The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of David Jameson's sneakers against the worn asphalt was a metronome counting down the seconds of a world about to shatter. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the late afternoon sun that painted the university campus in long, melancholic golden shadows. Nineteen, lean muscle coiled beneath damp athletic gear like springs under tension, he pushed through the familiar, acidic burn in his quads. Just one more lap. Nationals are eight months away. Every stride, every breath, every drop of sweat counts. His focus was a laser beam – the curve of the track ahead, the controlled rasp of his own breath echoing in his ears, the distant, comforting chatter of students drifting from the quad like background static. The scent of cut grass, warm asphalt, and his own exertion filled his nostrils. It was Tuesday. A perfectly ordinary Tuesday.
Then, the world stuttered.
It wasn't a sound, not at first. It was a pressure, immense and utterly silent, pressing down from the infinite, indifferent blue sky. It vibrated through the soles of his shoes, climbed his spine, resonated deep within the very marrow of his bones. It felt like the universe itself had taken a sudden, shuddering breath and held it. Birds froze mid-chirp, their songs cut off mid-note. The gentle breeze that had cooled his sweat died instantly, leaving the air unnaturally still and thick. Every electronic device within sight – phones clutched in careless hands, laptops glowing on picnic blankets, the monolithic scoreboard above the bleachers – flared simultaneously with blinding, chaotic static. It wasn't just visual noise; a piercing, digital shriek erupted from them all, a chorus of technological agony that cut through the sudden, suffocating silence like broken glass.
David stumbled, his perfect rhythm shattered. His trailing foot caught the edge of the lane, and only a desperate lunge, honed by years of avoiding hurdles, saved him from sprawling onto the unforgiving track. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "What the hell?" he gasped, the words ripped from his throat, tasting metallic with sudden fear. He whirled around, eyes wide, taking in a scene ripped from a nightmare. All across the field, the quad beyond, people were frozen statues. Faces tilted skyward, mouths agape, expressions morphing from confusion to dawning horror in a heartbeat. Others stared at their malfunctioning devices as if they'd transformed into venomous snakes. The collective static shriek deepened, coalescing not into mere noise, but into a resonant, utterly alien voice. It bypassed ears entirely, speaking directly into the mind, a sound that defied language yet conveyed meaning with terrifying, crystalline clarity. It was the groan of glaciers calving into an abyssal sea, the grind of continental plates shifting, digitized, amplified, and imbued with cosmic indifference.
ATTENTION: INHABITANTS OF DESIGNATION: EARTH.
The voice wasn't loud; it was absolute. It filled every crevice of consciousness, leaving no room for thought, only the raw imprint of its message. David clutched his head, the psychic pressure threatening to crack his skull.
YOUR REALITY HAS BEEN SELECTED FOR CONSOLIDATION. IN EXACTLY TEN (10) SOLAR CYCLES (EARTH STANDARD), THIS WORLD WILL UNDERGO A MERGER WITH MULTIPLE PARALLEL REALITIES.
A collective gasp seemed to suck the oxygen from the entire campus. David's blood turned to ice water in his veins. Merger? Parallel realities? This wasn't a localized blackout, not some bizarre tech glitch confined to the university grid. This was… planetary. Galactic. Unfathomable. The comfortable concepts of physics, biology, his entire understanding of existence, crumbled like sandcastles before a tsunami.
TO ENSURE THE VIABILITY OF YOUR SPECIES WITHIN THE CONSOLIDATED REALM, A PERIOD OF STRENGTHENING IS MANDATED. THE GAIA SYSTEM IS NOW INITIALIZING.
A wave of vertigo, sickening and profound, washed over David. He saw others clutching their heads, collapsing to their knees like puppets with cut strings. A girl nearby, her face pale as milk, doubled over and vomited onto the manicured grass. The sheer, crushing scale of the announcement was paralyzing. It wasn't an invasion; it was a cosmic realignment, and humanity was just… material. Raw material to be processed.
