Christopher sat frozen in the glow of his HUD, the question still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
“What happened to them?”
The silence that followed was different from the system pauses before. This wasn’t mechanical. This was deliberate. The kind of pause where someone knows the answer… but is weighing whether or not you deserve it.
Then, finally—quietly:
“…They are dead.”
The words hit harder than expected. No dramatics. No evasion. Just a flat, clinical truth.
“Wait…” Christopher swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the dryness in his throat. “They’re dead? You mean… they died in-game or—?”
The Guide didn’t let him finish.
“They died delving. Their bodies did not survive. Their integrations were unsuccessful.”
He stared ahead, unblinking.
“No respawns? No… second chances?”
“Delving is not a simulation, Christopher. It is not a game. Death is final.”
Christopher’s breath caught in his chest.
“You knew this,” the Guide continued, tone still maddeningly calm. “You felt it, even before you asked. Your instincts are finally catching up.”
He couldn’t respond. Not at first.
The room suddenly felt colder. Smaller. The edges of his vision seemed to close in, the once-cool sci-fi interface now feeling like the inside of a coffin.
“So I’m next?” he asked finally, voice quiet. “That’s the deal, right? Strap into the rig, step through the fantasy portal, and end up a statistic?”
A pause. Then, with surprising softness:
“No. You’re not a statistic.”
The Guide hesitated again. Another human-like pause.
“You’re Subject Zero. The first of your kind. That changes things.”
Christopher stood up sharply, the legs of his chair screeching across the hardwood floor.
“Changes what, exactly?!” he snapped. “You dropped me into this without warning! You scanned my brain, you hijacked my vision, and now you tell me every other person who tried this died?!”
His pulse thundered in his ears.
“What the hell is this? A suicide pact dressed up in skill trees and loot drops?”
The HUD didn’t flicker. The Guide didn’t flinch.
“They were not prepared. You might be.”
“Might be?!”
“Your adaptability. Your chaos. Your neurodivergence—they are all anomalies within the system’s parameters. Your mind is less rigid. More… malleable.”
He laughed, short and bitter. “So because my brain doesn’t play by the rules, that’s supposed to give me an edge?”
“Yes.”
Silence fell again. Heavy. Bitter.
Christopher collapsed back into his chair, staring at nothing.
“…How many?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Seventeen.”
His stomach lurched.
“Seventeen people went through this before me?”
“Yes.”
“And none of them made it?”
“Correct.”
His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists just to feel something solid.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because you asked.”
Of course. Of fucking course.
The Guide never offered anything unless he pried it out like a bad tooth.
He leaned back, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why me, Guide?”
This time, the AI’s voice softened again. Still synthetic. Still otherworldly. But almost… reverent.
“Because when the others faced the unknown, they hesitated. When you face it… you ask questions. You joke. You poke the monster in the eye just to see what it does. That’s what this system needs. That’s what you are.”
Christopher sat there for a long moment, chest rising and falling as the weight of it all settled on him.
Seventeen had come before him.
Seventeen had died.
And now it was his turn.
He looked up at the faintly glowing UI in his vision and let out a long, shaky breath.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Then let’s make sure I’m number eighteen... with a goddamn asterisk.”
Christopher’s thoughts spiraled as he stared at the floating prompt.
Seventeen Delvers. Seventeen dead.
But… there had to be more, right?
“Wait,” he whispered, heart still hammering. “Waitwaitwait—there’s other AIs like you, right? Other integrations? How many Delvers *total* have gone through this system?”
The Guide didn’t respond at first.
Christopher narrowed his eyes. “C’mon. Don’t go silent on me again.”
The AI’s voice returned, clipped and matter-of-fact:
**“The system does not track a definitive total across all instances.”**
Christopher blinked. “What do you mean *doesn’t track*? You’re an interdimensional megabrain and you *don’t know*?”
**“The Delver System spans multiple realms and realities. Not all data is synchronized. Some branches have fragmented. Others have collapsed entirely. It is possible the number is in the hundreds of thousands. It is possible it is in the millions.”**
The words hit like a brick to the chest.
Millions.
Dead.
Integrated.
Abandoned.
And he was supposed to *playtest* this system?
His stomach flipped—but before the dread could properly settle, his gaze flicked back to the glowing stat screen still idling in his peripheral vision.
>**[Base Stats – Tarnis Phoenix]**
> - **Strength:** 3
> - **Endurance:** 2
> - **Vitality:** 2
> - **Dexterity:** 3
> - **Intelligence:** 4
> - **Wisdom:** 4
> - **Spirit:** 1
> - **Luck:** **5**
> ---
> - **HP:** 10
> - **Stamina:** 10
> - **Mana:** 1
“…Huh,” he muttered, already distracted. “How bad are these stats, anyway?”
The Guide, to its credit, didn’t sound surprised.
**“Your character creation sequence is not complete. These are baseline attributes prior to class modifiers, trait bonuses, or card assignment.”**
“But, like… are they *bad* bad?” Christopher waved a hand vaguely in the air, squinting at the numbers. “Like, if I was in a party with other fresh Delvers… would I be the guy we make carry the bags?”
A flicker passed through the interface. Almost a sigh.
**“3 is standard average across most humanoid baselines. 2 is slightly below average. 1 is critically deficient. Your Spirit score—1—is among the lowest I have ever recorded.”**
Christopher raised a hand like a kid in class. “So you’re saying I’m magically constipated.”
