Everything vanished in a blink of white.

  No sound. No weight. For one terrifying moment, Cade couldn’t even feel his own body. Just an endless, pure white nothingness.

  Then, like the snap of a finger, his awareness came back.

  Suddenly, Cade was sitting in a completely different room.

  He blinked rapidly, his brain struggling to orient itself. His hands were resting on a smooth white surface, cool to the touch but not cold. The chair beneath him was featureless—just like the floor, just like the walls—if there were walls. The space around him was an endless stretch of white, without depth or texture. It wasn’t even bright. It was just a blank white expanse.

  Across from him sat a figure.

  It was shaped like a person—two arms, two legs, a torso, a head—but there were no details. No face. No clothing. Its entire form was a uniform, matte white, like a mannequin. A thin, shimmering grey outline traced its figure, and its presence was the only thing Cade could clearly focus on. Even the edges of the chair and table between them fuzzed into gray if he looked too hard.

  The entity tilted its head slightly. Cade couldn’t tell if it was observing him or simply waiting.

  A soft chime echoed in his head. Not through his ears—in his head.

  You have arrived at the Tutorial Preparation Zone.

  Please remain calm. You are currently in a System-stabilized environment.

  Cade’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t in the lab or waking up after passing out in the professor’s office from stress. The world had changed around him.

  His lips moved before he even fully thought through the words. “Is this real?”

  The entity answered without moving.

  Yes. This is real. Your universe has been integrated into the Multiverse. Congratulations you now have access to the System. Your old planet, Earth, is undergoing reconfiguration.

  Its voice wasn’t audible—not in the normal sense. Cade felt the words form in his mind, perfectly clear and completely emotionless. Like a disembodied AI voice that bypassed his ears and went straight into his brain.

  “System,” Cade said slowly. “This is the System? Like with stats and levels and magic?”

  Partially correct. The integration process is currently underway. You will undergo an introductory Tutorial shortly. Please remain seated.

  Cade looked down at his hands, then around the blank space again. Everything looked stable, but his insides were churning. “And I’m not dead?”

  No. Your physical body has been transported. Time is currently decoupled from Earth’s standard reference point.

  “Right.” He leaned back slightly in the chair and exhaled. “So I’m not hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or having a mental breakdown.”

  No. Your psychological state has been verified as stable within standard variance for integration.

  Cade gave a weak laugh. “Good to know.”

  He rubbed his temples. The System’s emotionless tone, the surreal environment, the blank figure—it was all unnerving. But it wasn’t frightening. It was controlled and clinical.

  “Alright,” he muttered, hands trembling slightly. “How do I work this…”

  A soft chime sounded again, and a glowing window appeared in front of Cade, suspended in the air like a hovering sheet of glass.

  It shimmered faintly, pulsing with cool white-blue light. The letters were crisp, clean, and unnaturally legible—as if written directly into his brain rather than on a screen.

  STATUS

  Name: Cade Whitehollow

  Age: 26

  Race: [Human (H) – lvl 0]

  Health Points (HP): 60 / 60

  Stamina Points (SP): 50 / 50

  Mana Points (MP): 70 / 70

  Statistics:

  Strength: 5

  Dexterity: 4

  Endurance: 5

  Vitality: 6

  Wisdom: 3

  Intelligence: 6

  Willpower: 10

  Titles:

  None

  Quests:

  None

  Cade’s breath caught.

  “This is it,” he whispered. “It’s real.”

  Mana. The word alone made his chest tighten. Magic. The stuff of video games and systems and impossible power.

  He reached up slowly, finger brushing the air just under the window. It didn’t move, but it responded—his mind seemed to instinctively understand how to navigate the screen. He could almost feel it, as if the interface was an extension of his thoughts.

  “So… stats. HP, SP, MP,” he muttered. “Health, stamina, and mana. I actually have magic.”

  He laughed, a short breathless sound. “Oh my god, I have mana points. Holy shit. Does that mean I can cast spells? I could learn Fireball. Or teleportation. Or—hell, maybe I could heal someone. Real magic. This is—this is everything I’ve ever wanted!”

