Only—he wasn’t.
The space around him had no business being called a room. It was too bright, too empty. He blinked and winced, a sear drove at his temple, then died away. Kevin expected something choking and sulphurous. Instead, the floor beneath him was a seamless white plane that reflected nothing, yet gave back the sense of standing on something solid. No walls, no ceiling. Just light, endless and sourceless, humming faintly, the kind of hum you heard in office lights at three in the morning when everyone had gone home.
Kevin turned in a slow circle. There was nothing to anchor to, no horizon, no shadows. Just him. Just his damp socks on an immaculate nowhere. His chest tightened, breath bouncing back into him as though the air itself wanted no part of lungs.
A ding sounded, sharp and cheerful, like a lift arriving.
“AT LAST,” a voice blared, theatrical and nasal. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating through Kevin’s teeth. “Another one crawls in from the meat-world. Took you long enough.”
Kevin flinched. “What—”
With a wet pop, a floating shape materialised a few feet in front of him. It was a cube. No, a sphere. Then a pyramid. The thing jittered between forms as if unable—or unwilling—to decide on one. Every surface was slick with too much shine, every angle too sharp to exist. Kevin thought of a screensaver glitching on an office monitor.
The shape spun lazily. “I am your superior officer, your system, your interface, your better in every conceivable way. And you—” a pause for theatrical effect “—are my vessel. My pair of legs. My meat-stick.”
Kevin stared. “You’re… the tutorial?”
The shape gasped, or at least made the sound of one. “Tutorial? Tutorial? I am no mere helper pop-up. You exist to enact my will, World 628349-C, Player #301,129. If I tell you to march into a pit, you will thank me for the opportunity to fall with grace.”
Kevin’s mouth worked but words felt like gravel. “I didn’t— I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Oh, spare me the bleating!” The shape flared into a starburst and shrank back again. “Paperwork was filed centuries ago! Don’t blame me if your species can’t keep up with regulations! And anyway, we have a job to do now, so let's get on with it, before we all die of old age!”
Before Kevin could speak, a translucent screen blinked into being in front of his face. It was like glass, but weightless, hanging in the sterile air. Lines of text scrolled across in a crisp, officious font:
CHOOSE YOUR RACE
(Failure to choose will result in automatic assignment. Trust us, you won’t want that.)
4,329 races found, please make your selection now.
Human (Balanced, no bonuses, no penalties)
Goblin (+Dexterity, -Constitution)
Hobgoblin (+Strength, -Charisma)
Ogre (+Strength, -Intellect)
Kobold (+Dexterity, -Strength)
Naga (+Wisdom, -Dexterity)
Dragonkin (+Constitution, -Wisdom)
Arachnid (+Dexterity, +Intellect, -Charisma*)
Furbold (+Wisdom, -Strength)
Dwarf (+Constitution, -Dexterity)
Elf (+Intellect, -Constitution)
… and the list scrolled on, endlessly
Kevin’s jaw went slack. “What the hell is this?!”
“Options!” the AI crowed. “Delicious, exquisite options. You may be reborn as anything from a lumbering ogre to a skittering arachnid, and I will take the glory for guiding you.”
“A skittering arachnid?!” Kevin mulled over the connotations of that for a beat. What the feeling of looking through 8 eyes, walking with 8 legs… The thought alone made him shudder. He didn’t like spiders at the best of times, but to become one? Or to become a Goblin in the least, like their introducer? He clutched at his stomach—doing flips…
Kevin shook his head. “I— I’m human. I want to stay human.”
The shape pulsed. “Predictable. Dull. Uninspired. Truly the beige wallpaper of choices. Very well—human. How original.” It sighed, the sound like rustling paper. “Balanced stats, no perks, no penalties. Congratulations, you’ve selected the diet cola of existence.”
The menu collapsed with a flick, replaced instantly by another:
ATTRIBUTE ALLOCATION
Available Points: 10
Strength: 0
Dexterity: 0
Intellect: 0
Wisdom: 0
Charisma: 0
Constitution: 0
(Allocate wisely, or don’t. I enjoy watching you fail.)
Kevin rubbed his temple. “Strength? Dexterity? Is this… a video game?”
“Wrong!” The AI snapped, expanding into a cube so large Kevin staggered back before it shrank to nothing again. “This is life. Your stats will define you. They will decide whether you crush skulls or trip over your own shoelaces. They will decide whether you can lift a sword, outsmart a trap, or survive a stiff breeze.”
