Max sat across from a god.
Well… that was the only way he could describe it. The robed figure radiated presence, not power, not menace, just... undeniable is-ness like gravity wearing a cloak. An ornate leather-bound book lay open between them, its pages unnaturally still, like they didn’t dare move unless told.
His eyes drifted to the first page. A name was written there in flowing script.
Maxine Oddo.
Max blinked. “What the hell?”
That name hadn’t been his in nearly a decade. Not since the paperwork. Not since the hormones. Not since the long, quiet war of becoming himself.
But the figure before him only smiled, voice like velvet and thunder laced with stardust.
“Welcome to Aerothane, Maximus Oddo.”
He looked back down. The name had changed. Now it said Maximus.
Max swallowed. “Uh… thanks?”
Was he dreaming? Dead? Or just very, very high?
Less than an hour ago, at least, what he assumed was an hour, he’d been sitting in a run-down café, scrolling dead-end forums for any clue about his missing parents. Then the world had ripped. A crack of light, a feeling like being yanked sideways through existence, and then… he was standing in a massive field surrounded by hundreds of equally confused strangers.
Lines had started forming. Everyone shuffled forward like sheep with Wi-Fi anxiety. He’d followed instinctively, and now here he was, across from a literal god.
“No,” the being said calmly, “this isn’t a dream. And no, you’re not dead.”
Max’s jaw worked uselessly for a second. “Right. Cool. Of course, you can read minds.”
Lucien, because that name just felt right, chuckled, a low, melodic sound that filled the space like incense.
“Even here, time is short, Max. And you have decisions to make.”
Max nodded slowly, his thoughts trying to organize themselves like papers in a storm. He had questions, billions of them, but they slipped from his mind the moment he tried to focus, like dreams before coffee.
Lucien gestured to the book, flipping the page with a flick of his hand. A new list appeared, neatly inked in perfect calligraphy.
Choose Your Race
Human
Elf
Dwarf
Fae
Goblin
Drakeborn
“Underline one to learn more,” Lucien said, sliding a feathered quill across the table.
Max picked it up automatically, his eyes scanning the list. He hesitated at ‘Human’, then chuckled under his breath.
God, how mundane. After all he’d been through to become himself, the idea of picking “Human” again just felt... uninspired.
With a half-smirk, he underlined Fae.
More options unfurled instantly:
Fae Subraces
Sylvari
Naiad
Terran
Ifriti
Fairy
He tapped the quill on his chin, then underlined the first one. Sylvari.
“Plant-touched or fae-touched beings; dryads or living wood. Natural healing, resistance to poisons, and the ability to speak with plants.”
That was... oddly beautiful. But also, potentially limiting. Max wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life as literal bark.
He glanced back and quickly underlined Elf.
Another list appeared:
Elven Subraces
Sylvan Elf
Glacial Elf
Starborn Elf
Veil Elf
Ember Elf
Ether Elf
Wanderkin
His eyes caught on the last entry, Wanderkin. The name had a rebel ring to it.
He marked it.
“Elves who long ago mingled with humans or beasts, resulting in hybrid adaptability. Often found among travelers or wild tribes. Jack-of-all-trades, adaptable, affinity with survival skills or animal kinship. Appearance varies widely, including tattoos, mixed armor, and earthy tones. Witty, resourceful, rebellious.”
Max grinned.
Yep. That one’s mine.
Without hesitation, he circled Wanderkin.
The book shimmered.
Another page appeared, this one much simpler:
Sexual Identity / Preference
(For Class Synergy & Physical Reconstruction)
Male
Female
Other / Custom
Max exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to overthink it, not now, not here. He circled Male.
The moment he did, a sensation rippled through his body. Not pain, not exactly, more like clay being reshaped by invisible hands.
He looked down.
His hands were… different. Tanned now, like sun-warmed leather. More rugged, calloused, longer fingers, but solid. They looked like the hands of a carpenter or a ranger; someone who used their strength.
