Silas felt the wind first.
Cool. Clean. Real.
It brushed across his face and threaded through his hair, ruffling it like an impatient hand. He sucked in a breath—sharp, instinctive—and let it out again.
“Damn, that felt weird,” Silas said.
A heartbeat ago, he’d been nowhere. Trapped in an endless white nothing. Now he stood beneath a wide blue sky, sunlight spilling over rolling grassland that stretched to the horizon. The air smelled alive—earth, green growth, something faintly floral carried on the breeze.
Reality had weight again.
Then he noticed his clothes.
They were definitely not the T-shirt and sweatpants he’d been wearing while gaming. Instead, he was dressed in rough-spun medieval attire: a loose linen tunic cinched at the waist, woolen trousers tucked into worn leather boots, and a simple belt that looked like it had known better days. Practical. Plain. The kind of outfit meant for surviving, not lounging. Then his eyes saw the kitchen knife tuck between the belt and his pants. At least his last ditch effort didn’t go to waste.
Then the realization sent a ripple of unease through him.
Which meant—briefly, uncomfortably—that someone or something had seen him naked before all this. He grimaced. That thought alone crossed several personal boundaries he’d rather not acknowledge.
Priority check.
He glanced down, discreet but thorough.
Undergarments. Thank God.
Not his usual modern briefs, but something looser—boxer-like, stitched from coarse fabric that screamed medieval craftsmanship. He shifted experimentally and sighed in relief. No immediate itching. A small mercy, but he’d take it.
That was when a scream cut through the air.
High. Female. Raw with panic.
Silas snapped his head to the right. From his vantage point atop a low hill, he spotted her easily—a blonde woman kneeling in the grass, hands clenched, screaming at nothing he could see. No monsters. No attackers. No obvious threat.
Shock, maybe. Fear or a total meltdown.
He felt a flicker of pity—brief, honest—but it didn’t carry him any farther than that. Sympathy was one thing. Charging blindly into becoming someone's pillar of stability was out of the question.
His gaze drifted beyond her.
Thin smoke curled upward in the distance, faint but unmistakable. With the height advantage, he could make out clustered shapes—buildings, maybe. A settlement. Civilization, or the closest thing to it.
For the first time since arriving, Silas felt a sliver of gratitude.
Dropped on a hill. Clear sightlines. Options.
Not a bad start.
He squared his shoulders, committing the landscape to memory.
Then he made his choice.
Silas started down the hill, careful with his footing as the grass brushed against his boots and the settlement slowly grew clearer in the distance.
Halfway down, he just remembered something.
At his belt.
He slowed, then stopped, fingers brushing against what felt like a holster—though it was definitely not shaped for anything modern. Not a gun. Not a knife.
A stick.
He frowned, drawing it free.
Before he could voice a perfectly reasonable what the hell, a familiar blue window blinked into existence.
[Twig Wand]
[Type: Wand]
[Rarity: Common]
[A roughly cut wand made from a fallen tree branch of a random tree. The wood still carries trace amounts of natural mana. Not pretty. Functional.]
[Attack: 1]
[Magic Attack: 10]
[Tier-1 Spell Stability: 80%]
[Tier-2 Spell Stability: 30%]
[Tier-3 Spell Stability: 5%]
[Higher-Tier Stability: 0%]
[Durability: 25 / 25]
Silas read it twice.
Then once more, slower.
It was oddly thorough—far more detailed than the class descriptions that had decided people’s fates. He turned the wand over in his hand, inspecting it from every angle. It really was just a crooked twig. No weight to it. No balance. The only concessions to craftsmanship were a few shallow carvings near the grip and also an etched pattern at the tip—either a delicate magical sigil or an unusually artistic flower.
Functional, the system had said.
Silas snorted softly and slid it back into place.
He resumed walking. This time he held the kitchen knife he brought. The white of his knuckles showing. Perhaps he gripped it a bit too tight.
The world around him was unnervingly calm. Wind whispered through the grass. Insects buzzed lazily. For a moment, it almost felt like a countryside hike back home—until he stopped short.
A few yards ahead, something grazed.
Sheep?
He narrowed his eyes, not moving another step.
Is that a sheep? Silas thought.
The silhouette said yes. Four legs. Wool-covered body. Rounded and placid. But the color was wrong—a soft, unsettling pink—and the body looked fuller, heavier, like it had been overinflated.
Then it lifted its head.
Silas froze.
Four eyes blinked back at him. A bovine skull with a shortened snout. Long, forward-curving horns like a saiga antelope’s, only sharper, longer, and unmistakably not decorative.
Sheep-shaped.
Not sheep.
Silas kept his distance, pulse ticking upward as the peaceful field quietly reminded him of one important truth:
This world looked familiar.
