I opened my eyes. Or one of them. The other was gummed shut. Everything ached. Which meant I was still here.
The light was wrong.
Too bright. Too clean.
Just white. Bleached and buzzing. Sterile, like a government building, not a hint of personality or flair.
I was lying on something flat. Cool. Smooth. Not stone.
It took me a second to register it: a bench. A table, maybe. Metal, polished so perfectly I could almost see my own face reflected, or at least what's left of it, swollen and painted in ten shades of not healthy.
Like my skeleton had been filed under the wrong name and glued together by interns on their first day.
Like someone had reached into my soul with oven mitts and folded me backwards into a yoga pose named "Regret."
The air didn't smell like anything.
No guts. No cracked bone. No copper stink of open wounds.
I was clean?
I tried to move.
Something pulled, skin tearing, maybe. Or nerves still trying to remember they were attached to flesh.
I hissed, jaw locking. Looked down.
My hands were wrapped. Not well. Just... bound. Like someone had taken a few layers of gauze and half a roll of apology and called it recovery.
The fingers were black in places. Blistered. Almost burned?
I couldn't feel the tips. Couldn't close the fist.
The hatchet was gone.
Of course it was.
Seems the only thing I got is a pair of what you might call pants if you are being generous.
Something dinged overhead.
A cheerful ding, like an elevator arriving.
Then a familiar voice, bright and happy and scraped raw with fake enthusiasm:
🎉 CONGRATULATIONS, USER! 🎉
You have successfully completed Tutorial Encounter [4/10]!
Your progress through this early-stage scenario has been recorded as:
Tutorial Path Detected: Legacy User – Ragebound (Unsupported)
Assigned Class: None
Performance Tier: Acceptable (Nonstandard Method)
Reminder: Completion outside standard parameters may affect access to future support features, party functions, and reward eligibility.
📍 Please proceed to Orientation Lobby: #329455B
A System Representative may be assigned to review your User Type and tutorial path compatibility.
💡 Tip: Users who complete their tutorial without a class may still qualify for limited progression via Legal Clause 7.1.5.a! Ask your Orientation Host for details. 😊
Would you like to proceed to Tutorial Encounter [5/10]?
(Rest period: Integrated into Orientation Protocol)
→ YES
→ NO
The message hovered in the air above me. Spinning slowly. Glittering softly.
I stared at it for a long time.
I feel a prickle of shame beneath the pain. I've blacked out on rage before, woken up cuffed in the back of a squad car, not sure whose blood was on me. I swore I'd never let that happen again. But it just did. I let that monster out, and it drowned me like I was nothing. Now I'm left with wreckage and the bitter taste of knowing I still can't trust myself.
I remember the golem swatting me like a fly.
Then... roaring? Biting? Did I bite a stone monster?
Just impacts. And red.
I thought I had it under control.
That little flicker of blue, the part of me that could stay calm, aim the rage, keep the line tight.
It worked. It was working. I was teabagging the gobbos.
But this? This wasn't a fight.
The anger at the end there, it wasn't mine. Not just mine. It was like something bigger cracked open and screamed through me.
I didn't let go.
I got drowned.
And now I feel like shit.
Like waking up in a jail cell, ribs screaming, brain fogged, and no idea what part of me got out while I wasn't looking.
The message faded. The glittering little pop-up spun twice more for good measure, then disappeared like it had somewhere more important to be.
For a moment, nothing replaced it.
No objective tracker. No healing counter. No loading screen.
Just that quiet, buzzing white.
Then something new blinked into place, not flashy, not congratulatory. Just a plain rectangular frame, dull grey, low contrast. No borders. No cheer.
[PROCESSING UNSTRUCTURED LEGACY PATH LOG...]
I blinked. The message didn't.
[ROOT RESONANCE: Ragebound – Norse Line: 14% → 25%]
[UNASSISTED MYTHIC SURVIVAL DETECTED]
[SYMBOLIC RESONANCE: THRESHOLD BREACHED]
[CALCULATING STAT ADJUSTMENT...]
There was a pause. Longer than it needed to be.
Almost like it was waiting for permission.
Then,
[STAT ALLOCATION: BLOCKED]
Reason: Exceeds allowed growth curve for non-classed tutorial participants.