THE STRENGTHENING PROCESS WILL MANIFEST AS AN APOCALYPSE EVENT, COMMENCING IMMEDIATELY. PRIMARY THREAT VECTOR: EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL ENTITIES ("MONSTERS").
Panic, raw and unchecked, erupted like a geyser. Screams tore through the stunned silence, primal and ragged. People started running, not to anything, but away from the sky, the voice, the impossible terror. Directionless chaos erupted. Someone slammed hard into David's shoulder, spinning him halfway around, the jolt of pain shockingly grounding. Monsters? Apocalypse? Now? The abstract horror of the merger was instantly eclipsed by the visceral, immediate threat. Images flashed in his mind: dark, swirling rifts disgorging claws and fangs, tearing into the screaming crowd.
PORTALS WILL OPEN ACROSS YOUR PLANET, SERVING AS CONDUITS FOR THESE ENTITIES. A PORTAL CAN BE NEUTRALIZED IF CLEARED OF ITS INTERNAL DEFENSES BEFORE THE PRIMARY ENTITY WAVE EMERGES. THIS OFFERS A SAFEGUARD FOR LESSER STRENGTHENED INDIVIDUALS.
Clear it? Go inside? David's mind raced, picturing dark, swirling rifts disgorging nightmares. The idea of voluntarily entering one, of stepping into that unknown darkness, was pure insanity. Yet, the implication was cold, brutal logic: if you didn't stop the portal at its source, the monsters would come out. Simple, horrifying math. Survival demanded proactive violence. His athlete's mind, trained for competition, recoiled at the thought of preemptive, lethal combat. This wasn't a race; it was a hunt, and he might be the prey or the hunter.
INITIAL SYSTEM INTEGRATION: APPROXIMATELY FORTY PERCENT (40%) OF THE HUMAN POPULATION WILL EXPERIENCE NATURAL AWAKENING TO SYSTEM FUNCTIONS. THE REMAINING POPULATION WILL REQUIRE ASSIMILATION ARTIFACTS TO ACCESS THE GAIA SYSTEM AND PARTICIPATE IN THE STRENGTHENING.
Only 40%? The thought was a spike of ice driven into his chest. A genetic lottery with life-or-death stakes, decided in an instant. Would he be one of the "lucky" ones, gifted with the tools from the start? Or would he be scrambling in the dark, desperately hunting for some magical trinket while monsters roamed unchecked? His athlete's pride, the core belief in hard work yielding results, recoiled violently at the idea of being fundamentally less, of starting handicapped in a race where the penalty for losing was oblivion. The unfairness of it burned.
SYSTEM FUNCTIONS FOR INTEGRATED INDIVIDUALS INCLUDE: LEVEL PROGRESSION, SKILL ACQUISITION, TALENT UNLOCKING, STATISTICAL ENHANCEMENT, AND STATUS MONITORING. ANALOGOUS TO YOUR PRIMITIVE "VIDEO GAME" STRUCTURES FOR COGNITIVE EASE.
David almost choked on the thick air. Video games? This cosmic horror show, this extinction-level event, was being framed like… like grinding levels in some MMORPG? The sheer, jarring absurdity of it warred with the paralyzing terror. Levels meant growth. Stats meant quantifiable power. Skills meant capabilities beyond human limits. Power meant survival. A grim, desperate kind of hope flickered amidst the suffocating dread. If I get it… if I can see the numbers… if I can level up… The competitor within him latched onto the concept, a lifeline in a drowning sea of despair. It was a framework, however alien, however terrifyingly real.
THE APOCALYPSE IS THE CRUCIBLE. SURVIVAL IS THE MINIMUM REQUIREMENT. THOSE WHO ENDURE AND ASCEND WILL FORM THE PEAK OF HUMANITY, PREPARED FOR THE REALITY MERGER IN TEN SOLAR CYCLES. FAILURE RESULTS IN EXTINCTION.
