I suck? I’m a Porter, Uncle Ben! I’m good for logistics, not fighting!” “Just open it. Look at your Attack and your Physical Defense.”
[Attributes]
HP: 180 / 180 (+80)
MP: 0 / 0
Attack: 11 (+8)
Magic: 0
Defense: 14 (+10)
Magic Defense: 0
Speed: 8 (+1) (28 km/h)
Chris blinks, brain buffering. His mouth hangs open, catching flies. “What…? Wait. I’ve got… +8 Attack? And +10 Defense? My HP nearly doubled? This is huge! I had shrimp stats at the start! How could I gain all this without killing a single mob?”
I take a long swig from my flask. The liquid sears my throat, and for a second, the world stops feeling like a total glitch. “Didn’t you notice, Sherlock? There’s no experience bar. No player level. When I saw my stats at the start, I figured it out instantly. It’s an organic system. You progress through proficiency. It’s Skyrim logic.”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
I point at the abandoned wheelbarrow. “You pushed a literal ton of stone for ten klicks. You screamed in pain, you sweated, your muscles tore and rebuilt themselves. The System just registered your physical gains. If we had run like idiots, what would you have gained? +1 Speed? Now, you’re a tank. Your Defense went up because you hauled the load, your Attack because you pushed like a beast. And don’t forget the context: this ‘Tutorial from Hell’ probably applied a hidden multiplier to your gains. Call it hazard pay.”
Chris looks at his hands, then the wheelbarrow, then me. He’s looking at me like I just cracked the Matrix. “You… you knew? You made me carry that to train me? Not just because you were lazy?”
I shrug with a smirk. “Let’s call it a happy accident. Laziness was the catalyst; your power-leveling is the byproduct. You’ll thank me later when you can take a mace to the face without crumpling. Come on, let’s move.”
Chris grabs my arm before I reach the door. His look is serious, almost grown-up for the first time. “Uncle Ben, wait. I want you to promise me something.” I raise an eyebrow, hand on the handle. “What now?” “Promise me you won’t cheat anymore. We got lucky this time, but look at us—we’ve got trash classes, we’re the laughingstock of the server. If we keep breaking the game, the next punishment will be worse. We can’t afford to be even more disadvantaged. Promise me we’re gonna play by the rules now.”
I look him in the eyes. He’s scared. He’s terrified of the Admin. “Alright, kid,” I sigh. “I promise. I’ll play legit… as long as the System plays fair.”
I push the heavy wooden door. A blinding light forces us to squint, then… the void. A falling sensation, like my stomach just hit the roof.
***
When my feet touch the ground, the smooth concrete of Hall 1 has been replaced by dirt. Dark soil. I blink to clear the spots from my vision. I’m expecting the convention roar, the smell of sweat and overheating consoles. Instead, there’s the wind. And a sharp smell of mold and ancient forest replacing the hot dogs.
“Uncle Ben…?” Chris whispers. “Where… where are we?”
I look around. We’re still at the Porte de Versailles, technically. I recognize the twisted metal structure soaring into the sky like a broken ribcage. But the roof is gone. The walls are gone.
It’s night. A clear night, spiked with stars you shouldn’t see in Paris because of light pollution. Except there’s no more light. No more city. Around us, the ruins of the buildings are choked by thick vegetation. Vines as thick as pythons crush the concrete. Glowing mushrooms the size of patio umbrellas grow on what’s left of the PlayStation booth.
“It’s a different era,” I say slowly.
And we’re not alone. Far from it. Everywhere in the ruins, flashes of blue light crackle nonstop, spitting out groups of survivors. It’s a human tide dumped into the jungle. You’ve got everything—guys in shiny armor screaming for joy, civilians in shredded clothes going into shock, the wounded groaning. Some clutch swords, others staffs, others nothing at all. The silence of the forest is quickly swept away by a cacophony of screams, shouts, and crying.
Suddenly, a giant blue window opens in the sky, visible to every survivor on the planet, blotting out the stars.
[GLOBAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Tutorial Phase Complete]
[Selection Outcome]
- Initial Population: 8,262,079,178
- Survivors: 5,073,079,178
- Confirmed Casualties: 3,189,000,000
[Time Synchronization]: The time flow of Tutorial instances was individual. Whether you spent ten minutes or ten days in your trial, your return is synchronized.
[Environment Update]: During your absence in liminal space, time on Earth has followed an accelerated course to prepare the playground.
Time elapsed on Earth: 400 years. Welcome to Phase 1: The Wild Earth.
For a second, the crowd just stands there, processing the update like a fleet of outdated computers. Then the collective CPU fries, and the noise that follows is the sound of five billion people having a synchronized mental Blue Screen of Death.
Chris collapses to his knees in the mud. “400 years…? But… my mom, Uncle Ben? She did the Tutorial! Did she survive? Where did she go?”
I look at the ruins of Paris, overrun by the jungle and this panicked crowd. 400 years. My slate is wiped clean, technically. That’s the only silver lining. But the kid’s anxiety is justified. If my sister survived her own tutorial, she respawned in the exact spot where she was taken by the System. A memory hits me. That morning, she had an appointment. She was taking Rex to the vet. Which means she respawned on the other side of town, probably stuck in a ruined waiting room. I glance at the massive trees piercing the asphalt. Crossing Paris isn’t going to be about taking the subway anymore. It’s gonna be an expedition into hostile territory.