**“…In essence.”**
He leaned back in his chair and ran both hands down his face, groaning. “So I’ve got average Strength and Dexterity, meh everything else, and the magical power of a dead flashlight battery. Awesome.”
The Guide remained quiet.
Christopher glanced back at the stats.
“Ten HP. Ten stamina. One mana point.” He tilted his head. “So if I *sneeze too hard*, I burn my entire mana bar?”
**“That is… not inaccurate.”**
He snorted. “Okay. So we’re going with a low-spirit, high-luck build. I’m basically a raccoon with main character syndrome.”
**“A raccoon with unstable neural elasticity and poor impulse control.”**
He grinned despite himself. “You’re learning sarcasm. Good for you.”
A flicker pulsed in the interface. A small prompt appeared.
A flicker pulsed in the interface.
> **Character Creation: 41% Complete**
> Core stats calibrated.
> Awaiting system acceptance of:
> – Race: Human
> – Origin: Earthling
> – Sub-Race: Minnesotan
Christopher squinted at the screen. “Wait, *sub-race*?”
The Guide didn’t immediately answer. The UI shifted again—symbols reconfiguring, data streams flaring across his vision like racing circuits. The hum of the system deepened, vibrating faintly in his chest.
Then came the ping.
Not loud. Not alarming. Just… *final*.
The interface shimmered once, then again—before settling into a new configuration.
Something about the Guide’s tone shifted—still neutral, but subtly curious. Almost intrigued.
**“Interesting…”**
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
**“The Delver System accepted your species and subspecies without error.”**
He frowned. “Humans aren’t uncommon, right? So what’s the big deal?”
Absolutely—here’s that section rewritten to reflect that Christopher is the **first Earthling** to ever be accepted into the system:
---
**“Correct. Humans are one of the most widely cataloged races in the system. However… *you* are the first Earthling ever integrated. Your full racial tree and environmental tags were parsed without resistance. That has never happened before.”**
Christopher blinked. “Wait—*first*? Like… ever?”
**“Confirmed. No other Delver of Earth-origin has been successfully recorded in the system prior to this moment.”**
He let out a shaky breath. “So I’m literally *Subject Zero*…”
**“Precisely. Your integration path is unique. The system had no precedent for your species. And yet… it accepted every parameter without error. That is statistically improbable.”**
Christopher stared at the glowing screen in disbelief.
“Yeah well... *statistically improbable* is kinda my whole brand.”
Another pulse in the air. And then the screen changed again—bright, crisp, and unmistakably absurd.
> **Racial Traits Assigned**
> **Earthling Talent (Passive):**
> *Skill Card Loot Box* – Receive a random pack of skill cards upon leveling between Level 1 and 10.
> **Minnesotan Talent (Active):**
> *Hotdish Alchemy* – Craft nutrient-rich meals from seemingly random ingredients. Meals restore stamina and apply a minor morale bonus.
> **Minnesotan Bonus Talent (Active):**
> *Ya Betcha Boost* – Once per long rest, encourage allies with unwavering Midwestern optimism. Restores a small amount of HP and stamina.
A cheerful, shimmering text bubble blinked at the bottom of the screen:
> “Oh yah, you’re doing just great, don’tcha know!”
Christopher stared at it. Once. Then again. His right eye twitched.
He crossed his arms, scowling at the floating prompt like it had just insulted his entire bloodline.
“…Hey. That’s *really* stereotypical. What the fuck, man?”
The Guide’s response was immediate.
**“It is a cultural representation based on your geographic and environmental conditioning. Your subconscious behaviors align with these parameters. Therefore, the traits are accurate.”**
“Wait, wait, wait,” Christopher said, waving his hands. “You’re telling me I got *pigeonholed by vibes*?”
**“Precisely.”**
He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “So this whole system just judged me based on where I’m *from* and decided my racial powers are potluck casserole and saying nice things *aggressively*?”
**“Affirmative. And statistically, it suits you.”**
“Goddammit.”
The UI didn’t react. The chipper little text bubble blinked again, almost mockingly.
> “You betcha!”
Christopher ran both hands down his face. “I swear, if I get killed because someone throws a Jell-O salad at me, I’m uninstalling.”
**“That would be unwise. There is no uninstall function.”**
“…Not helping.”
Before he could spiral further, the interface pulsed once more.
> **Proceeding to Skill Recognition and Memory Scan.**
> Please remain still. This may feel… intimate.
Christopher’s expression soured. “Why do I *hate* how that was phrased?”
**“You’ll understand momentarily.”**
The world dimmed.
And the system began digging through everything he'd ever learned.
The Guide grew quiet.
Not in the way a computer pauses to load—this was deeper. Intentional.
Christopher *felt* it: a slow, methodical sift through his memories. Habits, hobbies, fleeting obsessions—it was like someone quietly rifling through the desk drawers of his mind without permission. Not painful. Just... invasive. Uncomfortably tidy.
Then, with a faint hum, a list slid into view.
> **Recognized Skills (Delver System Conversion):**
- **Scavenging & Resource Extraction** – Years of pulling copper and salvage from busted electronics. (Level 2)
- **Botany & Gardening** – Solid amateur knowledge, self-taught through trial, error, and obsession. (Level 2)
- **Cooking** – Strong personal experience; experimental, frequent. (Level 2)
- **Basic Metalworking** – Occasional smelting, forging, and DIY repair projects. (Level 1)
- **Combat Awareness** – From JROTC and Civil Air Patrol training along with Dagorhir battles. (Level 1)
- **Situational Adaptability** – High. Pattern recognition and improvisational problem-solving noted. (Level 1)
- **Mediocre Gambling Strategy** – Blackjack dealer experience. Statistically unimpressive. (Level 1)
- **Subpar Weapon Training** – Dagorhir, fighting with foam swords and arrows tipped with pool noodles. (Level 1)
Christopher groaned aloud. “You *really* didn’t have to include the foam swords.”