He touched his face. Rough stubble met his fingertips. His jaw was stronger. Nose straighter. Ears,
Pointed.
Max’s eyes widened. His hand dropped, lower, and jerked away a second later.
“Oh.”
Lucien’s grin widened ever so slightly. Max flushed beet red and planted both hands on the table like they’d keep him from floating off the edge of reality.
But when he looked up and met the god’s eyes, all embarrassment vanished.
He felt seen and not judged and not categorized. Just… known.
The warmth in his chest lingered as the next page turned on its own.
Lucien didn’t rush him.
He simply waited, watching with that same patient, unreadable expression. The kind you might expect from someone who’d seen time pass in both directions and decided to sit still anyway.
When Max finally looked up from his newly transformed hands, still flexing unfamiliar fingers and tracing the curve of his pointed ears, the next set of pages turned.
The journal fluttered open with a whisper of movement, revealing line after line of text etched in crisp, shimmering ink.
Choose Your Class
Dozens of options unfurled like a spell made of choices, each one cleanly categorized and waiting for his attention. The sheer volume of possibilities made his stomach twist; was it excitement? Anxiety? Both?
Lucien didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Max could feel the gentle push behind the silence. Time moved differently here, but it still moved. And Max understood on some instinctual level that he wasn’t meant to linger forever.
Still, this felt important. Permanent. Like choosing a part of himself that hadn’t yet formed.
His eyes scanned the list:
Warrior Classes
Fighter
Paladin
Spellblade
Warden
Duelist
Caster Classes
Mage
Elementalist
Necromancer
Chronomancer
Warlock
Arcane Archer
Rogue Classes
Rogue
Shadowblade
Assassin
Trickster
Acrobat
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Revenant
Nature Classes
Druid
Beastmaster
Ranger
Verdant Knight
Shifter
Spiritcaller
Scholar Classes
Inscriber
Enchanter
Artificer
Alchemist
Historian
Spellforger
Divine Classes
Cleric
Templar
Oracle
Lightbinder
Inquisitor
Dreamwalker
Mystic Classes
Bard
Illusionist
Riftwalker
Binder
Psion
Fateweaver
Support Classes
Smith
Engineer
Architect
Brewer
Weaver
Scribe
So many paths.
So many versions of himself.
His hand hovered over the page, and without fully meaning to, he underlined Trickster.
The letters shimmered, and the description revealed itself with a flourish of magical ink:
Tricksters thrive on misdirection, manipulation, and style. They blur the line between rogue and illusionist, favoring brains over brawn and flair over force. Where others charge into battle, the Trickster vanishes in a puff of smoke, only to reappear behind you with your coin purse… or your pants… missing.
They specialize in creating confusion on the battlefield, using illusions, traps, and psychological warfare to unbalance enemies. Tricksters often talk their way past problems others solve with swords, and when talking fails, they make sure you never saw the blade coming.
Starting Abilities:
Mirror Step – Blink to a nearby location, leaving behind an illusory copy.
False Face – Temporarily alter appearance, voice, or aura.
Mockery – Use magical sarcasm to disrupt or draw attention.
Traits:
High Dexterity and Charisma
Bonus to Stealth, Persuasion, Deception
Moderate survivability; excels at avoidance
Prefers shortblades, thrown weapons, or enchanted tools
Max couldn’t help but grin. He had been a bit of a trickster as a kid, quick with a lie, quicker with a grin, never without a plan to sneak snacks or escape lectures. But now, in his early twenties, that same energy felt… nostalgic.
He wanted something with more gravity. Something with legs. Something that could grow with him.
His eyes drifted to the Nature Classes next, drawn by a tug in his chest he couldn’t quite explain. It felt like the same instinct that led birds to migrate, ancient, automatic, and right.
He underlined Shifter.
The text shifted again, and he read in silence, his eyes flicking across the description:
You are not the beast. The beast is you. A truth buried in blood, bone, and will.”