Projected gain: +7 STR, +5 VIT, +1 DEX, +10 PRE
Warning: Granting stat package would result in Legacy-flagged entity surpassing classed baseline.
Mitigation protocol 12.4.3 engaged.
I read that one twice, just to be sure.
It still said what I thought it said.
I see how it is.
Do too well without your shiny toys and proper party buffs, and suddenly I'm the problem. Not a bug, not an accident, just trash they'd rather keep underfoot. Can't have the unsupported mob outperforming the golden boys, huh?
That should've been the end of it.
Except it wasn't.
The heat didn't vanish. It didn't drain. It dug in, sharp and raw, like a fire that refused to gutter out. The System tried to smother it, and something under my ribs shoved back.
Another message loaded, slower this time. Like something on the other end was thinking about it.
[ROOT OVERLOAD DETECTED]
[UNSTABILIZED RESONANCE EXCEEDS ALLOCATED CHANNEL CAPACITY]
[INITIATING ROOT RECONFIGURATION...]
My breath caught. Just slightly.
Not because I understood what any of that meant, I don't , but because the interface hesitated.
And when it resumed, it didn't correct the tone.
[RAGEBOUND – NORSE LINE → BERSARKR – NORSE LINE]
Legacy Root Evolution Complete.
Affinity Detected: URSINE
Root Status: Fully integrated
[ROOT RESONANCE SET TO 1%]
I stared at that number. It stared back.
"You sons of bitches."
Not a prize. Not a gift.
Just rage refusing to disappear, twisting itself into something older, meaner, until even the System had to stick a label on it.
[LEGACY TRAIT RESTRUCTURING INITIATED]
[FLESH FORGED BY FURY – Merged]
[BATTLELUST – Merged]
[NEW TRAIT: BERSERKSÚLUR]
[SYSTEM WARNING]
WARNING: Trait is not compatible with group coordination.
WARNING: Trait is not balanced for encounter pacing.
WARNING: Trait behavior may escalate under stress.
[Further use of this trait, not recommended.]
No prompt to confirm.
No fanfare.
I didn't know what it meant.
Not really.
But it didn't sound like something you learned in a safe environment.
I flexed my fingers, or tried to. One twitched. The rest stayed stiff. Wrapped. Fragile. But they felt better?
Somewhere underneath the bandages, something moved. Slow. Warm. Not healing exactly. Just... settling. Like pressure behind skin. Like my wounds are still there, but they mean less.
He'd had two traits.
Now I had one.
Guess I broke something too hard and the System panicked, threw my shit in a bag, shook it, and called it a new trait. Or maybe it wasn't panic. Maybe that was the Root snarling back. Either way, it didn't feel like theirs anymore.
Berserksúlur.
Didn't sound like something the System named. More like something it found carved into a cave wall and decided not to touch. And the affinity?
Affinity: URSINE.
Not a wolf. Not a lion. Not a dragon.
A bear.
What do you think when you hear bear? Slow to move. Impossible to stop. Bone-deep stubborn.
The kind of creature that didn't chase you. Just kept coming until you ran out of space.
Something about that... yeah. That hit too close.
Somewhere behind my ribs, the thing I woke up is still there. Quiet now. Not gone. Just... watching.
Let's just ignore that for now...
I looked back up at the screen. Just one thing changed. Just one word swapped.
Ragebound → BERSARKR
No fanfare. No skill tree. Just a name and a shrug and the vague scent of blood under my skin.
I leaned back on the metal bench, stared up at the sterile ceiling, and exhaled through my teeth.
"Cool. So I'm Cocaine Bear now. Great. Love that for me."
I stood and tried to leave this horrible room.
The room dinged again.
Not the soft kind. Not a happy System noise. More like a chime tuned by someone who hadn't smiled since the last galactic war.
"Awaiting post-tutorial medical scan. Please remain seated."
I didn't move. Partly because of the alert. Mostly because moving still hurt like a bitch, though that was slowly getting better. Somehow.
The door slid open without ceremony. Light spilled in, pale and gold-tinted, like it had been approved by marketing.
And then she walked in.
Correction, drifted.
Like gravity was a suggestion and she'd negotiated an exception.
Armor first: gold-trimmed, seamless, impossibly clean. It didn't have scratches, it had patent protection. Not made to survive combat. Made to remind everyone else they were expendable.