Peak of humanity. The words echoed in the hollow space the terror had carved inside him. It wasn't just about surviving the monsters anymore, not just about making it through the next hour. It was about transformation. About becoming something more, something fundamentally altered, something capable of facing a merged reality filled with who-knew-what horrors from countless other worlds. The sheer, crushing weight of it – ten years of constant struggle, evolution, and death – threatened to buckle his knees. Ten years. Monsters now. Something infinitely worse later. The track stretching ahead of him now felt like a metaphor for an impossible marathon through hell.
INTEGRATION COMMENCES NOW. SELECTED INDIVIDUALS WILL BE TRANSLOCATED TO PERSONAL INITIATION ZONES. COMPLETION GRANTS RETURN TO PRIMARY REALITY.
Translocated? Personal zones? Before David could fully process the meaning, grasp the terrifying implications of being ripped from this chaos into some unknown trial, the alien voice delivered its final, chilling pronouncement:
STRENGTHEN. ADAPT. ASCEND. OR PERISH.
GAIA SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.
The oppressive psychic pressure vanished as abruptly as it arrived, leaving a ringing silence in his mind. The electronic static died instantly. The ordinary sounds of the world rushed back in with jarring violence – the distant, rising wail of sirens multiplying like a chorus of mechanical panic, the renewed, hysterical screams tearing at the air, the frantic, overlapping babble of terrified voices shouting questions, prayers, curses. The scent of panic-sweat and vomit replaced the cut grass.
But for David Jameson, the world didn't rush back. It dissolved.
One moment, he was standing on the sun-warmed track, the heat radiating from the asphalt through his thin soles, the scent of fear and ozone thick in his nostrils, the cacophony of a world realizing its end had begun assaulting his ears like physical blows. The next, reality tore like wet paper.
There was no transition, no blurring tunnel of light, no sense of movement. It was instantaneous, absolute displacement. The sensory input of the track – the heat, the noise, the smells, the pressure of the air, the sight of panicked faces – simply ceased to exist. Snuffed out. Replaced by… nothing. An absolute, silent void. No light, no sound, no sensation of up or down, no feeling of his own body. He couldn't feel his limbs, couldn't draw breath, yet he wasn't suffocating. He couldn't blink, couldn't scream. He simply was, adrift in a featureless, sensory-deprived limbo. Pure consciousness suspended in non-existence.
What? Where? Am I dead? The thought screamed through the void of his mind, sharp and jagged with terror, the only thing real in the absolute nothingness. The teleportation! The personal zone! The System's words echoed in the silent prison of his consciousness, cold and mocking. Panic, cold and absolute, threatened to engulf him, to unravel the very threads of his sanity. Was this the "initiation zone"? An endless void? How could he do anything here? How could he fight, or run, or even breathe? His athlete's instincts, honed for physical action, for feeling the ground beneath his feet and the wind against his skin, recoiled at the utter helplessness, the complete lack of sensory feedback. It was pure, unadulterated existential dread, the terror of non-being.
Time lost all meaning. Seconds stretched into subjective hours. Minutes felt like eternities compressed into a single, terrifying moment of non-existence. He tried to command his body – move an arm! Kick a leg! – but there was no body to command, only the command itself echoing uselessly in the void. He tried to scream, to shatter the silence with his own terror, but no sound emerged, not even the phantom sensation of air passing non-existent vocal cords. It was the ultimate isolation.
Then, sensation began to bleed back in, not gradually, but in jarring, discordant flashes, like faulty wiring reconnecting. A faint, acrid smell – ozone, sharp and electric, mixed with the damp, mineral scent of deep earth and cold stone. It was alien, unwelcome. A low, almost subsonic hum vibrated through the non-existent floor, a physical thrumming he felt in bones he suddenly remembered having. A chill, damp air brushed against skin he could abruptly feel again, raising goosebumps on his arms. The feeling was intensely disorienting, like limbs waking from profound numbness, pins and needles spreading through his consciousness.
