The quiet of his bedroom was comforting after the tension of the library, the familiar, cluttered confines of his personal space felt like just what he needed. The library mission had been a success. He had the toolkit, and he had the dawning, dreadful realization that he was now, for all intents and purposes, employed.
He sat in his gaming chair, the worn throne of his old life, and thought about the Arbiter Toolkit he had held in his hands. It had been a sleek, glossy-black rectangle, cool to the touch and unnervingly seamless. He looked up at his HUD and his eyes fixed on the new icon that now occupied a permanent spot on it. It was a simple, elegant icon of an open book, labeled [System Functions Library]. The key to his new job. The instruction manual for the universe. He had avoided opening it for the last hour, a deep-seated procrastination warring with his gamer's curiosity. It felt like the stack of onboarding paperwork for a job he didn't remember applying for.
But the icon just sat there, waiting. He couldn't ignore it forever. With a sigh that conveyed the full weight of his new responsibilities, he mentally selected the icon.
It was a simple pop-up window. An endless, scrollable, alphabetized list of functions roared past his eyes, a cascade of text so dense and vast it was nauseating. Each function was written in a crisp, severe font, a litany of commands that hinted at a power so immense it made his brain ache.
He forced the frantic scrolling to a halt, his mind reeling. He tried to read the names of the functions near the top of the list.
[Adjust_Axial_Tilt(Planetary_Scale)]
[Bootstrap_New_Sentience(Carbon_Based)]
[Calculate_Pi_To_Final_Digit()]
[Defragment_Local_Spacetime_Continuum()]
His eyes glazed over. These weren't skills. These were the developer commands, the god-mode functions that were never meant to be seen by a player, let alone a Level 7 "Arbiter" from rural West Virginia. The sheer, terrifying scale of the library made him feel like an ant staring at a skyscraper. He was a user who had been given the keys to the server room, and he had no idea what a single one of these buttons did.
He focused on one of the more terrifyingly complex commands, [Modify_Stellar_Fusion_Rate()]. The text was grayed out, faint and inaccessible. A small note appeared beside it, the System's dry, bureaucratic font a familiar source of dread.
[INSUFFICIENT KNOWLEDGE & SECURITY CLEARANCE]
Of course. He didn't have the security clearance. He probably wasn't even allowed to use the good coffee machine in the break room of reality. He scrolled down, the list a blur of incomprehensible power.
[Recalibrate_Laws_of_Thermodynamics()]
[Reverse_Entropy(Single_Object)]
[Translate_Gibberish(Infant)]
He paused on the last one. Even that was grayed out. Apparently, understanding baby talk required a higher security clearance than he currently possessed. The thought was both insulting and, given his track record, probably for the best.
A wave of pure, uncut imposter syndrome washed over him. He didn't belong here. This was a mistake. He was the guy who used his powers to get better loot drops in Vexlorn, not the guy who recalibrated the laws of thermodynamics. He was about to close the overwhelming menu, to retreat back into the comfortable, predictable world of his video games, when a new notification popped into his vision.
It was the familiar simple window with a bright white border and a friendly blue background.
[New Tutorial Quest Chain Activated: RML for Retards]
Chris stared. He read the title again, certain he had misread it. RML for Retards. The System, the vast and powerful intelligence that governed the universe, had just called him a retard. A small, hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. He was simultaneously deeply insulted and actually kind of relieved. The System had recognized his complete and utter incompetence and, instead of firing him, had assigned him to a remedial course. He was being held back a grade in Reality School.
[Lesson 1: Executing a Pre-Written Function]
[Objective: Successfully execute the function [modify_thermal_state] on a valid, nearby target.]
[Reward: 10 XP, +1 Function Comprehension]
The objective was simple. It was familiar. It was the System holding his hand and walking him through the very first baby step. The quest name was a direct insult, but the quest itself was a lifeline. It was a clear, concise, and, most importantly, achievable goal. He wasn't being asked to adjust the planet's axial tilt. He was being asked to heat something up. He could do that. He had done that. He had started this quest line before.
The quest required a "valid, nearby target." His mind immediately flashed back to that first, strange morning after the storm, to the moment this all began. He knew exactly what he had to do. This wasn't just a tutorial. This was a callback. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked down the hall. He found the kitchen empty. Misty was in the living room, watching a talk show, and Pete was outside, probably waging his one-man war against the overgrown hedges. Chris had the room to himself.
He went through the familiar motions. He pulled a clean mug from the cupboard—a simple, white ceramic one, not Pete's monstrous fish mug this time. He filled the coffee maker with water, spooned some grounds into a fresh filter, and switched it on. The machine gurgled to life, the rich, dark aroma of brewing coffee slowly filling the kitchen.
