Aurelia spoke for what felt like a long time, though my interface insisted only minutes had passed.

  Most of it was delivered with that infuriating calm of hers, gentle, patient, and unyielding.

  She gave no information about the challenges we would face, no terrain, no enemies, and no time frame for the tutorial.

  All of that, she said, would only be revealed after we exited the Safe Area.

  And once we crossed through that door, the Safe Area would become permanently inaccessible.

  Which was, frankly, idiotic. We had the chance to prepare, to plan, to buy the right things… and instead we were forced to shop blind.

  Aurelia didn’t even seem to notice the collective outrage brewing.

  After that, she explained how to access our status screens and how to navigate the shop—basic mechanics.

  Beyond that? Nothing.

  Not because she didn’t want to; she simply couldn’t.

  Her voice, her posture, everything about her radiated hard-coded limits, like a pleasant customer service AI forced to stonewall.

  People protested. Some yelled. A few sobbed openly.

  None of it mattered.

  While half the room spiralled into panic, the other half threw themselves into the system menu blindly.

  Two teenage boys, friends, loud, and far too excited, snatched classes immediately, bought cheap armour and swords, and started clanging at each other like LARPers handed real steel.

  The naked man bought pants before anything else.

  Good for him.

  Others drifted, overwhelmed, poking at the air with wild eyes.

  I forced myself to inhale slowly. I will check the shop and my status later; the dread of not doing something for the mass of people panicking around me was too much. Still, I had to remain focused.

  Assess first. Then helping.

  If I couldn’t get any more answers, I could at least stop people from making irreversible mistakes.

  I started with the ones who looked least likely to crumble.

  A man in his 30s, business casual, breathing too fast but clearly trying.

  I stepped closer. “Are you still with us?”

  He blinked, snapped out of his daze, and focused on me. “Trying to be. There’s… too much.”

  His voice was steadying as he spoke. Good sign.

  “Let’s start small,” I said. “Open your status; see what are you working with. Ignore the shop for now.”

  He followed the instruction like he was grateful to have one.

  He gave a shaky half-laugh. “Matthew. By the way.”

  I nodded. "Elias, let's attempt to comprehend the situation and bring everyone up to date." I said with a smile.

  Matthew nodded, looking again at his interface;you are he wasn’t exactly calm, but he was rational. That was enough.

  Next, I approached a giant of a man standing very still, arms crossed, jaw set.

  A different type: controlled, observant. I was quite tall, but he had at least three or four inches over me, and while I was sporting a swimmer's build, he was heavy and muscular.

  “Hey,” I said. “Can I bother you for a second?”

  He looked at me like he was evaluating a threat.

  Then he exhaled. “Sure, I’m Tom. Elias, right? Pleasure to meet you.” He said, extending a hand.

  I took it, squeezing just a bit harder than I normally would. He had a firm grip, as expected.

  “Pleasure’s mine.”

  “I’m seeing where you are going with this; you took control of the room in a second.” He said.

  He was perceptive, probably an army guy by the cadence of his tone and the posture.

  “I’m trying, but most are panicking right now,” I told him while looking right in his eyes. “If we have to work with these people to survive, the more we can help get a grip on the situation, the better.”

  “Mmm, and what are you suggesting?” He was still evaluating me.

  “I need help,” I said simply. “We need to make people do something, instead of letting them roam around like headless chickens, and we need information. I was thinking of compiling lists of items from the shop, asking them to share what classes they can choose and discussing strategies.”

  “Good idea,” said a woman in her fifties besides us.

  “I’m Mary. We should really get a grip on the situation before everybody starts to mess with the shop and buy random shit like the two guys over there.” She said while pointing at the two teenagers with swords.

  “That’s the plan; wait a moment.” I went towards Mattew and asked him about his briefcase; luckily, he had papers and pens. Together we went back towards the soldier and the woman, who were speaking to each other now, and I explained what I wanted to do.

  And with that, I had the first pieces of a functioning group.

  We started working outward.

  Matthew wrangled people who looked overwhelmed but willing.

  Tom shouted at anyone about spending points impulsively. Army instructor style, harsh but effective.

  Mary calmed the panicking ones. Apparently she was a nurse and had experience in how to deal with emergency situations.

  I talked with a girl named Rhea. She was smart, her look steeped in a dark, unmistakably goth style, but the most important thing was that she caught onto the shop mechanics faster than anybody else and started noting down items that looked actually useful.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, a coherent circle formed around us.

  In the middle of trying to keep a dozen different small fires from turning into an inferno, someone screaming at their interface, someone else insisting they were “being monitored”, Tom stopping a teenager from buying a warhammer...

