Her tone shifted slightly—not dramatic, but deliberate. Like this part mattered more than people realized.
“The Subclass is best described as a unique trait or rare talent. It is a special modifier that grants one-time bonus adjustments to statistics, the magnitude of which depends on the Subclass’s rarity. In certain cases, it can even subtly alter how the Master Class expresses itself—adding a distinct twist to a person’s natural foundation.”
She turned back to the board and added another layer beneath the previous examples.
“For instance, if our Knight–Soldier acquires the Subclass Gem, it might enhance specific attributes or abilities. Perhaps it grants elemental resistance, reinforces physical durability, or augments attack potency.”
She underlined the resulting title.
“In that case, the system would register them as a Gem Knight Soldier.”
Simple. Clean. Almost elegant.
“Now,” she continued, “let us return to our farmer.”
A few people chuckled, but they were listening.
“If the farmer gains the same Gem Subclass, the effect would manifest differently. Rather than improving combat capabilities, it might allow the cultivation of rare herbs, enhance soil affinity, or enable advanced agricultural techniques otherwise impossible.”
She gestured again, layering invisible pieces together.
“The Subclass does not overwrite the Master Class—it reinterprets it.”
“So instead of being merely a farmer, this individual becomes something more specialized. A Gem Farmer Crop Specialist… or, in the more unusual case—” she glanced toward us, smiling faintly, “a Gem Farmer Hero.”
That earned a few raised eyebrows.
“The rare talent enhances both their natural aptitudes and the way their Job Class develops, creating a synergy that would not exist otherwise.”
Celestia clasped her hands together.
“To summarize in a single sentence, the Master Class defines who a person is by nature, the Job Class defines how they grow and specialize, and the Subclass adds rare bonuses and personal flavor—often reshaping how the Master Class is perceived.”
She looked around the room, eyes sharp and engaged.
“By layering these three together, you can see how every individual—just like every life—is shaped by nature, work, and a little extra spark of uniqueness.”
I leaned forward slightly, replaying the lecture in my head and condensing it into something usable. Based on what I knew and what she had just explained—it broke down cleanly enough.
Master Class was what you were. Job Class was how you grew, the direction your effort and practice pushed you toward. Subclass was the modifier—the quirk, the edge, the strange little deviation that made you, you.
…Yeah. A pretty standard system, all things considered. Game-like, intuitive, almost comforting in how clean the rules were.
“Of course,” Celestia continued smoothly, as if she hadn’t just lulled everyone into a false sense of understanding, “as you progress, everyone will unlock more Subclasses.”
Okay. What?
<
Quiet you.
Taka raised his hand, brow furrowed. “Lady Celestia,” he said carefully, “isn’t there supposed to be… like, one Subclass?”
“No, Lord Takashi,” she replied without hesitation, her tone patient but firm. “I do not know what you have been taught in your world, but here, reality functions differently.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing slowly.
“As you experience life—because you do experience life, do you not?” she asked, glancing around the room. “You do things others would not consider. You make choices to improve yourself.”
Her voice softened, almost philosophical.
“Just as your life defines you, life, in turn, rewards you. As our saying goes. Hence, the more you experience, the more you learn. The more you learn, the more you grow.”
“To put it simply,” the queen said, speaking up at last, her voice calm and authoritative, “the more you level up, the more Subclasses you gain.”
“Oh,” Taka said quietly, realization settling in.
“I see,” Arthur added. “It’s like when that knight studies law.”
“The more specialized he becomes,” my brother continued, nodding, “the more valuable he becomes. The more he can do.”
A low murmur rippled through the room.
Trayn raised a hand. “How many Subclasses are we allowed to have?” he asked. “And what are the conditions? How do we even get them?”
“Simple,” Celestia replied with a smile that suggested it was anything but. “Every twenty levels, any individual, anyone, gains a Subclass. At most, though we have not verified this, according to legend, someone can achieve five subclasses when they reach level one hundred.”
She raised one finger.
“As for which Subclass you receive, that is… debated. Some sources claim it is random. Others insist it is decided by the gods. Still others argue it is shaped by your actions, habits, and the effort you put into your life.”
She paused, then added the part that made everyone lean in. “But all accounts agree on one thing. You are always given five choices.”
“And how do we apply the Subclass?” Haruto asked. “Both our master class and Jobclass are already set.”
Celestia reached into her pocket and produced her plate. Its golden surface caught the sunlight, gleaming faintly as she held it up.
“Through these, our plates,” she said simply. “When a Subclass becomes available to you, you will receive a notification declaring it so. The same applies when you acquire a new skill. That is why it is crucial to have your plates with you at all times.”
“And since it is bonded to the owner,” Captain Aldric added. “That plate will still notify you wherever you are.”
I leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
Multiple Subclasses. Every twenty levels. Five choices each time.
…Yeah. This system wasn’t just about growth. It was about accumulation.
“For our skills?” Trayn asked, brow creasing as he leaned forward. “Then… what about leveling up?”