Light followed, brutal and sudden. Not a gentle dawn, but a harsh, sterile fluorescence that flickered into existence high above, banishing the absolute dark with clinical indifference. It revealed not an infinite void, but a confined, oppressive space.
David gasped, a ragged, desperate sound that echoed strangely in the sudden, hollow quiet, startling him with its volume. He was lying on his back on a cold, unnaturally smooth floor. Solid. Real. Painfully real. He scrambled upright, his muscles protesting with unfamiliar stiffness, his heart pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs, loud in the enclosed space. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging as they struggled to adjust from the sensory deprivation to the stark, unforgiving illumination.
He was in a room. Or a cell. Or a tomb. It was roughly twenty feet square, carved from seamless, dark grey stone that seemed to absorb the harsh light from the glowing panels set into the impossibly high ceiling – at least thirty feet up, vanishing into shadow. The air was cool, damp, and utterly still, carrying that faint, metallic tang of ozone and wet rock. There were no windows, no doors, no seams, no visible exits whatsoever. Just smooth, unbroken walls on all four sides, rising sheer and featureless to the distant ceiling. Utterly barren except for one stark feature.
Directly opposite him, against the far wall, stood a simple stone plinth, waist-high, as unadorned as the walls. And resting on it, gleaming dully under the sterile light like artifacts in a museum of the damned, was an array of weapons.
David's breath hitched, catching in his throat. His eyes darted over them, his athlete's mind automatically shifting into assessment mode, cataloging potential, weighing options, a desperate attempt to impose order on chaos. A sturdy-looking wooden quarterstaff, about six feet long, capped with iron at both ends. Functional, defensive, requiring space to wield. A plain, slightly curved short sword in a worn leather scabbard. The blade, partially visible, looked utilitarian, unadorned steel – lethal, intimate, demanding close combat. A compact recurve bow, unstrung, lying next to a leather quiver holding a dozen arrows fletched with stiff, grey feathers. Ranged option, but useless if something got close before he could string it. A small, round shield, perhaps two feet in diameter, made of layered wood bound with leather, bearing no insignia. Pure defense.a long spear nearly his own height,it looked plain and it seemed to be made of black steel. And finally, a simple iron dagger, its blade about eight inches long, wickedly sharp. The last resort, or the assassin's tool.
No guns. No high-tech gear. No kevlar. Just… medieval essentials. Brutal, personal, demanding skill and courage. Personal initiation zone. Completion grants return. The System's words slammed back into focus with the force of a physical blow. This was it. His test. His first, solitary step into the apocalypse. He had to choose. He had to fight. There was no alternative. Return meant facing the monsters and portals. Failure here likely meant… nothing. Oblivion. Or becoming monster chow.
Okay. Okay. Don't panic. Assess. Breathe. He forced himself to take slow, deliberate breaths, consciously slowing his racing heart, channeling the pre-race focus he knew so well. Weapons. Means to clear this place. Whatever "this place" is. Probably not empty. He took a hesitant step towards the plinth, his worn sneakers whispering unnaturally loud on the cold, polished stone. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint, omnipresent hum and the too-loud sound of his own breathing and the frantic drumming of his heart against his ribs. The air felt thick, charged with anticipation.
As he moved, something shimmered at the edge of his vision. A faint, translucent rectangle of pale blue light, hovering about a foot in front of his eyes, slightly off-center. He flinched back instinctively, hand half-raising in a useless defensive gesture, heart lurching. It didn't vanish. It pulsed faintly, seeming… attached to his perspective. Cautiously, forcing down another surge of panic, he focused his gaze directly on it.
The shimmer solidified instantly. Lines of crisp, glowing text appeared within the rectangle, arranged with an unnerving, sterile efficiency. It looked like a high-tech HUD superimposed on reality.