  I saw her.

  Sara.

  My neighbour from three floors down.

  We’d shared quiet elevator rides, exchanged nods, and the occasional “Morning.”

  I just knew she liked camomile tea and worked irregular hours.

  We were acquaintances in the most urban, modern sense: close proximity, polite distance.

  But when she saw me now… something in her face loosened. Relief, maybe. Or recognition of anything familiar in this surreal madness.

  She walked towards me, threading through people with careful, deliberate steps.

  When she reached me, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since coming here.

  “Elias,” she said softly. “I thought that was you.”

  I nodded, trying to reassure her with a smile.

  “Sara. You okay?”

  She gave a small, humourless laugh. “Define ‘okay’.”

  Fair point.

  Her hands weren’t shaking, but they were clasped too tightly in front of her. Her eyes were darting, not panicked, just overwhelmed, trying to process it all at once.

  “It’s… a lot,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Everything’s happening so fast. And most people are either shouting or pretending they’re fine.”

  Her gaze met mine. “But you’re… handling it.”

  Not handling it.

  Compelled to handle it.

  But of course she couldn’t know.

  “I’m trying to keep things from getting worse,” I said. “And to give us a chance when we walk out from here.”

  She nodded slowly, absorbing that. Then she surprised me.

  “Do you mind if I stay near you?” she asked. “I don’t… really know what to do right now. And you’re the only person here who looks like they actually know what they’re doing.”

  I blinked, caught off guard for a second.

  Not because I didn’t want her nearby, but because the simple honesty of her request hit harder than I expected.

  “Yeah,” I said gently. “Stay with us. We’re trying to put together a group, compare options, pool information, and get organised before anyone commits to anything permanent.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “Good,” she breathed. “Good. I can do that.”

  Then she hesitated, almost embarrassed.

  “And… it’s stupid, but seeing someone I actually know, even a little? It helps.”

  That one landed squarely in my chest.

  “It’s not stupid,” I said. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Something flickered across her expression: relief, trust, maybe gratitude, soft but real.

  Matthew approached, waving a notepad. “Elias, we’ve started listing items by cost-efficiency—”

  He paused when he noticed her.

  “Oh—hi,” he said. “Did you want to join the list group?”

  Sara nodded, stepping a bit closer to my side, like standing in the eye of a storm.

  I gave her a reassuring look. “Come on. Let’s get you caught up.”

  As we moved back towards the forming cluster of people, I felt the tension in my chest ease again.

  It wasn’t meant to last; as soon as I was starting to think we were dealing with the situation properly, some people arrived to try and create trouble.

  A man stormed over, jabbing a finger at me. “Who put you in charge? I’m not letting some random guy control me.”

  “I’m not in charge,” I said calmly. “We are just trying to understand how everything works and the best way forward. You know, sticking together reduces risk and increases our chances of surviving whatever’s coming.”

  He scoffed. “You sound like some bullshit politician to me.”

  “I’m a lawyer actually, and you don’t need to join us,” I said. “But if you need help, we’ll still be here.”

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  That caught him off guard.

  He muttered something and stalked off.

  A woman nearby crossed her arms. “Groups breed drama. I’ll handle myself.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “But if you change your mind or need information, you’re welcome.”

  They both left, but not far.

  A few others drifted after them… but some hovered close enough to listen.

  Another girl came shouting at us about some conspiracy theory, that we were with the kidnapper and this was all a hoax in some way. Tom had to physically move her away.

  Some other people organised themselves into little groups but, more than I expected, looked at me and then moved towards us instead of away.

  A tired father holding a kid probably younger than seven.

  An elderly woman gripping her purse like a life raft.

  A couple who looked utterly lost.

  They came not because I demanded it… but because I offered structure without strings.

  That was enough.

  More importantly—

  It calmed something inside me.

  The part that had twisted painfully when everyone scattered in chaos… eased.

  My curse, or whatever aspect of it reacted to isolation, seemed content as long as people were oriented around me, listening, relying even a little.

  I breathed easier too.

  One step at a time.

  One person at a time.

  And maybe we’d survive this.

  Now that I had some breathing room, I opened my status because I had to understand what I was working with before I could help anybody else.

  And the truth did not disappoint.

  A translucent pane expanded before me, soft light painting the edges.

  Above average. Noticeably above. Given that the average was more or less 10 for a human.

  But it wasn’t the numbers that stole my breath.

  It was the last line. Cursed, I was cursed.

  My throat tightened.

  There it was.

  In writing.

  In glowing, system-certified text.