I unscrew my flask. It’s empty. “Damn,” I mutter, looking at the mess around us. “Forget the ammo for now. It’s already going to be a hell of a slog crossing this jungle to find your mom.”
I don’t even have time to cap my empty flask before the sky starts flickering. The giant blue window glitches, distorts, then shifts from a soothing blue to an alarm red.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Phase 1 Load Error]
[Diagnostic]: Server Overload. Excess population. Current survivors: 5,073,079,178. Optimal capacity for The Wild Earth: 2,000,000,000.
[Solution]: Launching Purge Scenario.
A murmur of horror ripples through the crowd. I let out a nervous laugh. “You gotta be kidding me… This game really is in Early Access! The devs didn’t plan for enough servers at launch, so they decided to delete three billion players to fix the lag. It’s genius in its mediocrity.”
The red text keeps scrolling, pitiless.
[Scenario]: The Tower of Destiny (100 Floors).
[Objective]: Climb as many floors as possible.
[Time Limit]: 30 Days.
[Penalty]: At the end of the countdown, the 3,073,079,178 lowest-ranked participants will be eliminated.
The ranking is based on the floor reached. In case of a tie, where multiple participants are stuck on the same floor, the ranking is decided by arrival time. Example: if a billion people are on Floor 5, the early birds survive. The latecomers get deleted.
The red text adds fine print that makes the blood run cold.
[Overcrowding Management]: Any death inside the Tower by monster, trap, or “accident” will be deducted from the final elimination quota. System Note: Dying fast helps the community survive.
[Squad Formation]: You can form groups linked by the system. Max size: 3 Participants. Method: Synchronization by immediate proximity.
[Dimensional Isolation]: Once teleported, you will progress in a private instance of the Tower. You won’t meet any other humans until the end of the Scenario.
[Scenario Launch]: T-minus 30 seconds.
I whistle through my teeth. “You see Rule 3, Chris? It’s a misanthrope’s paradise. We can climb without dealing with PKs, loot ninjas, or endless boss queues. Just us and the Tower. Rule 1 is a nasty piece of work, though. We gotta hope others kick the bucket in their own corners so we keep our spots. It’s a passive Battle Royale.”
Chris stares at the squad rule, panicking. He looks around at the pushing crowd, people already grabbing each other to form makeshift alliances before being isolated for a month. “Uncle Ben! We’re allowed three people! There’s only two of us! Once we’re teleported, we won’t see anyone else! We need a third, fast! We won’t make it alone!”
I look at the chaos. Suits crying, teenagers screaming, cosplayers trying to cast spells that don’t work. “Managing one brat is enough for me, kid. I don’t need a seco—”
Suddenly, a hand grabs my jacket. A firm, cold hand with a grip like steel. “You. The guy with the shovel and the booze. You look like the only one here who isn’t currently pissing themselves.”
I turn around. Standing in front of me is a girl in her early twenties, with endless blue braids almost dragging in the mud and stylized cloud tattoos on her right arm. She’s in full Jinx cosplay—the anarchist from League of Legends. Leather shorts, crop top, ammo belts. But her gaze has none of the character’s madness. It’s cold, calculating, surgical. It’s the look of someone calculating their KDA in real-time. Forget the plastic rocket launcher from the cosplay. She’s holding a matte black sniper rifle with a scope that looks like it could zoom in on my pores.
Chris’s eyes go wide. “Kim?! That’s Kim_Headshot! The pro streamer! I’m a Tier 3 sub! Uncle Ben, she’s an FPS legend, she won Worlds last year!”
The girl completely ignores Chris and locks her eyes on mine. “My Sponsor told me to come see you. He’s got a nose for anomalies.”
A Sponsor? I frown. What kind of nonsense is this? Are we in The Hunger Games or a Red Bull spec op? Who sponsors the apocalypse? Coca-Cola? I look at her rifle. “We’re full. I’ve already got a kid to handle.” “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m a DPS.” She looks at me with pride.
A status window floats briefly above her head, visible to those who know how to look.
[Class]: Screaming Sentry (Rare) [Weapon]: Sniper Rifle.
“I finished the tutorial with the highest accuracy score in my instance,” she says in a monotone. “I cover your back, the kid carries the loot. It’s the most viable meta given the situation.”
A Rare class isn’t bad for a legit player. But I work solo—well, duo. “Listen, Kim. First off, this kid has a name, it’s Chris.”
Chris whips his head toward me so fast I hear his vertebrae crack. He glares at me with a look that screams: “Are you kidding me? You’ve spent two hours refusing to call me by my name because it’s ‘too complicated’!”
I ignore him and continue. “And second, go find a Twitch chat to moderate. We don’t want you. Stay out of my aggro range.”
[Scenario Launch]: 3… 2… 1…
“Wait! No! You’re too close! Back off!” I yell, trying to shove her. Too late. The circle of light under our feet expands and swallows Kim, who hasn’t budged an inch.
[Group Formed by Proximity]: Ben, Chris, Kim.
[Roster]: 3/3.
White light swallows us. The last thing I see is the tiny smirk from the sniper who pulled it off, and my own middle finger extended to the void as the floor gives way.
[Destination]: Floor 1.