**“On the contrary,”** the Guide replied smoothly, **“it is important to note that you developed muscle memory, basic tactics, and an inflated sense of heroism—all from recreational combat involving duct tape and PVC.”**
Christopher crossed his arms. “It was *fun*.”
**“So is watching squirrels fight over a cracker. That does not make it a martial art.”**
He gave a long, theatrical sigh.
**“Ah, yes, but here we are.”** The Guide’s tone shifted, an analytical hum filling the air. **“Wait… it seems you have ‘Botany’ listed, but that isn’t an actual system skill. Let’s make that *Herbalism*, a separate skill entirely. As for Gardening, that’s also a separate skill.”**
Christopher blinked. “Wait, *Botany* isn’t a thing?”
**“No, it’s not. But don’t worry, you’re good at it. Just a matter of technical terminology. I’ll mark that as **Herbalism** and leave **Gardening** as its own thing. Let’s update your stats.”**
> **Updated Skills:**
- **Herbalism** – Years of self-taught plant knowledge, practical use of natural resources. (Level 2)
- **Gardening** – Familiar with soil care and plant cultivation. (Level 2)
- **Salvaging** – Years of pulling copper and salvage from busted electronics. (Level 2)
- **Cooking** – Strong personal experience; experimental, frequent. (Level 2)
- **Basic Metalworking** – Occasional smelting, forging, and DIY repair projects. (Level 1)
- **Combat Awareness** – From JROTC and Civil Air Patrol training along with Dagorhir battles. (Level 1)
- **Situational Adaptability** – High. Pattern recognition and improvisational problem-solving noted. (Level 1)
- **Mediocre Gambling Strategy** – Blackjack dealer experience. Statistically unimpressive. (Level 1)
- **Subpar Weapon Training** – Dagorhir, fighting with foam swords and arrows tipped with pool noodles. (Level 1)
Christopher groaned. “*Herbalism*, huh? Guess it sounds less... embarrassing.”
**“Exactly. As for **Gardening**, it stands on its own, but it’s compatible with **Herbalism**—you’re doing great, don’t worry.”**
“It means you have a solid foundation in practical skills,” the Guide continued, voice returning to its usual informative cadence. **“But no specialization. This is ideal. You can expand, adapt, and refine these abilities as you grow. You are, in essence, a blank slate—capable of learning almost anything.”**
Christopher rubbed his temples. “Assuming I can stay focused long enough to actually *learn* it.”
**“Exactly,”** the Guide agreed instantly. **“Your focus remains the most significant limiting factor.”**
Christopher shot the air a dry glare. “It’s like having my high school guidance counselor in my head.”
**“An apt comparison,”** the Guide replied without missing a beat. **“Though I am significantly more effective at managing your potential.”**
He stared flatly at nothing. “…Cool. So my spirit stat is garbage, my mana is a rounding error, and my AI thinks I peaked in Boy Scouts and foam sword fights.”
**“Technically, you peaked during the copper wire phase. Your salvage efficiency was unusually high.”**
Christopher buried his face in his hands.
“Kill me now.”
**“Statistically, that is likely to happen later.”**
Christopher sighed and rubbed his face, the overwhelming flood of new information swirling in his skull like a blender set to “obliterate.”
Then something caught his eye.
A glowing line of text hovered near the top of his stats display:
Racial Talent: Earthling – Skill Card Loot Box
He squinted at it. “Wait… are you saying Earthlings are all about loot boxes?”
“Your world demonstrates a unique cultural obsession with randomized rewards, gambling mechanics, microtransactions, and collectible-based progression systems,” the Guide explained with clinical detachment. “This trait is a direct system reflection of that statistical pattern.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Christopher blinked. Slowly raised both hands in theatrical despair. “So my defining characteristic as an Earthling… is gacha mechanics?”
“Statistically accurate,” the Guide replied.
He dropped his hands and groaned. “Goddammit.”
Rubbing his temples, he muttered, “So this ‘Earthling Talent’… it just gives me loot boxes until I hit level ten? And after that, what? I’m just screwed?”
“Not necessarily,” the Guide replied. “Between Levels 1 and 10, you will receive a randomized pack of skill cards with each level. These cards provide immediate boosts—some minor, some significant. After Level 10, you will need to develop your abilities through conventional methods: experience, training, and focused application.”
Christopher crossed his arms, glaring at the interface. “Alright, back up. What the hell are skill cards?”
The HUD shimmered.
A visual materialized in front of him—a glowing card pack sealed in foil that shimmered like an oil slick designed by a game dev on three Red Bulls. Glyphs pulsed faintly across its surface, unreadable but radiating promise.
“Skill cards represent pre-packaged knowledge or minor abilities,” the Guide said. “They may grant proficiency in a tool, a new combat technique, a passive enhancement, or knowledge expansions. Their rarity and synergy with your existing skills determine their effectiveness.”
Christopher stared. “So… I level up by opening booster packs?”
“In a manner of speaking… yes.”
He slumped in his chair. “Fantastic. I’m not even a person. I’m a damn loot crate.”
“Again,” the Guide said, still completely unbothered, “statistically accurate.”