  Not a metaphor. Not a delusion. Not the slow decay of a tired mind.

  A condition recognised by an interdimensional framework apparently older than universes.

  My pain was real. With a thought I expanded the condition text; somehow I knew I could do it after looking at it.

  I steadied my breathing, jaw tense.

  The System hadn’t only named the curse.

  It had awarded me a trait for surviving it.

  A bitter laugh almost escaped me, but I swallowed it. Now wasn’t the time for looking like a maniac.

  The words felt like a slap in the face.

  Every choice I’d made, every risk I took, every miserable hour spent chasing relief through helping strangers… the System saw it all. Just like that.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, hope bloomed like a beautiful flower in me. I spent years trying to understand what my problem was. Now not only did the system tell me exactly that, but it was also giving me the means to do something about it, to fix it, however difficult it might be. Now I had a chance, a chance to rid myself of this condition and take my life in my hands again.

  First though, I had to still deal with it, and for that I needed to get these people and transform them into a somewhat functional and useful group.

  Before long, our little cluster grew to nearly thirty.

  Young, old, confused, terrified… but listening.

  While we were checking the shop menu, I discovered something Aurelia hadn’t mentioned:

  We could transfer our tutorial points, and we could sell items.

  When I shared that discovery, relief washed through the group like clean air.

  We weren’t powerless.

  We had options.

  We had… agency.

  The goodwill was immediate and intense.

  Aurelia, of course, provided no acknowledgement.

  Every meaningful question she was asked ended with the same gentle refusal.

  “I cannot answer that. If you desire additional information, you may purchase it.”

  And then we found it in the shop:

  Exactly the amount each of us had been given. All the points that would be useful to buy gear items and weapons were spent for a question.

  Nobody wanted to be the one to spend it.

  And honestly?

  Neither did I.

  I exhaled slowly. Where should I start with this… Let’s see…

  The shop was a labyrinth. Thousands of items, some clearly meant for people with scores of tutorial points, useless for the moment. But slowly, the group began to cut through the chaff.

  We had a simple method: essentials first, fancy or high-tier stuff later. The list grew: a few sets of armour, basic weapons, shields, healing kits, rations, and potions. Nothing extravagant. Affordable, reliable. For now, that was enough.

  “Remember,” I added, my gaze sweeping over the group, “we’ll have other opportunities to use the shop. Not everywhere in the tutorial, only in safe areas. But it doesn’t make sense to save them if we are not alive to spend them, so if somebody has some leftover points that are not useful, let’s pool them together and buy anything that could increase our chances.”

  I was met with a surprising amount of understanding; having to deal with smart or at least docile people was a godsend. The more independent ones were already forming smaller teams or going at it solo. I would probably be in that category if it wasn’t for my curse, but for now I was doing fine, and I was gathering quite the amount of information too. Small mercies.

  The pen-and-paper system also allowed us to map the classes in our group. Everyone had many options, some menial, some basic, but a few offered more promising paths. Tom had been offered Soldier, unsurprising, given his disposition. Mary, the healer, together with a full-fledged doctor, competent but quiet. Rhea had something unique: Ritualist. Most had classes related to their field, like bartender, musician, waiter and more. Although everyone could choose the basic ones offered by the system to new people entering the tutorial: fighter, mage and crafter.

  The class system was harsh. You had to stick with your choice unless you could evolve it. Permanence weighed on some, fear on others. I watched them deliberate, their hesitations mirroring my own thoughts: fear of being trapped, of making the wrong choice.

  When it was my turn, I opened my status once more. The translucent blue pane floated before me.

  I relayed the classes offered and their descriptions to the group, leaving out the last two. I needed them to see me as a source of guidance, not someone who could wield curses against them. Revealing everything would only breed fear and confusion. And as for Guardian… I couldn’t let them know that was even an option. My curse made that path dangerously obvious; if I admitted it existed, they’d expect me to take it, and that would create needless complications. It was better this way: measured disclosure, enough to lead, but never enough to alarm.

  I approached the office worker, Mattew, letting the noise of the group wash over me. He leant closer, lowering his voice. “Most people here don’t have anything worth much. But phones, jewellery, and a few trinkets sold for a few hundred to a few thousand points. Not bad, all things considered.”

  I nodded, already thinking ahead. I was going to do the same. I started with the rum bottle, still nearly full, the glass, and my tie, small tokens of a life I was willing to trade here. I sold them one by one. The rum alone yielded nearly seven hundred points. My watch, a Jaeger-LeCoultre gifted to me by my father, cost nearly two thousand. The tie? Seventy. A considerable amount, but expected. Every thread of my clothes was tailor-made and expensive but disposable here.