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At the same time it wasn’t.
Silas half-expected another blue window to bloom into existence—something neat and informative, the way it had with the twig wand. A name. A threat rating. Maybe a helpful note like mostly harmless unless provoked.
He focused on the sheep-animal.
Nothing happened.
No text. No blue window. Nothing.
“Yep,” Silas said. Easing his breath. “Let’s not do anything stupid.”
He moved on. While still keeping an eye at the sheep creature.
The field offered more oddities as he went—creatures that looked familiar at a distance and wrong the moment he paid attention. Most of them grazed peacefully, heads down, bodies relaxed. Herbivores, probably. Probably being the key word. In a world like this, assumptions felt like a fast way to get mauled.
Silas kept his distance, posture loose but alert, senses dialed in.
Then a sound broke the rhythm of wind and grass.
Footsteps.
Fast ones.
Silas didn’t stop. He kept walking, eyes forward, tracking the approaching silhouette in his peripheral vision. Whoever it was, they were closing the distance at a jog.
His fingers tightened around the kitchen knife.
If this turned ugly, he had exactly one kitchen knife and one crooked stick and very little idea on how to use the latter.
The figure drew closer. Metal clanked with each step, loud and unmistakable. Armor—chest plating at least. A warrior, if the system’s definitions meant anything out here.
His heart rate ticked up.
Then the voice came—cheerful, almost absurdly so.
“Heeey!”
Silas glanced over.
The man waved enthusiastically, arm swinging back and forth like they were old friends meeting by chance. He wore a broad grin and enough metal on his torso to make a blacksmith proud. Whatever threat he posed, he wasn’t hiding it.
Silas’s pulse eased.
His grip on his two weapons didn’t.
“Hey, wait up!” the warrior called.
A moment later, he reached Silas and stopped a few steps away, hands braced on his knees as he bent forward, breathing hard. His head stayed down while he caught his breath, then he lifted one finger—just a second—as if asking for patience.
A minute later, the man straightened.
His breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling beneath the steel cuirass, hands braced on his hips. The run had left a faint flush on his pale skin, the kind that suggested enthusiasm had outrun conditioning.
“You could’ve—huh—waited—huh—you know,” the warrior managed.
Silas took him in with a practiced glance. Armor over the torso. A sword sheathed at the hip. Solid. Practical. No frills. Compared to his own rough tunic and crooked wand, it was a noticeable advantage.
So warriors started with extra gear. Good to know, Silas thought.
Or maybe he’d missed something. Silas glanced down, tugged at his tunic, even peeked underneath—just in case. Nothing extra. No hidden miracle.
The warrior’s voice cut back in before he could dwell on it.
“Name’s Arthur Hall,” the man said, straightening fully now. He extended a hand, flashing a broad grin as a breeze caught his brown hair.
Silas hesitated.
Then, with a small sigh, he shook it.
“Silas.”
Arthur’s grin widened. “Not the friendly type, huh?”
“More like getting chummy with a stranger five minutes after reality breaks feels a bit weird,” Silas replied.
He started walking again. Arthur matched his pace without complaint.
“Come on, man,” Arthur said cheerfully. “We’re tossed into a fantasy world with RPG classes. If that doesn’t make us comrades, I don’t know what does.”
Silas didn’t slow. His eyes stayed on the field ahead, tracking the strange grazing creatures and making sure they kept their distance.
“You do realize the entire world’s in the same situation, right?” he said. “By that logic, everyone’s a comrade.”
Arthur blinked. “Wait—seriously? How do you know that?”
Silas didn’t look at him.
“Didn’t you read the blue notification before we got here?”
“I did,” Arthur said. Then frowned. “And?”
Silas exhaled softly.
It dawned on Silas with a dull, familiar weight.
Oh. You’re that kind of person.
“The number,” Silas said evenly, not slowing his pace. “The one about the link. It matched the world’s population. Eight billion plus. Ring any bells now?”
Arthur studied him for a moment, really looked this time.
“You don’t look like it,” Arthur said slowly, “but it’s a surprise you pay attention to details.”
Then the realization hit.
Arthur’s eyes widened. Color drained from his face. “Wait—does that mean… my whole family’s here?”
The shift was immediate. The easy grin vanished, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Calm gave way to panic like a switch being flipped.
“What do I do?” Arthur blurted. “My mom and dad—they wouldn’t understand any of this.” He grabbed the sleeve of Silas’s tunic, fingers tight. “And my brother and sisters—they’re way too young. They can’t—this can’t—”
He spiraled.
Words tumbled over each other as worry turned into desperation. Arthur latched onto Silas’s shoulders now, shaking him as if answers might fall loose. What should he do? Where should he go? How was he supposed to help them?