He poured the fresh, steaming coffee into the mug and sat it on the counter. And then he waited. He leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone, watching the steam rising from the mug thin and disappear. He waited until the coffee was no longer hot, until it had settled into that tepid state of being known as lukewarm. It was perfect. A pristine, repeatable test case. He wasn't just a guy making coffee; he was a scientist preparing his experiment.
He put his phone down and focused on the mug. With a deep breath, he opened the [System Functions Library] again. The endless, terrifying list of commands appeared, but this time, he wasn't intimidated. He had an objective. He noticed a small, blinking cursor in a search bar at the very top of the list, a feature he had completely missed in his initial panic.
A search bar. The single most user-friendly invention in the history of information management. A beautiful, glorious search bar.
He mentally typed the word "thermal" into the bar. The endless list of cosmic power vanished, instantly filtering down to a single, accessible function, its text a clean, bright white.
[modify_thermal_state]
He selected it. The library vanished, replaced by a new, clean interface window. It was not a blank coding console demanding lines of complex syntax. It was a simple form, the kind he had filled out a thousand times in a thousand different games to customize a character or craft an item. It had clearly labeled input fields, waiting for his direction.
[Function: modify_thermal_state]
[Target Object ID: ]
[Desired Temperature (K): ]
[Estimated EP Cost: 0.01]
[EXECUTE]
Chris stared at the input fields, a slow grin spreading across his face. It was a Graphical User Interface. A buggy, poorly documented, and often passive-aggressive GUI, but a GUI nonetheless. He didn't have to know how to write the code. He didn't have to be a programmer. He just had to know how to fill out the form.
This, he could do.
He focused on the first field: [Target Object ID: ]. He used his [INSPECT] ability on the lukewarm mug of coffee. A small data window popped up.
[Object: Coffee Mug]
[ID: coffee_mug_kitchen_01]
[Contents: Coffee (Caffeinated, Lukewarm)]
The moment the inspection was complete, the [Target Object ID] field on the function form automatically populated itself with the crisp, clean text: coffee_mug_kitchen_01.
He let out a short, delighted laugh. The UI was helping him. It was user-friendly. It had autofill.
Next, the second field: [Desired Temperature (K): ]. He knew from his brief, disastrous high school chemistry class that 'K' stood for Kelvin, the absolute scale of temperature. He also knew that he had absolutely no practical, real-world frame of reference for what a Kelvin temperature felt like.
He decided to guess. What was a good, hot number? He mentally typed 500 into the field.
The number appeared, but a small, yellow warning triangle popped up next to it. He focused on the triangle, and a helpful tooltip appeared.
[Warning: 500 K (440.33°F / 226.85°C) is above the boiling point of water. Executing this command will result in a localized steam explosion and will likely damage the target object. Did you mean: 366.48 K (200°F / 93.33°C)?]
[Suggested Value: 366.48 K (Optimal Drinking Temperature)]
Chris stared at the tooltip, his grin widening. The System had a spell-check for physics. It wasn't just user-friendly; it was... retard-proof. It had seen his completely arbitrary number and had gently, politely corrected him, preventing him from accidentally turning his coffee mug into a small, ceramic grenade. It had even suggested the "Optimal Drinking Temperature." The System was a better barista than he was.
With a sense of gratitude for the universe's error-checking protocols, he mentally accepted the suggested value. The number in the temperature field changed to a much more reasonable 366.48.
The form was complete. The parameters were set. A feeling of giddy, scientific excitement washed over him. This was different from the first time. The first time had been an accident, a stray thought, a wish. This was deliberate. This was controlled. He wasn't just hoping for a result; he was executing a command.
He focused his will and mentally pressed the glowing [EXECUTE] button.
The effect was instantaneous and perfect.
The still, dark surface of the coffee in the white mug erupted. A thick, rolling plume of fresh, white steam billowed upwards, unfurling like a ghostly flower. The rich, powerful aroma of hot, freshly brewed coffee suddenly flooded the air around the counter, a scent so potent it was almost shocking.
Success! A triumphant, single ding sounded in his mind, clean and satisfying.
[Quest Completed! 10 XP Awarded! +1 Function Comprehension]
The quest window vanished. He looked at the steaming mug, then back at the memory of the simple, fill-in-the-blanks form. He understood the new rules. He understood his new job. He didn't have to be a coder. He didn't have to be a scientist. He just had to be what he had always been: a gamer. Someone who knows how to read the menus, how to check the tooltips, and how to push the right buttons.
The universe wasn't a programming challenge. It was the world's most complex and poorly documented interface. And Chris was finally starting to figure out how to use it.