  A corner of the room, unoccupied, became my makeshift workspace. I purchased a simple set of clothes: sturdy boots, dark pants, a white linen shirt, and a belt. Eighty-two points. Nothing flashy, nothing cumbersome. After selling the rest of my possessions, I was left staring at 6,159 points. The question wasn’t what to buy; it was how to spend them to gain the most leverage.

  And the answer came quickly: information. If I had any hope of removing this curse, I needed the right angle, and the shop offered it. One question. One shot. One thousand points.

  Now, the challenge: how to ask without alerting the rest of the room. I drifted near Aurelia, floating serenely as ever, while the group busied itself with their preparations. I peppered her with trivial questions, circling around the information I wanted, carefully probing. Ten minutes passed, mostly wasted on minor details, but one crucial tidbit slipped through: crossing the door would heal any wound or ailment, one time only. That was massive. I could leverage this for the group later.

  With the crowd distracted, their attention lost in my relentless enquiries, I moved closer. Aurelia’s eyes tracked me, serene and perceptive, reading me as if I were an open book. She smiled faintly, clearly understanding my intention but saying nothing.

  I activated the purchase. My point-spending confirmed, I prepared to ask the question that really mattered:

  “Within the bounds of the tutorial, and limited to actions I can personally perform, what is the most effective sequence of steps, including any required classes, skills, items, or key objectives, that will allow me to remove, resolve, or permanently suppress the Curse of the False Saint at the earliest possible opportunity?”

  Aurelia stilled the moment the question left my lips. It wasn’t shock, exactly, more like a quiet re-evaluation. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

  She straightened, folding her hands in front of her. “You’re certain this is what you want to ask?” There was no judgement in her voice, only the awareness that this was his one question. When I nodded, she took a calm breath and let it out slowly.

  “Very well.”

  A brief silence passed between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Aurelia’s expression shifted from curious to composed, as if she were deliberately stripping away any unnecessary nuance before answering. When she finally spoke, her tone was different. Minimal and exact, almost robotic.

  “Take the Mage class, and improve your trait at least three times before claiming and wearing the Crown of the Tyrant of Aaranor.”

  She didn’t elaborate further. She didn’t add warnings, explanations, or context. She simply gave me the answer I had asked for, nothing more, nothing less.

  Aurelia held my gaze afterwards, quiet and steady, studying my reaction. Ensuring I understood that this was all she would give me.

  I kept my face still. Or he tried to.

  A flicker of irritation slipped through anyway, tightening the corners of my mouth, a small twitch of my jaw. That’s it? I’d spent a thousand points, a thousand, for what sounded like the most underwhelming, bare-minimum advice imaginable.

  Take Mage. Improve my trait. Find a crown.

  A class everyone could pick. A trait I had no idea how to improve and a crown with a name dramatic enough to be unhelpful.

  I forced my shoulders to remain relaxed and kept my breathing steady. No scene. No questions. I simply dipped my head to Aurelia, then turned away as if that answer had been fully expected.

  Inside, though?

  Inside I felt thoroughly scammed.

  I had worded the question perfectly, explicitly, to draw out the most useful, actionable, detailed guidance. And what had I gained? Three vague steps and not a single explanation.

  I needed a moment, so I moved slowly, deliberately, letting the simmering frustration burn itself out while I walked.

  Okay. Think.

  Aurelia probably wasn’t allowed to give anything extra. There were rules. So if the answer was barebones, it wasn’t necessarily empty. It meant every word mattered.

  Mage over Cursed Mage…

  Why?

  The only reason I could think of, given the information I had, was evolution. Maybe Mage had a branching path; Cursed Mage didn’t. Maybe Cursed Mage was a trap—too narrow, too thematic, too tied to the thing I wanted gone.

  Then the trait. Curse-Tempered.

  I earned it by enduring the curse for a long time—by fighting it. So… exposure? Testing the limits? Strengthening his resistance like a muscle?

  I grimaced at the thought.

  I really didn’t want to shove more curses into my life.

  But maybe exposure wasn’t the only method. Maybe lifting curses counted. Maybe interacting with cursed items or dispelling curses would build towards an evolution. Traits may have had more than one trigger. Who knew?

  And the crown… that one he set aside. Something he’d have to track down later, with real information, real leads. A longer-term goal, not an immediate one.

  By the time I approached my group again, the anger had mostly drained out of me. What remained was a cool, intent focus.

  I didn’t get the answer I wanted.

  But I had a direction.

  And so I steeled myself and picked Mage.