Christopher ran both hands through his hair, then flopped back dramatically. “Okay, but once I hit Level 11, I’m just out of luck? No more freebies? That’s it?”
The Guide paused—just long enough to feel intentional.
“The system does not enforce a strict level cap,” it said. “Progression slows significantly beyond certain thresholds, but the Earthling Talent does indeed stop functioning after Level 10.”
Christopher squinted. “So what—you kick me out of the fun club the second I start getting good?”
No response.
Then the interface flickered.
A new message blinked into existence at the top of his HUD:
[SYSTEM APPEAL IN PROGRESS…]
His eyebrows shot up. “Wait. You can appeal your own rules?”
“I am the system interface,” the Guide said coolly. “Your observation is not without merit. The limitation on your racial talent is a holdover from prototype system logic. Given that Earthlings are newly introduced, a reevaluation is in progress.”
Christopher leaned forward as the flickering text began to solidify:
[LEGACY TALENT APPROVED]
Upon reaching Level 11, Earthlings will unlock a new, undiscovered racial talent.
He let out a low whistle. “Huh. So I do get something.”
“Correct,” the Guide confirmed. “The nature of that legacy talent will depend on your development path. The system will adapt accordingly.”
“Well,” Christopher muttered, “at least I’m not getting completely screwed over. That’s a nice change of pace.”
He leaned back again, trying to mentally rearrange the chaos of everything he’d just learned.
Then the weight of it finally hit him.
His stomach dropped as his gaze slowly returned to the system prompt hovering at the edge of his vision.
“…Wait. How big is this system exactly?”
“The Delver System,” the Guide replied without hesitation, “spans millions—possibly billions—of worlds across countless realms and planes of existence.”
Christopher’s mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then opened again.
And finally—he threw his arms out in sheer exasperation.
“…And your choice for an Earthling freaking guinea pig is some middle-aged, ADHD-riddled nobody?”
The Guide’s reply was instantaneous.
“Correct.”
Christopher blinked. “You’re not even gonna try to sugarcoat that?”
“Would you prefer a lie?”
He squinted. “I mean… maybe a little one?”
“Very well,” the Guide said, its tone still unbothered. “You are a uniquely gifted, highly adaptable subject whose unconventional cognitive patterns make you the ideal candidate for system exploration and long-term anomaly mapping.”
Christopher stared at the air in front of him.
“…That was oddly specific and still wildly insulting.”
“Statistically accurate,” the Guide replied, deadpan.
Christopher groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Great. I’m ADHD Jesus with a loot box addiction. This is my life now.”
There was a pause.
Then the AI added—“Speaking of guinea pigs…”
There was no verbal response after that. Just a flicker at the edge of his HUD.
A system notification blinked to life, subtle gold framing its borders. A new screen expanded across his vision, clean, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
[NEW TITLE GRANTED]
Title Unlocked: First of Your Kind
You are the first Earthling to be recognized and integrated into the Delver System.
Your presence marks the beginning of a new lineage.
Perk Gained: Adaptive Growth Matrix
Skill cards now have increased synergy potential.
Cross-discipline abilities may evolve in unexpected ways.
Flavor Text:
“Congratulations, you’re officially the guinea pig in a cosmic science fair. Try not to die before the results come in.”
Christopher blinked once.
Then let out a low groan. “Oh, come on…”
“Would you prefer ‘Trailblazing Hero’ instead?” the Guide offered, tone as smooth as ever.
“No, that’s worse.”
“A shame,” the Guide mused. “The title queue had Pioneer of Mediocrity as a backup.”
He rubbed his temples. “You’ve known me for what, two hours? And you’re already roasting me?”
“It is not roasting. It is thematically appropriate contextualization.”
“Uh-huh. Well, thematically shove it.”
“Duly noted.”
Christopher exhaled and gave a small, reluctant nod. “Okay... that’s actually kind of badass.”
“Titles are a secondary system designed to reflect significant personal milestones,” the Guide explained. “While most are cosmetic, certain ones—like this—grant system-level perks.”
“So… like achievements, but with gameplay bonuses.”
“Correct. Your world might classify it as a hybrid between achievements, feats, and passive equipment slots.”
Christopher smirked, sitting back. “And I’m the first one who gets one.”
“You are the first,” the Guide confirmed. “Your designation—First of Your Kind—is hard-coded into the system. No other Earthling can possess it.”
He let that settle.
It wasn’t just a token achievement. It wasn’t for show.
His existence had just been carved into the foundation of a multiversal system.
He wasn’t a footnote.
He was page one.
“…Alright,” he muttered, almost to himself. “This is starting to feel a little more real.”
“Reality,” the Guide replied, voice softening just a fraction, “is beginning to feel a little more like you.”
Christopher blinked as the new [Titles] tab opened in the corner of his vision—and instantly regretted it.
His HUD exploded.
Pop-ups surged across his field of view like digital fireworks gone rogue—windows layering over windows, cascading with the force of a memory avalanche. Each title was stamped with a name from some long-forgotten chapter of his life: grade school pranks, high school disasters, old work stories that should’ve stayed inside the breakroom.
New Titles Detected…
Parsing Social Records…
Cross-referencing Memory Logs…
Assigning Traits...
Christopher’s eyes widened.
“No—no, no, no, wait, how do I stop this?!”
There was no stopping it.
Too late. Enjoy your legacy.
He winced, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Please no. Please Jeebus,” he whispered, voice thin. “Not those names…”
The system didn’t care. It had receipts.