[Name: David Jameson]
[Race: Human]
[Level: 0]
[Rank: None]
[Class: None]
[Title(s): None]
[Trait(s): None]
[Talent(s): ??? (Awaken at Level 10), 10,000x Growth Speed/rewards]
[Skill(s): None]
[HP: 750/750]
[MP: 1000/1000]
[Stat(s):]
[Strength: 17]
[Agility: 23]
[Defense: 15]
[Magic: 20]
[Luck: 5]
David stared, his mind reeling. The sensory deprivation, the teleportation, the impossible stone room – it all threatened to overwhelm him again. But this… this was tangible. Concrete data. Status screen. Like a game. The System really wasn't kidding. A bizarre mix of terror and morbid fascination held him rooted.
He scanned the numbers, his analytical mind kicking in despite the fear. Strength 17? He was strong for his size, sure, dedicated to his weight training and core work, but 17? What was the baseline? Ten? Fifteen? Was this above average? Agility 23 felt instinctively right – speed, reflexes, coordination, the very essence of his being as a sprinter. Defense 15… average, maybe? He wasn't particularly bulky, focused more on power-to-weight ratio. Magic 20? That one slammed the brakes on his thoughts. Magic? He'd never cast a spell, never felt anything remotely mystical. No spark, no intuition, nothing. Was this potential? Latent ability the System detected? Or some bizarre mistake? The number felt alien, disconnected from everything he knew about himself. And Luck… 5. Great. Rock bottom luck. Just fucking perfect, he thought with a grimace that felt like cracking dry clay. Bottom of the barrel luck when the world ends and I get dumped in Murder Room 101. Figures.
Then his eyes snagged on the Talents line. ??? (Awaken at Level 10). Mysterious, hidden. Intriguing, but useless right now. A carrot dangling impossibly far away. And then… the next entry. 10,000x Growth Speed.
He blinked. Read it again. Leaned closer, as if proximity could change the text. Ten thousand times? That couldn't be right. A typo? Some cosmic joke? If levels and stats were real… if gaining power meant the difference between surviving the next hour or the next ten years… ten thousand times faster than what? Faster than normal people? Faster than the baseline the System expected? The implications were staggering, almost too vast and terrifying to grasp. Was it a mistake? A cruel trick? A label for something broken? Or… a terrifying responsibility? A target painted on his back by the universe itself? If others knew… He shuddered, the cold stone room feeling suddenly colder.
He stood frozen, caught between the silent, ominous walls that seemed to lean inwards and the gleaming, deadly tools on the plinth that promised violence. The pale blue light of his impossible status screen cast an eerie, shifting glow on his face, highlighting the sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. The distant memory of the sun on his skin, the sound of panicked screams on the wind, felt like fragments from a different lifetime, a dream already fading. The comfortable, predictable world of tracks and timers, of PB goals and scholarship worries, was gone, erased in a heartbeat of cosmic static.
Here, now, in this sterile, silent cell, there was only the cold, unyielding stone beneath his feet, the waiting instruments of death, the glowing numbers promising both salvation and unimaginable peril, and the suffocating weight of the unknown pressing down. David Jameson, athlete, teenager, blinked the lingering disorientation from his eyes, forcing clarity. The fear was still there, a cold, hard knot in his stomach, a tremor in his hands. But beneath it, deeper than the dread, something else stirred. The competitor. The survivor. The part of him that refused to quit on the final lap, that pushed through the burn. The question wasn't if he would pick up a weapon. That decision was made the moment the static screamed. It was which one.
He took another step towards the plinth, the sound echoing too loudly. His gaze swept over the sword , the bow and the shield as he reached the bow he touched its edge and a system message appeared.
[Do you wish to store this item (YES) (NO)]
Instantly David chose yes then did the same to the arrows,dagger and staff after doing this he picked up the sword using one hand swinging it around.
Swoosh,Swoosh,Swoosh,Swoosh Swoosh,Swoosh
As he continued swinging the sword a system message appeared.
[You have learned the skill "Swordsmanship" level 1]
As he saw the system message a smile appered on his face as he unconsciously corrected his posture of holding his sword and continued swinging it around leveling it up steadily.
[END OF CHAPTER]