Celestia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, Captain Gendry did, folding his arms as if the question itself was familiar—asked a hundred times by a hundred anxious recruits.
“The ones who created the plates accounted for most necessities,” he said. “Leveling itself was deemed less critical than skills. Levels are passive. Skills on the other hand, are decisive. That’s why the system does not announce level-ups.”
He glanced around the room, eyes sharp. “Imagine being in the middle of a fight—heart pounding, blood in your ears—and suddenly you’re interrupted with a notification. You’re startled. You hesitate. You lose focus. That moment can get you killed, can get anyone killed.”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Captain Rondry picked up the thread, nodding. “That’s why you’re meant to check your status after combat, not during. The plates exist for reflection, not distraction. The only time the system interrupts you is when something changes your immediate capabilities—when you gain a new skill for example.”
He smiled faintly. “There are countless accounts—reports from soldiers, mercenaries, even farmers who found themselves wielding a weapon in defense of their home—where a newly gained skill in the middle of a battle turned certain defeat into survival. The plates know when to speak. And when to stay silent.”
A quiet weight settled over the room at that.
“And who made them?” Shun asked, breaking the stillness. Then, as if realizing the scope of his own question, he added quickly, “And—what’s the highest level anyone’s ever reached?”
Celestia hesitated, scratching lightly at her temple. For once, the mad confidence dimmed into something more uncertain.
“The makers… we do not know,” she admitted. “There are theories. Many of them. Entire bloodlines claim descent, credit, or divine inspiration. Some insist their ancestors shaped the system. Others say the gods merely inherited it.”
She sighed. “I recommend not pressing the matter in polite company. Especially among mage circles. Lindesfarn and Cloudtop in particular tend to be… intense when the subject arises.”
Captain Godwin cleared his throat, grounding the room again. “As for levels—that depends on what you mean. Within the kingdom, the highest recorded level was achieved by Archmaegos Brent Aurelian Montecelli—Celestia’s grandfather, and Her Majesty’s father.”
The queen inclined her head slightly, expression unreadable.
“Level sixty-eight,” Godwin continued. “On the continental scale, for the normal people, the highest reliably confirmed level is seventy-three.”
A low murmur rippled through the room.
“You must understand,” Captain Gendry added, his voice firm, “leveling becomes progressively—exponentially—more difficult. Each level demands more experience than the last. And there are only ever so many things you can gain experience from.”
He paused, then glanced at Celestia.
“But,” Rondry said quietly, “there are… exceptions.”
All eyes turned.
“The highest level ever claimed,” Godwin finished, “was eighty-nine.”
Silence.
“One of the heroes of the past,” Celestia said. “Records are incomplete and details are contested. But the number appears too often across too many sources to be dismissed outright.”
“So, they just… spend their days grinding levels?” Haruto asked, genuinely puzzled.
The question landed—and immediately garnered a wave of laughter. Not mocking, not cruel, but warm, almost relieved, as if he’d voiced a misunderstanding, they’d all heard far too many times.
“Of course not, Lord Haruto,” the queen said, smiling as she shook her head. “People here still live their lives. They have duties, families, professions, obligations. No one abandons all of that simply to chase numbers. And strength gained without purpose is wasteful.”
“It is only possible if they have the resources to support that growth,” the king added evenly. “What matters is not how much time you spend growing stronger, but how efficiently you do so.”
The queen nodded in agreement.
One of the most twisted assumptions in fantasy—at least from my old world—was the idea that people here spent their lives buried in dungeons, endlessly slaughtering monsters like it was a full-time occupation. Freaking murder hobos. That wasn’t life. That was obsession.
Only maniacs lived like that.
<
…Fair.
It was like those cultivator jackasses from the novels I’d read back then—people who did nothing but sit on mountains, hoard power, and let everyone else carry society on their backs. The only reason they got away with it was because the genre bent over backward to reward them. And plot armor.
Reality didn’t work like that. There was no infinite ladder. No higher realm beyond Aurean. No lower pit beneath the Empyrean. No cosmic janitor cleaning up after you while you “focused on enlightenment,” and the only enlightenment you receive is to leave the literal cesspit you helped create. Assholes.
I glanced around the room. The would-be heroes wore the same expressions—furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, thoughts spinning. Questions stacked on questions, each one possibly heavier than the last.
If I didn’t ask mine now, I might not get another chance.
“Yeah—small question,” I said, raising my hand. “How exactly are notifications handled? I mean, is there a sound? A chime? A voice from the heavens? Siri? Cortana? Alexa?”
At the last three names, Arthur snorted. Trayn coughed into his fist. My brother outright grinned while Taka shook his head.
Celestia blinked once. “I… do not know what those last three are,” she admitted with all seriousness. “But no, Lord Vi. There are no disembodied voices announcing your progress.”
Shame.
“In all known cases,” she continued, “a small window appears instead.”
“It usually manifests in the upper-left corner of one’s vision,” Captain Godwin added.