Her hair shimmered. Her skin glowed. Her entire presence practically hummed "System Approved: Collectible Edition."
Ears like razor-cut silver.
I hated her instantly.
Not because she was cruel. Not because she mocked me.
Because she was perfect.
And standing next to her, I felt like a disease.
A shitstain smeared across the welcome mat.
She stopped three steps away and blinked a scan at me. No warning. Just polite intrusion.
A shimmer passed through my bones like a TSA checkpoint for people without rights.
Then she frowned.
Slightly. Like an error message popped up in her peripheral.
"That can't be right," she said, not to me, but to whatever interface was whispering in her skull.
She stepped closer. No hesitation. Just detached curiosity.
Hand lit with blue, scanning me manually. Fingers trailing heat without contact.
"You have untreated fractures," she said. "One lung's collapsed. You're bleeding internally. And yet..."
Her brow furrowed.
"You're still standing."
She met my eyes for the first time. Not mockery. Not sympathy.
Something colder. Cleaner. Like a researcher leaning over a slide, curious what would twitch under the glass.
"What are you?"
Her tone didn't waver, but something in her eyes lingered half a heartbeat too long. Almost like she was... checking for something. Whatever it was, it passed. She was back to perfect again.
I wanted to snap. To bite. To spit something back that'd make her flinch.
But her voice wasn't cruel. Just... puzzled.
She blinked again. Words appeared behind her eyes.
"No class detected. Legacy... Ragebound... wait, no, Bersarkr?"
Another pause.
And I hated the way she said it. Like it was a name from a footnote. A puzzle she didn't get, but now wanted to.
Not because I impressed her.
Because I didn't make sense.
That look stayed with me.
Not friendliness. Not disgust. Just... focus.
Like I was a slide under a microscope and she wasn't sure yet if I was dangerous, tragic, or valuable.
And gods help me... part of me wanted her to find out.
Not because I trusted her.
I didn't.
Everything about her made my skin itch and my spine coil, like instinct screamed enemy.
But still...
Still.
When she turned to leave, hips swaying like an algorithm had tuned it for religious impact, I felt the breath catch in my throat.
More like gravity pulling where it shouldn't.
Like watching a beautiful storm and knowing it's headed straight for your ribs. That look wasn't the normal look "civilized people" give me, it actually looked at me.
I sat for a long second, watching the empty doorway.
Then muttered under my breath,
"Fuck off. I'm not into elves."
"Probably."
And stood.
My brain tried to say something functional.
All I got was: That's definitely the Divine Backside Package™.
I sat there a moment longer, watching her leave.
Then muttered under my breath, "Unfair, System. Real fucking unfair."
And stood.
The hall opened in silence. No greeting. No arrival fanfare. Just a faint pressure shift and the sound of my own footsteps, slow, uneven, barefoot.
The Hub spread out before me.
Bright. Vast.
The kind of clean that didn't look new, it looked regulated.
Floors gleamed without ever being wet. Air moved like it was filtered. Light came from nowhere in particular, soft and artificial, like every sunrise here had been tested in beta and patched for mood stability.
I walked through it half-naked.
What was left of my pants barely even qualify as underwear at this point, just ripped, blood-stained fabric clinging out of stubbornness.
No shirt. No gear. Definitely no service.
They saw me.
Some looked and looked away.
Others stared, just long enough to register the absence of armor, and my near nudity, or perhaps my perfectly toned behind.
One girl in bright cleric robes tilted her head slightly, like she wasn't sure if I was real.
No one said anything.
They didn't have to.
I kept walking.
That elf said something about orientation being this way. Through rows of Users swapping weapons, debating subclass builds, comparing loot with people they'd known for a full three fights.
Everything they wore matched.
Even their postures felt aligned, like they knew the rules and believed in them.
I didn't envy it.
Okay I did... but not exactly.
And somewhere, behind the soreness and the System spite, there was a little empty pocket in my chest. The part that knew this wasn't built for me and never would be.
I could've had this.
If I'd picked the warrior. Or the rogue.
If I'd just sparkled like a model citizen and sat there while the System measured my compliance depth. If you get my drift.
But I didn't.
So now here I am, shirtless, bandaged, basically in underwear, but at least their faces looked real funny when they saw me.