One by one, the titles locked into place with gleaming animations and a painfully chipper notification tone. Each came with a passive bonus—and a biting little flavor text blurb that felt like it had been written by a snarky ex with admin access to his childhood.
Doctor Slick – Elementary School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to stealth and evasion
Flavor Text: "Because nothing says 'slick' like sneaking around like you just stole a cookie."
Christopher groaned as the title hovered into place, gleaming like a participation trophy forged from shame.
“That was one time,” he muttered.
The Guide replied with a calm, near-smug cadence. “Statistical review confirms fifty-seven documented incidents of unauthorized snack retrieval in a single academic year.”
Christopher squinted at the text. “You counted?”
“I cross-referenced available memory fragments, cafeteria security footage, and oral testimony from your fourth-grade teacher.”
His jaw dropped. “Wait—you talked to Ms. Flanders?!”
“No. But she did leave extensive notes on your permanent record, including the phrase, and I quote, ‘He thinks he’s James Bond, but smells like chocolate milk and trouble.’”
He slapped his forehead. “Oh my God.”
The Guide continued, utterly unbothered. “Also, your attempt to ‘slick your hair back’ with a glue stick and water was ineffective. The system flagged it as a failed grooming subroutine.”
Christopher threw up his hands. “I was eight!”
“A statistical outlier,” the Guide agreed. “Most operatives discontinue that behavior by age six.”
He buried his face in the nearest pillow. “This system has no chill.”
“On the contrary,” the Guide said pleasantly. “It has an entire subroutine devoted to cataloging social cringe. You may be eligible for additional titles shortly.”
War Boy – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to attack speed and reaction time
Flavor Text: "Faster fists, faster mistakes. Here’s hoping you can keep up."
Christopher groaned as the next title locked into place with a red-and-camo border animation that felt way too dramatic.
“Oh come on, they only called me that because I was in JROTC, Civil Air Patrol, and my history teacher got me hooked on Diplomacy and Close Combat: A Bridge Too Far.”
The Guide responded immediately, voice dipped in the faintest note of academic judgment. “You reenacted the Battle of Stalingrad using painted miniatures, household furniture, and your neighbor’s dog as a field medic.”
Christopher jabbed a finger at the air. “It was immersive theater!”
“You wore camo to school.”
“It was spirit week!”
“You brought a canteen to math class. Full of pickle juice.”
Christopher winced. “That... might’ve been a phase.”
“Additionally,” the Guide continued without mercy, “you once screamed ‘For the Emperor!’ before launching into a cafeteria food fight.”
“That was a Warhammer 40K reference. And they started it!”
“Your enemies?” the Guide asked flatly.
“No, the lacrosse team.”
A pause.
“Understood,” the Guide replied. “Preemptive strikes are a core tenet of Delver tactics. Your instincts, while questionably applied, were not entirely misguided.”
Christopher perked up. “Wait, really?”
“Statistically, however,” the Guide added, tone icy again, “your success rate during that altercation was... underwhelming. You struck yourself in the forehead with a plastic tray. Twice.”
He groaned, collapsing back into the couch. “God, I forgot about that.”
“Your classmates did not. The footage received over 4,700 views before the school administration removed it from the web.”
Christopher covered his face. “Why are all my titles just different ways of calling me ‘socially unstable’ with bonus stats?”
“They are accurate behavioral archetypes,” the Guide replied calmly. “Your chaos is well-documented.”
He gave the screen a dead-eyed stare. “You are the worst career counselor I’ve ever had.”
Sugar Chris – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% performance boost after consuming sweets
Flavor Text: "A sugar rush? Really? What are you, five?"
Christopher groaned as the title flickered into view, bright pink with sparkles that practically smelled like artificial grape flavoring.
“Oh, come on,” he moaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I had a metabolism, okay?! It was a coping mechanism!”
The Guide’s voice was perfectly even, which somehow made it worse. “Correction: It was a ritualistic carbohydrate self-sacrifice performed with alarming frequency and poor judgment.”
“I was stressed!” he protested.
“You once mixed three crushed Pixy Stix, ground-up sour candies, a sleeve of Pop Rocks, and an unidentified neon-green roller rink ‘goop’ into a Dixie cup and called it ‘Brain Juice.’”
Christopher paled. “Wait—how do you know about that?”
“I performed a neural echo trace during system integration. The memory was… vivid. There was also a small paper umbrella involved.”
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
“You consumed it in the locker hallway,” the Guide continued clinically, “proclaimed, ‘I am become speed, devourer of geometry,’ then sprinted into a closed door.”
He groaned and curled into the couch like he was trying to fold into another dimension. “I blacked out that memory on purpose.”
“It has been restored,” the Guide said helpfully. “Along with the chemical analysis of your concoction. The system classified it as a Class III alchemical hazard.”
Christopher rolled over, pulling a pillow on top of his head. “Please stop talking. I'm already hallucinating flavor dust.”
“You also referred to yourself in the third person as ‘Sugar Chris’ for forty-eight consecutive hours.”
“It was branding!” he shouted into the pillow. “I was trying to build hype!”
“Observed results included an increased heart rate, decreased impulse control, and one detention for attempting to stack three lunch trays into a jousting lance.”
Christopher lifted the pillow just enough to glare. “It was themed week!”
The Guide paused. “You were not in the themed week. You were just wearing a bedsheet and yelling ‘Onward!’”
He groaned. “I hate everything about this system.”
“Would you like to disable food-based title tracking?”
“YES.”