“The makers chose that placement deliberately,” Celestia said, tapping the side of her head. “It does not obstruct your field of view—unlike placing it at the center—yet it remains visible no matter what you are doing.”
I leaned back in my seat, nodded but exhaled quietly.
<
“…Can’t be helped,” I whispered under my breath, shoulders slumping just a little.
If that wasn’t the system speaking, then who—or what—the hell had spoken before? The thought lingered in the back of my mind like a buzzing fly I couldn’t swat away. This world was handing me more questions than answers, and each question was one I would have liked to have answered yesterday.
“So, what kind of Subclasses are we expected to take or have?” Shun asked, his voice cutting through my spiral of thoughts like a clean blade.
The answer didn’t come from Celestia, which surprised me. Instead, it was the queen herself who leaned forward slightly from her chair at the front, her gaze calm but piercing, as if she could see straight through the chaos of our novice minds.
“We shall leave the finer details of how you grow stronger to yourselves,” the queen said, her voice smooth, deliberate. “We are neither uncouth nor shameless enough to drag people into our world only to dictate the path they must follow.”
“So, everything is left for us to decide?” Haruto asked, hesitating as he added the polite, deferential, “Your Majesty.”
The queen inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Yes. Whatever you choose, we shall allow—so long as you do not come to regret it later. Therefore, choose wisely.”
A subtle hush fell across the room. Everyone’s eyes flicked from the queen to each other, the weight of choice settling over us. I could practically feel the gears turning in the minds of the would-be heroes around me, and in some, perhaps panic mingled with excitement.
“Though might I offer a small suggestion,” the king interjected, his voice steady and deliberate, drawing our attention like a magnet. “Since everyone is new to this world, you may not yet know which Subclass suits your tendencies, or your style. For that reason, I will grant each of you access to the archives next door, so you may research, consider, and prepare for the choices you wish to make.”
“Of course,” he added with a faint smile, “there is still no guarantee that you will acquire the exact Subclass you desire. But planning ahead is never without merit.”
“A wise suggestion, dearest,” the queen added, her hand resting lightly on her chin. Then her gaze flicked to the room, sharp and thoughtful. “I shall add another. Should you find a Subclass that appeals to you, you may choose to adopt it at your discretion. However, you may also benefit from delaying the selection of your first and second Subclasses. It may lessen your immediate effectiveness in combat, but the potential for long-term advantage can be considerable.”
Haruto raised his brow, leaning forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
Captain Godwin spoke up, his tone methodical, almost teacher-like. “This comes down to what we call synergy. Certain classes complement each other—either by statistics, attributes, or functional role. Take, for instance, the Knight class and the Soldier class. Both excel in frontline combat, both rely on melee, and both make effective use of armor. Combining the two—whether in Master, Job, or Subclass—can produce exceptional results.”
Captain Aldric chimed in, voice calm but measured. “Essentially, you become a frontline powerhouse with the versatility of the Knight when mounted, while doubling the Soldier’s efficiency on foot. Properly layered synergy allows your potential to exceed the sum of your parts.”
Heads nodded around the room as the concept sank in. Some faces bore the telltale glint of calculation, while others were wide-eyed with the awe of possibilities. I leaned back in my chair, letting it all wash over me.
A part of me wanted to groan. The rules were simple, yet the implications were vast. Strategy and planning now mattered just as much as skill and strength. I am fairly certain that for the would-be heroes, the thought of choosing wrong—or choosing too soon—gnawed at the edges of their minds.
<
I let out a small, quiet sigh, my eyes flicking—almost reflexively—to the upper-left corner of my vision.
Nothing. No translucent window. No glowing text. Just silence.
I sighed again, deeper this time, the kind that starts in the chest and drags itself out like it’s tired of living there.
Life had been easier when my biggest concerns were—like figuring out the most efficient way to destroy the Earth, or rehearsing how I would explain the Order to my parents without sounding like a lunatic or a cultist. Those were clean problems. Problems you could drown in philosophy and planning.
Now?
Now I was running on stolen sleep, my dignity was somewhere on the floor next to my pants, and I had to contend with the uncomfortable reality that someone— something—was wearing the mask of a god and meddling with a system it shouldn’t have had its hands on in the first place.
And worse still, somehow someone, singled me out for some reason. Is it because of what I am, I do not know.
The lecture continued around me, voices overlapping, questions rising and falling, but my mind was already elsewhere—threading connections it didn’t like. Systems weren’t supposed to be whimsical. They weren’t supposed to comment. They especially weren’t supposed to develop personalities with a biting sense of humor and a talent for psychological warfare.
<
“…That doesn’t make it better,” I muttered back, only enough for me to hear.
I bent to the side feigning dropping my pen and secretly pulled out a piece of chocolate truffle eclair from my storage array. The treat manifested into my hand.
<
I filed Retort-o-matic’s reaction for later and popped the sweet comforting experience into my mouth.
Bliss. I love chocolate. It’s about the only thing that can heal my soul now that games and internet is gone. I should have restocked when I was on earth. I am going to need to find some sources of chocolate and soonish.
<