# Scene 1 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
The cave is narrow, more a wound in the hillside than a proper shelter, but it's the first place Corin's found where he can breathe without wondering if he'll wake up with a knife in his throat. It's half an hour past midnight, and the only sound is the wind, howling off the moor and funneling through the entrance in fits and pulses. The air inside is cold, sharp with mineral bite. Every time he exhales, his breath snags on the rock, curls away into the dark.
He sits with his knees pulled up, back braced against a curve of stone. All around, embedded in the walls and floor, is a frost of crystal—minute shards, barely more than splinters, but each one pulsing with its own faint, blue-white glow. The effect is unsettling. It's as if the cave has a pulse, a heartbeat, and tonight it's syncopated to his own.
The System notification is the first thing he sees when he lets his eyelids slip. It floats, insistent as ever, just past the bridge of his nose:
[Level 1 achieved. Class selection now available.]
[Choose wisely—this decision cannot be undone.]
He snorts, then coughs as the air catches the back of his throat. "No pressure," he says, and the cave echoes it back, hollow and flat.
The menu is already waiting. Three icons, sharper and more real than any pop-up he remembers from home, hover in a neat row across his field of vision.
[1. Shadow Walker] — bonuses to stealth, infiltration, deception.
[2. Survivalist] — endurance, environmental adaptation, resistance to toxins and trauma.
[3. Tactician] — strategic acumen, situational analysis, command bonus (solo or squad).
He stares at the first, and the System obligingly expands the details in a bright, sterile font:
[Shadow Walker: You are the unseen, the unheard, the undetected. Gain enhanced capacity for silent movement, disguise, and surprise assault. Advanced level unlocks include [Chameleon Veil] and [Silent Execution]. Stealth synergy with all light weapons and thrown objects.]
He flips to the next, and the world shifts to a cold, earthy green:
[Survivalist: You are the last to die, the hardest to break. Gain resistance to environmental threats (poison, radiation, extreme heat/cold), and enhanced healing. Advanced level unlocks include [Metabolic Overclock] and [Stamina Surge]. Synergy with field medicine, animal handling, and primitive weapons.]
The final option glows with a pale blue sheen, almost the same color as the crystal in the wall:
[Tactician: You are the brain behind the brawn. Gain increased perception, pattern recognition, and real-time threat analysis. Advanced level unlocks include [Situational Dominance] and [Foresight]. Synergy with all ranged weapons, traps, and leadership roles.]
He closes his eyes, then opens them again. The choices float, unhurried. No timer ticks down, but the words [choose wisely] blink, slow and predatory, in the lower corner of the prompt.
Corin chews on the inside of his cheek. On paper, the Shadow Walker is the obvious fit. He's been running, hiding, ducking and weaving since day one. Even the System's been nudging him that direction—Basic Perception, Stealth Basics, the whole skill tree tailored for evasion. But it's too neat, too expected. He hates anything that feels like a setup.
Survivalist has its appeal, too, if only because every day in Astrayis is a fight not to freeze, starve, or be eaten by something with more teeth than sense. The System's warnings about infection, pathogen, cold—it's a constant, gnawing anxiety. He thinks about the blue meat, the parasites, the gnawed bones in the skull-ring back in the fields. "Be the last to die" has a nice ring to it, even if it means living with the consequences.
But the Tactician is what really draws his eye. Not because he sees himself as a leader, but because the last few days have been a war of information, of reading the map a move ahead, of lying better than the next guy. It's not just about living. It's about understanding the game, seeing the angles, outplaying the other rats.
He glances at the wall, runs a fingertip along the nearest vein of crystal. The glow is warm, almost responsive—when he presses harder, it flares, then settles back to a steady hum. The whole cave feels alive, like it's watching him weigh the odds.
He starts a list in the dirt, outlining the pros and cons of each class.
Shadow Walker:
- + High stealth. Evasion. Backstab potential.
- – No improvement to health or defense. If caught, likely dead.
- ? Dependent on darkness and environment. What if enemies see through it?
Survivalist:
- + Toughness. Resistance to poison, disease, extreme weather.
- + Healing, maybe even regeneration.
- – Not glamorous. Possibly less offensive output.
- ? If Astrayis gets worse, maybe only Survivors make it.
Tactician:
- + Brain boost. Spot patterns, anticipate moves.
- + Buffs to traps, tricks, maybe even negotiation.
- – If alone, some bonuses wasted. No party to command.
- ? Would the System itself sabotage a Tactician who outsmarts it?
He sits back, flexes the cramp out of his writing hand. The list helps, but it also makes the choice feel heavier. He's been in delivery standoffs before—run a hundred hypothetical routes to get through traffic or slip a package to a customer who'd rather not be found. But this is different. This is picking a target to live with for the rest of his life, however long that might be.
"Give me a break," he whispers, but the System only hovers.