The Shifter class offered something raw. Visceral. The idea of merging with a beast, not just commanding one, felt primal in the best way. It wasn’t a spell. It was a surrender. But a controlled one.
Beast Form. Primal Surge. Keen Scent.
The idea of stalking through shadows with sharpened senses, moving like instinct made flesh, it felt powerful. Dangerous. And deeply personal.
He mentally flagged it as a very serious maybe and moved on.
Beastmaster.
That one made him pause. He'd always been an animal lover. Growing up, his room was practically a zoo. Lizards, snakes, rats, ferrets, he’d tamed chaos with treats and patience. But once college started, dorm rules forced him to leave that part of himself behind.
“The wild does not obey orders. It chooses. And the Beastmaster is the one it chose.”
It was poetic. Noble. And oddly comforting.
Beastmasters are bonded with creatures of Aerothane through instinct, respect, and shared survival. They are more than tamers or trainers—they are partners to the primal, forging soul-bonds with beasts that would maul others on sight.
This class thrives on harmony between the player and their chosen companion. In combat, the Beastmaster coordinates attacks, controls positioning, and uses the terrain like second nature. Out of combat, they are trackers, scouts, and wilderness guides.
Unlike Rangers, who use nature as a weapon, or Druids, who draw from the essence of balance, Beastmasters form sacred pacts with specific creatures—companions who grow and evolve alongside them.
Starting Abilities:
Bonded Companion: Choose your first beast companion. It will level with you, develop unique traits, and can be customized in both abilities and appearance.
Pack Tactics: You and your companion deal bonus damage when flanking or coordinating strikes.
Primal Empathy: You can sense emotions and intentions of animals and certain magical beasts.
Common Traits:
High Wisdom and Dexterity
Medium armor; relies on mobility and beast defense
High synergy with Rangers, Druids, and Shifters
Beasts act semi-autonomously, requiring tactical coordination
Max smiled, remembering late nights feeding sugar gliders under his hoodie while pretending to study. Beastmaster would feel like slipping back into that skin. Like reclaiming something he didn’t know he’d lost.
But… no.
Not yet.
He wanted more than comfort. He wanted growth. Challenge. Depth.
There were still dozens of other classes. Dozens of stories waiting to be lived.
He exhaled, resting the quill against his chin. The pages before him glowed faintly, like they were waiting for him to ask the right question.
Max underlined Ranger.
“You won’t see the Ranger coming. You’ll just feel the arrow hit, and realize you were already in checkmate four moves ago.”
The text revealed itself line by line, drawing him in. Precision. Wilderness. Tactics. It felt... right. A class for someone who didn’t want to charge in loud, but didn’t want to be forgotten either.
He leaned back, smiling. Yeah. That’s me.
Then he leaned forward, steady hand lifting the quill, ready to commit.
And circled… Beastmaster.
He froze.
Eyes wide, he looked down at the book as it shimmered and changed before him. A golden pulse ran through the ink, like the page itself was congratulating him.
“No. No, no, no, ”
He shot a pleading look at Lucien, but the god simply folded his hands, lips quirking in quiet amusement.
“Beastmaster,” Lucien said, as if it were prophecy. “A bold, but respectable choice.”
Max opened his mouth to protest, but I didn’t mean to, and closed it again. He wasn’t about to argue with a god.
The next page opened, offering new options beneath his unfortunate commitment:
Starter Companions – Choose One
Dire Wolf Pup – Agile and loyal; evolves into a pack leader.
Stoneclaw Bear Cub – Tanky protector with devastating mauls.
Razorbeak Hawk – Aerial scout with dive-strike capabilities.
Shadow Lynx Kitten – Stealth specialist with phase-shift pounce.
On the verge of tears, of laughter, frustration, or all of the above, Max stared at the list. At least the companions were cool.
Without thinking too hard, he circled Shadow Lynx Kitten.