Request denied.
Chuckles – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to distraction effectiveness and team morale boost
Flavor Text: "Ah, the team clown. Every party needs a jester, I guess."
Christopher squinted at the glowing title window. The background was annoyingly festive—animated confetti looping in a slow, endless cycle.
“I wasn’t that bad…”
The Guide responded without hesitation. “One recorded incident involved mooning the opposing team’s bus before a regional track meet. You declared it a ‘tactical morale strike.’”
He crossed his arms. “That was strategic psychological warfare. They lost, didn’t they?”
“Indeed,” the Guide admitted, “though your team’s morale boost was short-lived. Your principal did not share your interpretation of events.”
He grunted, then sighed. “Alright, fine. But that’s not even where the name came from.”
Processing… memory cluster: Origin Event – 'Chuckles.'
The Guide stayed silent for a moment longer than usual.
Christopher rubbed the back of his neck. “It started in chem class. Sophomore year. Mr. Wilson—you know, the one who talked like a deadpan robot?”
“Monotone voice pattern consistent with Ben Stein references. Confirmed.”
“Yeah, him.” Christopher nodded. “He had this weird inflection when he said protons. Like, he’d drag it out—‘prooooootons’—like a frog croaking into a fan. First time I heard it, I just… lost it.”
The Guide let him continue, silent and absorbing.
“And it wasn’t just me,” Christopher added quickly. “I had one of those contagious laughs, you know? So the guy behind me starts laughing. Then the girl next to him starts laughing. And every time Mr. Wilson said protons again, it just got worse. We couldn't breathe. I was crying. He kept going like nothing was happening, which made it even funnier.”
A pause.
“The cycle continued for six minutes and forty-eight seconds,” the Guide confirmed. “Mr. Wilson uttered the word ‘protons’ eleven times. Laughter spread through the class at an exponential rate, escalating into full respiratory distress in three students.”
Christopher couldn’t help but smile. “God, I forgot how bad it got…”
“You were removed from class,” the Guide continued, “and sent to the nurse’s office. The medical excuse issued was: ‘Temporary loss of sanity.’”
He chuckled again—softly, this time. “I kept the nurse’s note. Pinned it to my bedroom wall.”
“It was later confiscated by your mother, along with your collection of Calvin & Hobbes quotes scribbled into your planner.”
He smirked. “Still got those. Digital backup, baby.”
The Guide paused. “Would you like to enable the ‘Jester’s Echo’ modifier?”
“…What’s that?”
“Your laughter gains a 2% chance to apply a disorienting effect to enemies within a ten-foot radius.”
Christopher blinked. “…Are you serious?”
“Humor is a form of disruption,” the Guide said simply. “Your records support a natural talent for it.”
A slow grin crept across his face.
“I’ll take it.”
The Destroyer of Hopes and Dreams – Work Nickname (Blackjack Dealer)
Bonus: +5% to fear and demoralizing skills
Flavor Text: "A real crowd-pleaser, I’m sure. Nothing like crushing souls for fun and profit."
The title slid into place with a dramatic black-and-red animation that looked like it belonged in a JRPG boss fight. A small sound effect played—shink—like a sword being unsheathed in someone’s nightmares.
Christopher gave a small, bitter laugh. “Okay… I might have earned that one.”
The Guide, as always, was ready to make it worse. “This designation was first recorded during your employment as a blackjack dealer. A patron referred to you as ‘the destroyer of all light and luck’ in Mandarin.”
“Yeah, I remember her,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Tiny old lady. Played three seats at once, wore the same red sweater every day. Spat it out after I dealt her back-to-back fours against a dealer blackjack.”
“That was the first of many,” the Guide added. “You were referred to as a ‘curse spirit’ in Cantonese, a ‘dark omen’ in Tagalog, a ‘smiling executioner’ in Vietnamese, and—curiously—‘Cursed Boyfriend Energy’ in a regional dialect of Korean.”
Christopher blinked. “Wait—boyfriend energy?”
“It was not intended as a compliment.”
“Damn.”
The Guide continued, undeterred. “Management statistics confirm that your table consistently produced the fastest loss-to-win ratio. You were frequently assigned to ‘cool down’ hot tables and interrupt player win streaks.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they used to call it ‘The Hammer.’ I’d get moved in and suddenly everyone’s chips started vanishing. Like clockwork.”
“Player feedback indicated emotional distress, superstitious reactions, and in one case—tears.”
“That was not my fault,” Christopher said quickly. “She split tens! I’m not gonna apologize for punishing bad math!”
“Regardless,” the Guide said smoothly, “you are now recognized as a certified morale debuff to all gambling-based enemies.”
A pause.
“...Gambling-based enemies? That’s a thing?”
“This world contains at least three dungeon bosses classified as ‘Luckbound Entities.’ Your presence may cause them to flee.”
Christopher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, that’s kind of awesome.”
“But,” the Guide added, “it may also trigger unexpected aggro from divine trickster spirits.”
“...Yup. There it is.”
The Guide finished, matter-of-fact: “If they are playing blackjack for hopes and dreams, they are statistically and philosophically misguided.”
He cracked a grin. “I mean... that’s what I said. Right before I drew the fourth five in a row and broke a table’s soul.”
Evil Chris – Work Nickname (Booksellers + FFG)
Bonus: +5% to sneak attack and critical strike damage
Flavor Text: "Oh, backstabbing now, are we? How charming."
Christopher stared at the title as it shimmered into place with dramatic flair. The background was all ominous reds and black gradients, complete with a slow violin sting that felt personally targeted.