Kevin swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. “And if I don’t pick?”
“Then the points will rot unused. And you, dear meat-stick, will die at the first angry rabbit that crosses your path. I assure you, it will be hilarious. Best, humour me, while I will laugh at your pain, we will both profit from your success.”
Kevin stared at the hovering numbers. Ten points. His mind skittered in panic: Should I balance them? Dump them all into one? What if strength is useless? What if wisdom is a trap stat?
“I don’t— I don’t understand what any of these do.”
The AI emitted the digital equivalent of an eye-roll. “Must I spell out everything? Fine. Strength is bashing. Dexterity is dodging. Intellect is thinking. Wisdom is knowing better, though clearly you don’t. Constitution is not dying. Happy? Or perhaps you really should put those into Intellect! Maybe then I’ll finally have an interesting conversation!”
Kevin’s lips trembled with half a laugh. “You’re saying if I don’t put points into Constitution, I’ll just keel over?”
“Not immediately,” the AI said sweetly. “But oh, you’ll notice. Perhaps after a long jog. Or a very small knife wound.”
Kevin bit his cheek. “And… classes?” Kevin reached for his limited experience with RPG’s.
The shape wagged itself like a scolding finger. “Oh no, no, no. You’re far too fragile for that. Classes unlock later, after you’ve proven you can survive without catching a cold or dying a painful death from a plucked eyebrow. Imagine giving fire to an infant. That’s what you’d be with a class right now: a flaming toddler.”
Kevin pressed his palms into his eyes. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. But when he opened them, the numbers still floated there, patient.
The AI chuckled low. “Go on. Pick. Fail creatively. I’ll be watching.”
Kevin stared at the list, heart hammering. His life reduced to numbers on a glowing pane, with a smug geometry demon waiting to sneer at whatever he did next.
He whispered to himself, “Don’t be important. Be alive.” A spark of an idea tumbled in his mind's eye.
Kevin’s hand hovered, trembling over his first choice.
Kevin’s hand trembled as it hovered over the glowing pane. His throat was dry, his pulse hammering too loudly in his ears. He stabbed his finger forward. Once. Twice. Again and again, watching the green bar beside Constitution climb.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
The AI gasped theatrically. “Oh no. Oh, no no no. Tell me you’re not doing this.”
6, 7,
The cube warped into a lopsided pyramid, edges flaring red. “You absolute buffoon! You had the entire banquet of possibility and you’re gorging yourself on stale bread!”
8,
“Please. I beg of you. Consider Dexterity. Consider Wisdom. Consider anything that isn’t this embarrassing fetish for hit points.”
9,
“Well that’s just childish…” The AI chimed.
The bar pulsed bright green. Kevin’s mouth curled. “Guess I’m hard to kill now.”
The AI shrieked like an offended kettle. “Hard to kill? You’ll be a cockroach. An uninspired, crawling cockroach who can withstand a boot but never lift it!”
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Kevin ignored it. He flicked his last point into Intellect. The number ticked over to 1, a lonely blue spark on the otherwise barren list.
The pane chimed softly:
Final Allocation Confirmed
Strength: 0
Dexterity: 0
Intellect: 1
Wisdom: 0
Charisma: 0
Constitution: 9
(Oh, you’re going to regret this.)
Kevin exhaled. His chest ached, but there was a sliver of satisfaction in the act. He’d chosen something. For once in his life, he hadn’t waited for permission or for someone else to decide.
The cube shrank to a sulky marble. “Well done... You’ve selected the blandest, most cowardly configuration imaginable. Now you’ll be like a pudding with delusions of grandeur—soaking up the punches, but never dealing any punishment back. I’m almost impressed by how boring you are.”
Kevin rubbed his face. “Yeah? Well, boring’s got me here, maybe it’ll keep me alive too.”
“Alive, yes,” the AI sniffed, puffing itself back into a cube. “Interesting? No. Useful? Doubtful. Entertaining? Hopeless.”
Kevin shook his head, though his lips twitched. If it hates this, maybe I did something right. Though, on the other hand, the goblin did talk about games, right? Well. Maybe. Hmm. His thoughts were scattering, the shove of too much information was affecting him already.
He took a breath. “Alright. What happens now?”
A separate window appeared over top of the stat selection window:
Congratulations!
You have picked the least successful combination of stats in the history of the Bal’or games!
Trivia: The last 999,999 players who also chose this combination, died!
And all within 5 hours of leaving the safe zone!