Silas clenched his jaw.
Annoyance flared—but it didn’t last. For a brief second, his eyes softened. He understood the fear. Anyone with something to lose would feel it.
Arthur shook him again.
That did it.
Silas stepped in and snapped his arm across, open palm cracking against Arthur’s cheek. Not brutal—but decisive. The sound echoed sharper than it needed to.
Arthur stumbled, legs already unsteady from running, fear, and adrenaline. He went down hard, landing on his side and staring blankly at the ground, stunned more than hurt.
Silas exhaled.
He felt bad about it. Truly. Arthur wasn’t weak—just young. Probably still in school or just out of high school. Old enough to look like a man, young enough to think the world would give warnings before it burned.
Silas didn’t wait for him to get up.
He turned and continued toward the settlement, boots cutting through the grass.
A few minutes later, Arthur came trotting back into view, breath still hitching like a bad engine after a hard climb. He slowed beside Silas, lungs working overtime, until the rhythm evened out and his stride matched pace.
Silas gave him a sideways glance. The grin was gone. Arthur’s eyes stayed on the ground now, shoulders sloped, the earlier bravado packed away. Still—he was walking. That counted. Panic could wait; shelter couldn’t. At least the kid understood that much.
After a stretch of silence, Arthur spoke again.
“So… you’re a mage,” he said, nodding toward the wand riding Silas’s belt. “Makes sense. Who wouldn’t want magic?” He smirked faintly. “Me too—if I didn’t have this itch for a sword.”
“You exactly scream a mage with a robe,” Silas said. “Surprised you didn’t go mage yourself.”
“A man’s allowed to dream, okay?” Arthur shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. Scrawny build, bad stamina, terrible posture.” He tapped the hilt at his side. “But this is the kind of place where dreams actually matter. With an RPG system? I can be a hero.”
Silas frowned inwardly.
Shouldn’t you still be worrying about your family?
Or was this just how kids coped—charging forward before the fear caught up?
The word hero lingered. A concept ripped straight from movies, novels, comics. The strongest blade. The brightest hope. The one who stood in front when everyone else broke.
That definitely wasn’t Silas.
If such a path existed in this Trial, he planned to walk as far from it as possible.
He glanced at Arthur again. The sadness had crept back, thin but stubborn. Arthur’s jaw tightened as if he were holding the worry in by force.
Silas sighed.
“You figure out anything about the system?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Arthur said. “I poked around a bit. Status window, skill window—I got those working.” He grimaced. “Tried inventory, though. No luck. Kind of a bummer. Feels wrong playing an RPG without the most important feature.”
Silas tried it.
True enough, the windows responded.
Name: Silas Kingsley
Title: —
Level: 0
Class: Black Mage
Species: Human {Z-tier}
Health Points: 80/80
Mana Points: 70/70
Strength: 5
Vitality: 8
Defense: 1
Agility: 6
Dexterity: 5
Perception: 10
Wisdom: 8
Intelligence: 7
Charisma: 4
Points: 0
Silas gave the status window a quick once-over.
It was textbook RPG—numbers, bars, neat little categories arranged with clinical precision. Familiar. Comforting, even. And somehow, deeply wrong.
He frowned.
What’s the point of all this? Silas thought.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the alien craft that had hung over New York City. A machine so far beyond human reach it made skyscrapers look like toys. Why go through all this trouble? Why drag the entire population into a place like this and dress it up as a game?
Entertainment?
A cruel kind of theater—give humanity levels, skills, progress bars. Let them believe, just for a while, that effort meant something. That grinding hard enough could bridge the gap. Then, at the end, knock them flat and remind them who was still prey.
Silas found no answer that made sense.
His eyes slid to one line in the window.
Species: Z-tier.
Z-tier, he thought.
The last letter of the alphabet. Either the absolute bottom—or, in some twisted logic, the peak no one talked about. But every RPG he’d ever played climbed upward. F to A. Bronze to Diamond. Trash to strongest.
Z didn’t fit anywhere except the gutter.
He shook his head. Assumptions. That was all this was. And in a world where alien ships appeared in real life and people got tossed into an RPG-style trial realm, assumptions were about as reliable as dice loaded by a liar.
Anything was possible now.
He reached for the skill window—
And froze.
Voices rose from the settlement’s entrance. Loud. Animated. Annoyingly familiar.
Silas slowed as he and Arthur drew closer, and then he saw them.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Silas thought.
At that exact moment—fate, chance, or the universe just having a sense of humor—the three of them turned.
“Silas!”
All at once.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
Of all the people in the world. Of all his coworkers. It had to be these three.
Peace, Silas. Peace, he told himself, forcing the irritation back down.