  For a brief moment, pure awe pulsed through him. He’d spent years wishing, dreaming, reading about something like this. A hidden power, a secret System, a second life where the rules were different, and potential was limitless. He wasn’t trapped in a lab anymore.

  Now he was someone with stats.

  His eyes drifted back to the numbers.

  The high willpower stood out—but the rest were not impressive. Below average even, if 10 was the max for humans. Even worse if the max was 20.

  His smile faltered. “Wait. Are these low?”

  Before the entity responded, another notification appeared:

  SYSTEM NOTICE

  Automatic System Core Formation: FAILED

  Cade blinked.

  “…Wait. What failed?”

  He looked up at the faceless entity across the table, a knot forming in his stomach.

  “What does that mean?” he asked. “What do you mean failed?”

  The figure didn’t move, but its voice echoed across his thoughts again.

  Your body was unable to withstand the automatic formation of a System Core.

  Advanced System functions have been locked.

  Cade stared at it, stunned. The screen was still hovering in front of him, glowing softly with stats that felt increasingly distant. These couldn’t be his stats, there had to be a mistake, maybe they belonged to someone else. Someone weaker.

  “But I have stats. I have mana. This is supposed to be where I start doing cool things. Where I get strong.”

  Your integration is incomplete. Advanced System functions such as a Class or Profession are currently locked. You are currently classified as: Normie.

  The word felt like a slap across the face.

  Normie? What the fuck did that mean?

  Everything inside him sank. That flicker of excitement—of finally being someone—faded into the hollow of his gut.

  “Normie,” Cade repeated flatly. “What does that mean?”

  Your physical and metaphysical attributes did not meet the minimum threshold for automatic System Core integration.

  You are currently unranked. Your compatibility level is insufficient to access Class or Profession pathways.

  Cade stared at the faceless entity seated across from him. “So I can’t pick a class? No class. No profession. Nothing?”

  Correct. Advanced System functions require a System Core.

  He felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. That initial excitement, the thrill that had surged through him when he first saw that he had mana, when he imagined fireballs and teleportation–was gone.

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  He was a Normie.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said slowly, “Earth gets integrated into some kind of multiversal system. Everyone gets scanned and sorted. Some people get magic powers and classes while others, like me, get called a Normie?”

  The classification is not personal. It is an objective outcome of your compatibility.

  Cade barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, of course. Nothing personal. Just a complete cosmic scan of my entire being saying, ‘Hey, this guy’s useless.’”

  He leaned forward slightly, running a hand through his hair. The weight of it started to settle—an anchor dropped into the pit of his stomach.

  He’d dreamed about this. He used to fantasize about something like this happening. Being pulled into a new world, gaining stats, becoming someone important—anyone but the version of himself stuck performing useless experiments in a lab that no one would ever remember. It had kept him going on his worst days. Reading webnovels on his phone late into the night, imagining himself in those stories.

  But now that it actually happened it had turned out he wasn’t the hero. He wasn’t even a side character.

  He was just a normal person.

  “But wait,” he said, trying to latch onto anything. “You said I don’t have a System Core yet. Does that mean I can still get one?”

  Yes. It is possible for certain individuals to develop System Cores manually through exceptional refinement of their body, mind, and soul.

  Such cases are rare. The automatic process is typically more reliable.

  “So I still have a chance?”

  Affirmative. Your body may adapt over time. A System Core may form during or after your Tutorial.

  Cade let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “So I’m not completely screwed. I just have to, what? Work harder than everyone else?”

  In basic terms, yes.

  However, be advised: individuals who possess System Cores at the beginning of the Tutorial will begin immediate Class or Profession development.

  Those without System Cores will spend that time attempting to become eligible.

  That stung. “So while they’re out there swinging swords, casting spells, and leveling up, I’m stuck trying to prove I’m even worth the System’s time?”

  Correct.

  All Tutorials end when Earth’s reconfiguration is complete. No Tutorial will extend beyond that point.