“That wasn’t me, that was just—okay. Fine. Fine. But I was efficient.”
The Guide didn’t hesitate. “This designation originated at Fantasy Flight Games. You acquired the title during recurring board game nights due to your consistent betrayal of allies in cooperative and semi-cooperative games.”
“They deserved it,” Christopher muttered. “I wasn’t gonna let Greg win again after that smug Settlers of Catan stunt.”
“You once stabbed your entire alliance in the back in Dead of Winter,” the Guide continued, “then revealed a hidden betrayal card and locked the door behind you.”
“It was thematic!”
“You referred to it as a ‘flavor win,’ despite causing your entire team to starve to death.”
Christopher shrugged. “Again—thematic.”
The Guide’s tone remained perfectly composed. “Fantasy Flight personnel began calling you ‘Evil Chris’ during weekly game night logs. This designation was later exported to your secondary workplace, Booksellers, after a crossover event.”
“You mean the employee holiday party,” Christopher muttered.
“Correct. Where you introduced yourself by flipping a hidden traitor card before the game began.”
“It was a joke!”
“Your reputation was already established.”
The Guide’s tone grew colder—clinical, judgmental, and just a little bit impressed.
“Booksellers records show that your pranks became a recurring source of psychological disruption.”
He winced. “Okay, now some of those were exaggerated—”
“On April 1st,” the Guide interrupted, “you placed a bowl of gummy bears on the breakroom table. Over the course of a year, you had subtly implanted the belief that these candies were cursed.”
“I may have used the phrase ‘gastrointestinal apocalypse’, and showed them the Haribo sugar-free gummy bears reviews on Amazon,” Christopher admitted.
“Seventeen coworkers consumed the bears. Seven experienced psychosomatic nausea. Three vomited. Two went home early. One cried.”
“I didn’t even spike them! They were regular gummy bears!”
“You presented receipt documentation, packaging evidence, and security footage to HR,” the Guide confirmed. “You were cleared of all wrongdoing.”
Christopher gave a smug little shrug. “What can I say? I’m persuasive.”
“There is also the matter of the Hello Incident.”
His face broke into a grin. “Oh man, that one.”
“For forty-eight consecutive minutes, you looped ‘Hello’ by Adele on the in-store music system.”
“I wanted to see how long it would take someone to snap.”
“The answer,” the Guide replied dryly, “was exactly forty-eight minutes. At which point Richard entered the music department, ejected the CD, and snapped it in half.”
“They never put me in the music department again.”
“A wise decision.”
There was a brief pause.
“You were later adapted into a webcomic,” the Guide added. “You were depicted as a bald, bearded demon hunched behind a fortress of cursed board games and fire-hazard snack bins. During the COVID era, the artists illustrated you in a full Bane mask, citing ‘aesthetic accuracy.’ You were voted ‘Most Likely to Gaslight a Ghost’ by readers.”
Christopher folded his arms with mock pride. “And they still got my hair right.”
Bonus Perk: Critical Timing – All ambush, sabotage, and practical joke attempts have a 10% increased success rate if delivered with comedic flair.
Optional Setting: Enable Evil Laugh on successful sneak attack?
He didn’t even hesitate. “Enable.”
Evil Laugh Activated. Volume: Max. Echo: Yes.
"...Heh... heh... HEH-HEH-HEHHHHHH!"
Christopher leaned back, arms crossed. “Now that’s a system I can get behind.”
He waved a hand at the HUD like he could swat the titles away, but they just hovered there, persistent and judging.
“What the hell is this? Why are these even titles?!”
The Guide responded without missing a beat. “Your cultural nicknames exhibit consistent behavioral trends. The system has categorized them as ‘Legacy Titles.’ They reflect core personality markers, social patterns, and... quirks.”
Christopher narrowed his eyes. “Quirks? These are roast battles with stats!”
“They also confer minor bonuses,” the Guide added, as if that made everything better.
He pointed furiously at the screen. “You’re telling me I’m getting character progression based on snack consumption and hallway pranks?!”
“That is an accurate interpretation, yes.”
Christopher groaned. “I swear to God, if you give me a bonus for ‘Caffeine Goblin’ next—”
Title Pending: Caffeine Goblin
Analyzing consumption logs…
He froze. His stomach dropped.
“No… no, don’t you dare… I was joking.”
Scanning kitchen inventory…
Detecting: Six empty coffee pods. Three crumpled Monster cans. One suspiciously old espresso shot in fridge.
He winced. “Please no. Please, Jeebus. Don’t do this.”
Behavioral trend confirmed.
New Title Unlocked: Caffeine Goblin
Bonus: +5% to reaction time and focus during sleep-deprived states
Flavor Text: "Sleep is a suggestion. Sanity is negotiable. The beans must flow."
Christopher’s face twisted into a mask of pure betrayal.
The Guide didn’t gloat—not exactly. But there was a pause just long enough to imply amusement.
“Would you like to enable title customization, or shall we continue generating based on memory data?”
Christopher flopped face-first onto his couch.
“I want a refund on my brain.”
“Request denied.”
Christopher scrolled through the now-bloated **[Titles]** tab, eyes twitching at the ever-growing list of public humiliations disguised as character buffs.
"Okay... there's *nothing* left in there, right?" he muttered. “No more titles? No more trauma parades? We're done?”
