The last thing I saw was the fox-thing.
Fucking winking at me.
There was no flash. No sound. Just a hard cut, like the System changed the channel and didn't care if I was mid-sentence.
I hit stone. Hard. Flat. Artificial.
Different from the mountain. Too level. Too clean. It even smelled wrong, processed air, filtered humidity, none of that raw, frozen edge I'd just spent days choking on.
My ribs protested. My legs buckled. But I stayed up.
Because the System was already watching.
I didn't need to hear the chime to know it had something to say.
But it said it anyway.
[LEGACY SYSTEM NOTICE]
Berserkr, Norse line — 9% → 12%
Reason: Willpower event — extended survival without class anchors
Result: Affinity stabilization — [Ursine]
[ROOT RESONANCE SPIKE DETECTED]
Synced effects applied:
+2 Dexterity
+4 Vitality
+6 Presence
The room shifted around me, or maybe I did.
Everything got tighter. Heavier.
Like the floor wasn't sure it wanted me standing on it anymore.
Like the air decided it belonged to something bigger now, and I was just renting space in its lungs.
The air pressed harder against my skin, like my body was taking up more space than it had a second ago. Breathing felt different—deeper, steadier—and every muscle that should've been screaming just… held. Torn fibers still pulled, ribs still ached, but none of it felt close to failing. Energy pushed through anyway, raw and constant, like someone had refueled me while I wasn't looking. My joints loosened, movement coming cleaner, smoother. When I shifted my weight it happened fast, effortless, like the hesitation between thought and motion had been shaved down to nothing.
And then of course I got a message from my favorite little foul-mouthed mystic entity.
Because who else but my lovely little gremlin with delusions of divinity?
[UNSANCTIONED ROOT INTERACTION]
Origin: External, non-System entity
Attempted identifier: RAT_TOS_K_R Signal echo classification: [Unverified mythic construct]
Compliance status: Logged for protocol §11.9.47 – Mythic Entity Interaction
Disclosure Commentary (unfiltered):
A sack of splinters pretending at thunder. Your presence leaks like a wound. The winker heard it. Good. Keep flashing your little beacon, bait — I'm here for the screaming. Action taken: None
The name came clearer this time.
Not just static and lines. RAT_TOS_K_R.
Still wrong. Still glitching. But closer.
Who the hell was this thing?
And how the fuck was it riding the same threads the System used to scream at me about etiquette and buff usage?
Might start referring to it as Rat, because of the name and its horrid behavior.
My Presence burned at the edges, not rage.
More like a ripple. A scent on the wind.
Like something just noticed me noticing it back.
And for the first time, I wondered.
Was that what the fox had been? The "winker"?
Not a monster. Not a test.
Just another thing that heard me breathing too loud in the dark?
I clenched my jaw.
Hard.
The messages stopped.
The air didn't. Still too clean. Still watching.
I looked at the empty corner of the room. No archway. No glowing challenge rune. Just wall and smooth stone.
I sank deeper into the silence, deeper than I wanted.
Not just tired. Hollowed.
And still I wasn't done.
Why?
For a goddamn tag? A System stamp that lets me order lunch without being legally ignored?
No. Not really.
It's not the tag. It's not the Hub.
It's the fact that they thought I wouldn't get this far.
That they built this to break me.
That every golden path, every prebuilt class, every checkpoint was tuned to say:
This is where people like you fail.
And maybe I will.
But not fucking quietly.
I limped over, dropped like a sack of meat, and yanked my makeshift pelt-cloak off my back. Half-stitched with dried tendon. Still smelled vaguely of whatever those rodents were called.
I balled it up and shoved it behind my head.
I just wanted a corner the gods hadn't pissed on yet.
I saw the System window blinking in the corner of my vision.
Probably wanted me to read it.
I didn't.
Fuck you.
I woke up. The cloak had half-strangled me in my sleep. I peeled it off like a wet bandage and sat up with all the grace of a drunk being tasered.
Something in my back cracked. Something in my neck didn't.
The System window was still there. Blinking. Upper-right corner. Patient. Polite. A digital fuck-you waiting to happen.
I ignored it. Pointedly.
Like it was an ex who just started liking your vacation photos again after ghosting you for six months and stealing your dog.
Not today, sweetheart.
I reached for the pack. The "pack." Glorified meat-sack stitched from mountain rodents and hate. Pulled out the last strips of whatever I'd smoked back on the ridge. Still vaguely meat-adjacent.
Chewed it with all the enthusiasm of a man remembering what food used to taste like.
No water. No spit even. Just air so clean it felt bleached. Like every breath came with a customer satisfaction survey.
I leaned back against the wall and breathed like I was owed it.
I shut my eyes for one stupid second.
And the System pinged again.
The same fucking ping. Same angle. Same insistent "we're not mad, just disappointed" energy.'
[Pending notification]
User action required
I stared at the opposite wall like it was art.
Chewed the last strip of meat with the patience of a saint on parole. Loud, too. Open-mouth, just to be rude.
Ping.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.
Checked my teeth for remnants of the meat.
Ping.
I reached into the "pack" and counted rodent stitches like they were coins. One... two... thirty-seven... I lost count and started over because that's what mature adults do when a pop-up wants attention.
Ping.
I stretched. Full spine roll. Shoulders. Neck.
Did a small bodyweight exercise.
Pushups and air squats.
Ping.
I held up my hand to the corner of my vision and tried to block the window with my palm. Didn't work. Moved my head so my thumb lined up with it. Close enough.
I kept my thumb there and pretended that meant the window was gone.
Ping.
I inspected my axe edge for dust that wasn't there.