  Cade blinked. “Wait—what? You’re saying the timer starts now, whether I have a Core or not?”

  Correct.

  “So the longer it takes me to form a System Core, the less time I have to learn how to use it?”

  Correct.

  Cade sat back in his chair, stunned. “Great,” he muttered. “Even with magic, I’m still behind the curve.”

  He tried to push away the bitterness clawing at his throat. The System didn’t seem to be cruel or kind, it just was. And he had to live with that.

  He looked at the screen again. No titles. No quests. No abilities. No spark of promise. Just numbers, and low ones at that.

  “So what am I supposed to do? Be support staff for those who were lucky enough to get a core off the bat? Work in the magical version of logistics?”

  The great civilizations of every integration rely on foundational roles. Those without cores often become assistants to artisans, builders, traders, and record-keepers.

  Normies such as yourself provide stability and function to developing societies.

  “That’s a fancy way of saying, ‘Fuck off and stay out of the way,’” Cade muttered.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed. He had no second awakening, no secret overpowered bloodline.

  But even still…

  He was here.

  He was in the System.

  Magic was real. Stats were real. Classes existed and tutorials were starting.

  And he had a chance—just barely—to claw his way up.

  Cade clenched his jaw and forced himself upright.

  “Well,” he said, trying to inject some steel into his voice, “I guess I won’t be seeing my old lab mates again. That’s already a step in the right direction.”

  The System entity didn’t react.

  Cade exhaled slowly and tried to refocus. His stomach was still in knots, but he’d stopped free-falling. Time to think. Time to learn. Even if he had to climb out of a hole just to get to where others started, he’d take that over going back to his old life.

  He looked at the floating screen again and tapped his finger in the air beneath the resource lines. Health Points. Stamina Points. Mana Points.

  “These are resource pools, right?” Cade said. “Can you explain them?”

  The System entity didn’t move, but its voice answered in his mind, as neutral as always:

  Correct. These are the three primary energy pools for humans under System integration.

  Health Points (HP): Represent the structural integrity of your physical body. HP decreases when you sustain damage. As your body recovers, your HP regenerates at a rate determined by your Vitality and any additional healing modifiers. Reaching zero HP usually results in death unless extraordinary measures are taken.

  “Okay,” Cade said, nodding slowly. “So, pretty straightforward. HP drops when I get hurt, and I die if it hits zero. Got it.”

  Stamina Points (SP): Represent the internal energy used for physical movement and bodily exertion. Stamina is consumed during running, fighting, climbing, or when using body-enhancing skills.

  Cade thought back to all the times he skipped sleep, stayed up late reading, or skipped breakfast for the lab. His SP probably would've been a joke back then.

  “And when I run out of Stamina?”

  Your body will begin to fatigue. Continued exertion without stamina can result in injury, collapse, or death depending on circumstance.

  “Right,” Cade muttered. “So no endless sprinting through monster-infested woods. Good to know.”

  Mana Points (MP): Represent your capacity to express and control energy outside of your body. Mana is primarily used to activate skills or abilities that influence the environment or produce magical effects.

  Cade's eyes lit up again at the word magic, even after everything.

  “So casting spells, enchanting stuff, that kind of thing?”

  Correct. Spells, ranged energy projection, manipulation of matter, elemental generation, and similar abilities generally draw from Mana.

  “Okay. So magic equals MP, movement and physical skills equal SP, and HP is whether I’m still breathing.”

  Correct.

  Cade rubbed his chin. “Can they interact? Like, are there ways to use one pool to recover another?”

  Yes. Certain skills and professions allow the conversion of stamina or mana into health restoration. Likewise, some abilities can drain one pool to restore another. However, such conversions are often inefficient and require training or specific traits.

  “Healing spells,” Cade said aloud, his voice a little more confident now. “Or like a warrior skill that burns stamina to stay standing after being injured.”

  Correct.

  Cade leaned back, absorbing the information. His values were low, but the rules made sense. There was structure here. Logic. Possibility.