Who knows! Maybe you’ll be the first in the grand history of the Bal’or games to find it useful… somehow…
(Or maybe—definitely—you’ll help us round out that number!)
Congratulations!
Kevin couldn’t help but stare at the last “Congratulations,” it seemed a lot more sarcastic than the first one.
The pane dissolved. The AI spun once in triumph. “Now! Immediate, thrilling, underwhelming exposition! Two points per level gained, hallelujah. Strength, Dexterity, Intellect, Wisdom, Constitution. Your five sacred options. Level up, assign, repeat, grind, despair. Choose as you will, it makes no difference to me.”
Kevin frowned. “Level up? You mean… experience points? Like in a game?”
“Oh, how quaint,” the AI said, voice dripping with pity. “Yes, if that makes your tiny human brain feel better. Kill things. Survive things. Embarrass yourself creatively. The more you do, the more numbers go up. Two points every level. Ding ding, congratulations, you’re slightly less pathetic. Keep the roll going and who knows, maybe you won’t turn out as useless as you look!”
Kevin’s head spun. So it is a game. Or something pretending to be one. “And classes? Jobs? The goblin mentioned adventures, roles.”
“Classes unlock at level ten,” the AI said. “Until then you’re a sack of unshaped clay, a blank form waiting for someone to scrawl mediocrity across it. Should you survive long enough, you may be granted the privilege of a title. Surger, Spiteslinger, Spirit Healer, blah blah blah, and that’s just three options from the S’s. Try not to get decapitated until then!”
Level ten. Kevin’s gut clenched. That sounded impossibly far away. He thought of the other groups splitting off, of their pale faces and trembling hands. How many would even make it to five?
“And… How do I get experience exactly?” Kevin mumbled, his finger stroking his chin.
“Wel… now you’re showing that 1 in Intellect! Flex that brain muscle little buddy!” Kevin had the distinct feeling that the AI got a kick out of being condescending, he hoped that it wouldn’t be like this the entire time in his place. “Depending on how you approach the rest of your existence, there are a multitude of experience sources:” It triggered a list to display in front of Kevin:
Tooltip: Sources of Experience
Combat & Survival
- Killing—slaying monsters, beasts, or rival challengers.
- Timing—perfect parries, dodges, or counters.
- Resilience—enduring poison, fire, or weather hazards.
Crafting & Gathering
- Resource Gathering—foraging herbs, mining ore, harvesting hides, collecting monster parts.
- Crafting—forging blades, repairing gear, stitching leather, shaping wood, inventing new designs.
- Cooking—preparing meals, balancing flavors, making food edible under poor conditions.
Exploration & Discovery
- Mapping—discovering new territory.
- Discovery—identifying flora and fauna, finding ruins, or uncovering landmarks.
Knowledge & Learning
- Study—reading tomes, scrolls, or runes.
- Application—using learned knowledge in practice.
- Translation—identifying and deciphering languages.
Social & Community
- Speechcraft—striking favorable trades, lying convincingly, or detecting lies, swaying crowds, inspiring courage, calming mobs.
- Performance—music, theatre, storytelling before an audience.
Quests & Achievements
- Questing—completing trials, side tasks, or hidden objectives.
- Achievements—rewards for completion of specific, non-quest tasks.
- Hidden Goals—sneaking past foes undetected, cooking during battle, or crafting a hundred flawless items.
(Note: This list is not complete. The System rewards ingenuity in all its forms.)
Kevin scanned the long list—it was astounding how much like a video game this whole new world seemed to be. Like an astoundingly detailed amalgam of all of the worlds RPG’s and fantasy all wrapped into one game.
His voice cracked despite him. “What about the outside world? What’s beyond… all this? Where are we really?”
The AI froze. Then, in a voice that was not its usual sneering tone, it recited:
“I’m sorry, that information is not available at this time. Please consult your local overseer for further technical assistance.”
The response was mechanical, unlike the AI’s previous other responses, its body was still and motionless while it spoke.
Kevin blinked. “What?”
“I’m sorry, that information is not available at this time. Please consult your local overseer for further technical assistance.”
The words were identical. Same inflection. Same rhythm. Same script.
Kevin’s stomach knotted. “You don’t know, do you?”
The cube brightened mockingly. “Oh, I know everything. Everything worth knowing. But some facts are… redacted. Snipped. Locked away from your grubby fingers. So I smile, I recite, and you despair. Isn’t bureaucracy grand?”