More glowing script began to unfurl across the page... and he promptly slammed the book shut and pushed it back toward Lucien like it might bite him.
Lucien accepted it calmly, sliding the book into a small leather pack that had been sitting beside the table the whole time. Max blinked. Had that been there before?
Probably. This whole place felt dreamlike, but with stakes.
Max looked up. “I need to know something.”
Lucien tilted his head.
Max swallowed hard. His voice was tight when he finally spoke.
“Are my parents here? Is this where they ended up?”
The god studied him, the grin softening from amused to something gentler. Older. Wiser. Like an ancient clock slowing for just a moment.
He’d known that question would come.
“This moment, your decisions, they matter, Maximus Oddo. That’s why I moved things along. You would have talked yourself in circles and made the wrong choice. Or hesitated and missed your chance entirely.”
Max opened his mouth to respond, but Lucien raised a hand.
“It wasn’t manipulation. It was mercy.”
Then, softer: “Now. What are their names?”
Max hesitated, unsure if this was a riddle, a ritual, or just a question. But something about Lucien, his poise, his presence, urged the truth.
“Asil and Jack Hart.”
Lucien blinked.
For a heartbeat, he looked... surprised.
Then came the smirk.
“Oh?”
He reached under the table and pulled out a much larger tome, twice the size of the one Max had just filled with life-changing choices. It looked heavy, like it had gravity. Like it meant something.
Flipping through its pages with mock reverence, Lucien muttered theatrically: “Hart, Hart, Hart...”
He paused.
“Ah. Hart.” His grin widened. “Page one. Of course.”
Max couldn’t decide if he was amused or deeply irritated by the performance. Probably both. But despite it all, he still liked Lucien. You couldn’t not like him. It was part of the god thing, probably.
“Yes,” Lucien continued. “It appears they were the very first to arrive in Aerothane. Along with four others.”
Max’s chest tightened.
Fiona had been right.
He’d met her on a deep-forum thread filled with people searching for the impossible. Her family had vanished, just as his had. They’d both been from Arizona. They’d agreed to meet in person because some stories are too dangerous to share over Wi-Fi.
What she told him that night had sounded insane, like a Reddit creepypasta with extra seasoning. But she knew things. Private things. Details only someone who’d met his parents could know.
And now… confirmation.
His hands trembled.
They’re here, somewhere in this world. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t wrong.
Tears stung his eyes.
“Can you take me to them?” he whispered.
Lucien’s demeanor changed. The theatricality vanished. He became… solemn.
“I’m sorry, child. My reach does not extend that far.”
“Then how can I find them?”
The god looked genuinely regretful. “I cannot reveal their fate.”
Max clenched his fists, trying to blink back the wetness. He didn’t want to cry in front of a god. But it was already happening.
Lucien gently reopened the pack and retrieved the journal. From the back cover, he unfolded a tucked-away piece of parchment, a map.
Blank, mostly. Just a few etched trees, a mountain range, the hint of a river. No towns. No names.
“I can say this,” Lucien said, pointing to a small point near the river. “Once your tutorial concludes, you will be placed randomly in Aerothane. This location, here, is your best hope.”
A shimmer spread across the map, and a town materialized at the marked spot.
Pendle Village.
“The capital,” Lucien said. “It will be the first place marked on your map. As you travel, more will reveal itself. Seek Pendle. Ask around. Perhaps someone there has heard of Jack or Asil.”
Max nodded silently, tears flowing now. Hopeful. Terrified. Alive.
Lucien tucked the book and map into the pack and slid it across the table.
Max accepted it without a word and stood. Lucien rose with him.
“I wish you luck, Maximus Oddo,” the god said, voice distant now. “And one last thing, do not readily reveal your relation…”
The words shattered mid-sentence.
The world snapped.
Lucien vanished; the table, the book, the candlelight, all gone.
Max stood alone in an endless field of tall grass and wildflowers, his only possession the pack now strapped to his shoulder.
The breeze whispered through the flowers.