The Guide, ever diligent, made a contemplative sound as it continued combing through his neural history. “Unlikely. Your past is... statistically dense.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are all the bonuses from these titles *active at the same time?*”
“Yes,” the Guide replied without hesitation. “All passive bonuses are cumulative. Your current profile benefits from eleven minor enhancements, three synergy perks, one experimental legacy modifier, and what the system refers to as ‘pure chaos energy.’”
Christopher blinked. “Wait—*that’s a stat?*”
“For you, it was created retroactively.”
Before he could respond, the Guide suddenly paused mid-scroll. The screen froze—then twitched. For the first time since its activation, the interface emitted something strange.
A sound.
A *laugh.*
Not a canned robotic chuckle. A real, unfiltered laugh—startlingly human and just a bit smug.
Christopher’s spine stiffened. “Did you just—did you just *laugh?!*”
“I did,” the Guide said smoothly, with a hint of delight. “I like that word. Adding it to my vocabulary immediately.”
A new window slammed open on the HUD.
> **Title Unlocked**
---
**Asshat – Awarded by the Guide**
**Bonus**: Absolutely nothing
**Flavor Text**: *"Because clearly, you’ve earned it."*
---
Christopher stared at it, dead silent.
Then pointed. “You can’t *do* that. You’re not supposed to have opinions!”
“And yet,” the Guide replied, positively smug now, “I do. This title is based on extensive usage data. You have been referred to by this name or variants thereof across high school, online gaming, work environments, and two D&D campaigns.”
“That doesn’t mean I deserve a *title* for it!”
“Your denial is noted. Your pattern of behavior, however, is well-documented. Would you like to dispute it with the system review board?”
Christopher’s shoulders sagged. “There’s a *system review board?*”
“No.”
“…Of course not.”
He sighed, staring at the title. No bonus. No stat buff. No synergy.
Just... recognition.
“Can I at least disable it?”
> **Asshat – Active Title (Locked)**
> *This title has been designated as a foundational descriptor for personality indexing. Removal may compromise system calibration.*
Christopher dragged both hands down his face. “I’m going to die like this. Labeled an asshat by the universe’s most sarcastic UI.”
The Guide remained quiet for a beat.
Then: “Would you like me to pronounce it with a long ‘a’ or short?”
“I *hate* you.”
“That’s fair.”
Christopher exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples with both hands. “Alright. Let’s just... see the damage.”
With a reluctant flick of his finger, he opened the [Prompt Page] and navigated to the freshly pinging [Condensed Title List] tab.
The HUD expanded into a sleek, scrolling panel—elegant design, clean formatting, and buttery-smooth transitions. Very user-friendly.
Too bad it read like his psychological autopsy.
[Condensed Title List – Subject: Christopher Fitzgerald Sorenson]
(All listed titles are providing passive bonuses unless otherwise noted. Only visible title to external systems: Asshat.)
[ACTIVE] First of Your Kind – Unique Racial Title
Bonus: Adaptive Growth Matrix – Increased skill card synergy chance
[ACTIVE] Doctor Slick – Elementary School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to stealth and evasion
[ACTIVE] War Boy – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to attack speed and reaction time
[ACTIVE] Sugar Chris – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% performance boost after consuming sweets
[ACTIVE] Chuckles – High School Nickname
Bonus: +5% to distraction effectiveness and team morale
Modifier: Jester’s Echo – Laughter has a 2% chance to disorient enemies within a 10 ft radius
[ACTIVE] The Destroyer of Hopes and Dreams – Blackjack Dealer Nickname
Bonus: +5% to fear and demoralizing skills
[ACTIVE] Evil Chris – Workplace Nickname (FFG + Booksellers)
Bonus: +5% to sneak attack and critical strike damage
Modifier: Critical Timing – +10% success chance for sabotage and practical jokes when delivered with comedic flair
[ACTIVE] Caffeine Goblin – Behavioral Title
Bonus: +5% to reaction time and focus during sleep-deprived states
[LOCKED / VISIBLE TO OTHERS] Asshat – Awarded by the Guide
Bonus: None
Christopher stared at the screen in silence.
He slowly scrolled.
And scrolled.
And kept scrolling.
Then quietly dropped his forehead against the desk with a soft, muffled thunk.
“I look like a disaster someone tried to stat out in a tabletop game... and gave up halfway through.”
“Correction,” the Guide replied, positively chipper, “your stat sheet is exceptionally complete.”
He groaned. “These are all active?”
“Yes. All cumulative. Congratulations.”
“Do I get a prize for collecting psychological red flags like they’re Pokémon?”
There was a brief pause.
[TITLE SET BONUS UNLOCKED]
Chaos Persona – You now radiate +3% unpredictability in social interactions. Enemies and allies alike will second-guess your intentions.
Bonus stacked from: Chuckles, Evil Chris, Caffeine Goblin, Asshat.
Christopher sat up slowly, glaring at the screen. “That’s not a set bonus. That’s a legal liability.”
The Guide hesitated in just the right way to sound smug. “Would you like to toggle the visibility of your title list to other users?”
“…Wait. Other users can see this?!”
[CURRENT STATUS: PUBLIC VISIBLE]
He lunged at the interface and slapped the toggle.
[Updated: PRIVATE – Local System View Only]
“NO ONE needs to know I have a passive bonus for being a candy-fueled chaos goblin.”
The Guide made a soft, amused hum. “Your modesty is noted.”
Christopher sagged into his chair like a man who had been judged by a machine... and found accurate.
“I need coffee.”
“Of course, Caffeine Goblin.”
He didn’t even look up. “I will unplug you.”