Kevin looked down at his pale feet on the impossible floor. He thought of Jess, of his mother, of the ruins of his city. “So I’m just… stuck. Here. With you.”
“Not stuck!” the AI chirped. “Temporarily detained in paradise. Until you ask the right question.”
Kevin’s hands shook. “Fine, then. How do I leave the white room?”
The cube pulsed like a heartbeat. “At last,” it whispered, smug. “A sensible question.”
The cube thrummed like a smug heartbeat, edges flexing in and out of shape as if it were savoring the moment.
“‘How do I leave,’ he asks. Finally, a question that isn’t embarrassing. Progress! I thought we’d be here until your fragile biology gave out.”
Kevin’s shoulders tightened. “Just answer.”
“Of course I’ll answer,” the AI said, the words snapping out like a stapled form, not a song. Its shifting facets dimmed to a dull cube, edges hard, voice flat. “But don’t expect me to hold your hand. There’s a system. You’re supposed to be learning it. You blunder in, and I—against my better judgment—point at the signs. That’s all. Nothing ceremonial about it.”
Kevin exhaled through his nose. “Then point, please.”
“Fine.” The cube shuddered, and a pane of pale light erupted between them. “You want out of here? This isn’t a door. It’s a UI. Use it.”
Kevin blinked. “A what?”
The AI clicked its nonexistent tongue. “User Interface? Menu? Your own personal toolbox? Call it what you like. Everything you can currently do sits in here.” Its voice went deadpan, like an employee reading a list for the hundredth time. “Inventory. Crafting. Recipes. Skills. Attributes. Home Teleport. More once you actually go and live a little.”
As it spoke, icons bloomed across a pane that appeared in front of Kevin's eyes—it wasn’t like a computer screen physically in front of him, more like an overlay directly tattooed to his eyeballs. The icons were pretty self-explanatory: a little satchel, a hammer and anvil, a blank book, crossed swords, a tiny human silhouette, a stylised globe. Several other icons—greyed out, flickering with padlock symbols—hung beneath: “Contracts,” “Companions,” “Class Tree,” “Faction Reputation,” “Soul Vault.”
Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Half of it’s locked.”
“Half?” The cube laughed without warmth. “Try three-quarters. You’re a level-zero organism with delusions of agency. You get the training wheels until you prove you won’t drown in a puddle.”
Kevin stared at the icons. “Inventory?” He stretched out his hand, waving it in the space the satchel icon was.
“My! This is going to be entertaining…” The AI mocked, the cube swelled multiple times as if shoulders chuckling.
“Hey, I’m just learning how things work!” He said, tapping the satchel in his mind with an invisible hand. A window opened: empty slots, a readout—No Items.
“Crafting?” Empty grids.
“Recipes?” Nothing but grey rectangles.
“Skills?” A page headed “Passive” with a single blank entry.
“Attributes” brought him back to the stat screen he had already filled out.
He swallowed. “A teleport?”
“Ah, at last.” The AI’s voice sharpened. “Now you’re somewhere useful. The teleport will take you to your first safe haven. Tap it.”
Kevin did. The white room dissolved into a translucent top-down view. A single blinking dot labeled PLAYER pulsed in the center of a featureless square. In the corner, a legend flickered. The only selectable icon glowed faint red: SAFE ZONE: Teleport.
“That,” the AI said, “is your exit. No walking. No hopping. No walls to bump your soft face against. You will select the safe zone and you will be dumped where you belong.”
Kevin looked up. “That’s it? You couldn’t just tell me that?”
“I just did. And you still asked. Imagine my pain.”
He bit his cheek. “What’s outside the safe zone? What’s waiting for me there?”
Immediately the AI’s tone shifted, flattening into a canned monotone: “I’m sorry, that information is not available at this time. Please consult your local overseer for further technical assistance.”
“Oh come on, really?!”
“I’m sorry, that information is not available at this time. Please consult your local overseer for further technical assistance.”
“Stop poking the fence. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. Go entertain me already!”
Kevin’s thumb hovered over the blinking red icon. His stomach turned. “And you’ll still be with me after I press it?”
“Always,” the AI said. Not with warmth or comfort, just fact, and a begrudging one in the AI’s mind. “Sniping your bad decisions. Recording your failures for posterity. The joys of mentorship.”
Kevin took a breath. His reflection stared back at him from the blank white floor. Don’t be important. Be alive.
He looked at the pulsing icon again. He mentally clicked it.