  Even if he’d started at less than zero, he needed to understand how this new game-like reality worked.

  Cade brought up his statistics again and rubbed the back of his neck. Some of those numbers seemed average at best. Wisdom looked painfully low. But Willpower? That stood out. A small, stubborn spike on an otherwise average chart.

  “These are my stats, right? Like attributes?” he asked. “Can you walk me through them?”

  Correct. These are your seven foundational statistics. All sapient beings integrated into the System begin with these unless altered by race, class, or profession.

  The System entity began listing

  Strength: Affects physical power, lifting capacity, melee damage, and carrying weight.

  Dexterity: Governs precision, coordination, reflexes, and ranged weapon use.

  Endurance: Determines fatigue resistance, total stamina, stamina recovery speed, and internal bodily resilience.

  Vitality: Affects total health, recovery rate, and resistance to poisons and disease.

  Wisdom: Governs perception, magical affinity, spiritual attunement, and mana regeneration.

  Intelligence: Governs knowledge retention, skill learning speed, complex magical theory, spell capacity, and spell intensity.

  Willpower: Determines resistance to fear, mental attacks, and influences certain defensive abilities and skills. Governs thresholds for pain tolerance or survival instinct.

  “Okay,” Cade muttered, nodding as he processed it. “So I’m average in most of these. A little low on Wisdom, but I’ve got decent Intelligence and Willpower.”

  Affirmative. Most of your attributes fall within standard human deviation. Your Willpower score is notably high.

  “Good to know the years of soul-crushing monotony weren’t completely for nothing,” Cade said dryly.

  He tapped the screen again, scrolling slowly through the stat list. “So these are fixed for everyone?”

  Negative. These are baseline attributes for newly integrated humans, but they are not absolute.

  Some classes, professions, and races gain access to additional statistics. Others may condense or eliminate existing ones entirely.

  Cade raised an eyebrow. “Wait—eliminate stats?”

  Correct. Some evolutionary paths merge or discard traditional statistics to streamline specialized progression. For example, some lifeforms may remove Dexterity entirely, reallocating those functions into Strength or a unique trait such as Kinetic Efficiency.

  “That's kinda wild,” Cade muttered. “So I could end up with more stats… or less, depending on what path I take?”

  Correct. Progression is not linear. The System permits branching development based on environmental interaction, internal growth, and achievement thresholds. No two paths are identical.

  Cade sat back, eyes wide now.

  “So there’s no ‘correct’ build.”

  There are only viable and nonviable paths. Adaptation determines success.

  That was freeing, in a way. No preset mold. No locked archetypes. If he made it through the Tutorial, if he earned his System Core, he could find a path that fit him.

  His Willpower score flickered in his vision again—10. High, even now. Maybe that meant something.

  Maybe it meant he could survive what came next.

  Cade was mid-thought, still fantasizing about paths of progression and what kind of build might one day suit him—a high-Willpower spellblade? A mana tank support class?—when the System entity interrupted him.

  Notice: An unprecedented development has occurred.

  The glowing status screen blinked out of existence. Cade sat up straighter.

  “What do you mean unprecedented?”

  You are no longer assigned to the Tutorial designed for individuals lacking a System Core. Your allocation has been changed.

  Cade blinked. “Changed? To what?”

  You have been reassigned to a survival-type Tutorial intended for System Core recipients.

  Silence fell over the white room.

  Cade stared at the entity. “That can’t be right. I don’t even have one. You just told me I’m a normie.”

  Correct. Your current status has not changed.

  “Then why the hell am I being sent to a Tutorial I’m not ready for?”

  The entity did not respond. Its smooth, faceless shape remained still.

  Cade’s stomach turned. “System? Hello? What kind of bug is this? I thought this was all controlled.”

  The silence stretched too long.

  Then the entity finally looked up—not just passively acknowledging him, but actually focusing on Cade. For the first time, something faint shimmered beneath the surface of its emotionless form.

  Good luck, Cade Whitehollow.

  You’re going to need it.

  White light consumed his vision again.