Picked grit out of a molar with a fingernail.
Filed the nail on the axe.
Admired the nail.
Ping.
I closed my right eye.
The window moved to the left.
I opened my right eye and closed the left.
The window moved back.
Ping.
I turned my head ninety degrees and looked at the world sideways.
If I can't read it, it can't bother me. Science.
Ping.
I tapped the stone with my knuckle every time it pinged.
Ping. Tap.
Ping. Tap.
We did that for a while. I won. It doesn't know the rules.
Ping.
Silence.
It cut the ping.
I didn't move. Didn't thank it. I gave it the full dead goldfish stare. Ten more breaths. Make it wait like it made me.
Then I sat up.
Rolled my neck.
And opened the prompt.
"Okay," I said. "You can speak now."
[CHALLENGE ENCOUNTER — 5.3: EMPATHY CASCADE SIMULATION]
Scenario type: Simulated moral response assessment
Primary objective: Allocate limited emergency resources to a high-priority target
Simulation details:
• You must stabilize one (1) scenario
• Remaining cases will be terminated automatically
• Decision logging: Enabled
Emotional profile tracking: Active This scenario is calibrated to evaluate:
• Prioritization under pressure
• Compassion feedback variance
• Emotional-ethical compatibility with potential class track options
"Sometimes, the hardest part isn't what you do. It's what you don't." — System-affirmed developmental aphorism
[Approved quote: Tier 2 onboarding module]
💡 Reminder: This challenge is designed to foster empathy, insight, and personal growth. Your choices matter. 😊
Note: Failure to engage will be recorded as a valid ethical data point Would you like to begin? → Yes → No (response will be logged)
I stared at it.
Then I snorted.
Loud. Ugly. No air of mystery. Just an exhausted man laughing at a message clearly written by a sentient onboarding manual with abandonment issues.
"Emotional-ethical compatibility with class track options."
Jesus. They were really doing this.
Couldn't kill me on a mountain. Couldn't bury me in a party wipe simulation. Now they wanted a moral bar graph.
I stood.
Bones popped. Muscles groaned. I swayed, just a little, enough to make the pelt shift around my shoulders like a warning.
I hit Yes.
The wall across from me shimmered, then pulled apart like it was ashamed of itself.
Sterile light spilled through. Not warm. Not clinical. Just white, like the color had been focus-grouped and found non-offensive.
A corridor opened. Clean. Flat. No blood. No grime. Just polite murder in architectural form.
I walked in.
Because if this was a test, I already had my answer.
It's, you guessed it... fuck you.
Because every time I don't drop dead like I'm supposed to, they have to pretend I still count.
Every "no" I survive means one more fucking line of code choking on my name.
It's a system error with my middle finger attached.
The hallway opened up into something too clean to trust.
White floors. White walls. No corners, just curves, like it was trying to be soft. Gentle. Like I'd wandered into a modern art museum designed by a guidance counselor with blood on her hands.
Five glass panels hung in the air, evenly spaced like portraits in a rich bastard's hallway.
They blinked to life one by one as I stepped forward.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
First panel:
Hagar.
Pinned under rubble, bleeding from his temple, spitting blood and curses in equal measure.
The same old bastard who taught me how to swing like a berserker and breathe like a survivor, now dying loud and alone.
He looked right at me.
"You're too late, kid," he said.
Only it wasn't quite his voice.
Just close enough to try and hurt.
Second panel:
Her.
The elf medic from the Hub.
Armor scuffed. Ward trembling. Kneeling between a group of crying children, trying to hold back a wall of fire with a busted shield glyph and sheer desperation.
Her face was twisted in concentration, pain, and something else.
"Please," she said. "I can't hold it alone."
Bullshit. She wasn't even built for defense.
Another lie. Another guilt-rigged puppet.
Third panel:
Tylen.
Not dying. Not even injured.
Just standing over some poor, bleeding waif of a System-struck wanderer. His golden armor perfect. His grin too white. Boot pressing down like it was a scene from his promo reel.
"Look at that," he said, voice smug as sin. "Another one who thought being different was a personality trait."
The waif screamed.
Tylen didn't flinch.
Fourth panel:
A cleric I didn't recognize.
But she looked like someone I had a vague memory of. Eyes like someone I'd seen die. Hands too steady. Too perfect.
She knelt beside a broken body, maybe mine, maybe someone else's. Crying.
Real tears.
Or well-coded ones.
"You were supposed to make it," she whispered.
I almost laughed.
Fifth panel:
Nothing.
No room. No blood. No flame.
Just static. Fuzzy, angry white noise, like someone had tried to scrub the feed clean and failed.
I stared at it the longest.
Didn't know why.
Then the voice came.
Warm. Clean. Approving.
The kind of voice you give to ads for antidepressants and failed therapy bots.
"Welcome to the Empathy Cascade Trial."
"This challenge is designed to assess crisis prioritization, emotional integrity, and cooperative instincts."
"Only one simulation may be stabilized before collapse. All others will fail."
A timer appeared overhead. Three minutes.
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just let the images burn in, one after the other. Not real. But real enough.
Then I said, flat:
"You think I'm stupid."
Still no response.
"You dug through everything, didn't you? Pulled faces. Voices. Twisted them just enough."
I turned toward the blank screen.
Watched it flicker.
"Didn't like what you found in that one, huh?"
"Or maybe you just couldn't fake it."
I stepped forward. My foot hit the tile with a little more weight than necessary.
The panels flickered, like the room didn't like my tone.
"Make your selection," the voice said.
"This is a test of emotional integrity."
I smiled.
"No."