He flicks a pebble at the wall. It bounces, then ricochets into a nest of crystals. The whole vein shudders, and for a moment the entire cave flashes with a bright, blue shock. It feels like applause, or the universe trying to tell him something.
He leans his head back, stares at the arched ceiling. The pulse of the crystals reflects off his retinas, flickering with each blink.
He runs through the scenarios again. Shadow Walker means never being seen, never being known. He could live and die in these tunnels, and no one would remember his name.
Survivalist is safe, but safe isn't good enough. The world already chews up people like him; being the last one standing just means you get to bury everyone else.
Tactician… Tactician is the only one that feels like cheating. Like maybe, just maybe, he could change the rules.
He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he's back in the delivery van. The nav screen is lit with five alternate routes, the ETA for each flickering as traffic chokes the city. He remembers the trick: never pick the shortest, never pick the one the GPS recommends. Always the second shortest, the one that looks just inconvenient enough for the rest of the world to ignore. Fly under the radar, but never be where they expect you.
He opens his eyes and looks at the System. "Can I see the skill trees?" he asks.
The System pauses, as if annoyed, then unfurls three neat diagrams in the air. The Shadow Walker's path is linear, branching out from Stealth Basics to Chameleon Veil, then Silent Execution, and finally a terminal node called [Shadowmeld]. The Survivalist's tree is thick, loaded with side branches—poison immunity, night vision, wound knitting, even a node called [Cannibal Efficiency] that makes his stomach turn. Tactician is a spiral, each loop unlocking higher and higher-order skills: Predictive Combat, Crowd Manipulation, even [Scenario Editor], which sounds like the ultimate way to hack a System built to kill him.
He traces the Tactician's spiral with a fingertip. At the center is a single node, unlabelled, just a question mark flickering in the blue.
"Fuck it," he says. "Let's do it."
He doesn't tap the screen. Instead, he says it aloud, to the cave, to the crystals, to the System itself. "Tactician."
The cave waits, holding its breath. The System prompts:
[Confirm: Tactician class? This choice is permanent.]
He grins, teeth sharp in the blue glow. "Confirm."
A surge of light runs through the walls, brightening every crystal, turning the cave into a miniature sunrise. The System's reward is immediate:
[Class: Tactician unlocked. Skill: Predictive Combat available.]
[You now gain passive bonus to analytical tasks, pattern recognition, and deception detection.]
[Level 1 bonuses: +1 Intelligence, +2 Perception.]
He feels the change. It's not like a rush of energy, more like a fog lifting. Every sound in the cave becomes sharper, every glimmer of crystal an equation waiting to be solved. He blinks, and the afterimage is a map of lines and arcs, possible futures spinning away from each decision.
He lets the sensation settle, then slumps back against the stone.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I'm going to run this place."
The cave agrees, echoing with light.
# Scene 2 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
He's running simulations in his head—enemy approaches from the west, light source at the entry, Lyra steps first, Thorne follows at a measured interval—when the real thing breaks the cave's rhythm. The crystals in the wall don't just pulse at their steps; they stutter, every shard dimming then flaring back to life in sequence, an involuntary muscle spasm of light.
Corin wipes the chalky grit from his palms and gets to his feet. He doesn't announce himself, just stands in the penumbra, watching as Lyra navigates the split in the stone. She moves with her usual economy, careful not to brush the glowing edges, like she's aware the cave is more alive than dead. Thorne is right behind, his boots grinding the crystal dust into new lines with every step.
They don't talk until the entrance has closed out the night behind them. Only then does Thorne straighten, scan the space, and acknowledge Corin with a flat nod.
"Nice setup," he says, voice even but edged with a knowing amusement. "It's warmer than it looks."
Corin shrugs. "Not much competition for rental in this part of town."
Lyra keeps her distance, just inside the entry. She stands rigid, hands behind her back, as if she's a fixture instead of a visitor.
Thorne takes his time, circling the perimeter, fingers grazing the veins of crystal in the wall. He's old, but there's nothing fragile about the man. The way he moves, every joint is loaded, every line from scalp to toe calculated for minimum exposure.
Finally, he settles on a flat stone near the center, makes a show of sitting without a sound. "So," he says, "you made your first class choice."
Corin's eyes flicker. "I wouldn't call it that."
Thorne's grin is a line of broken glass. "Doesn't matter what you call it. The System noticed. So did the rest of us."
He folds his hands and fixes Corin with a stare that feels like a tool, not a gesture. "What's your class?"
Lyra's gaze jumps, flicks from Thorne to Corin and back again. For a moment, the cave is nothing but breath and the quiet whine of the crystals.
Corin hedges. "Still deciding."
Thorne laughs, loud enough to make the light in the room jump. "Don't be coy. The System doesn't let anyone sit on the fence at Level One. You're either too smart or too stupid for that."
Corin doesn't move. "You're saying it matters?"
"Here?" Thorne spreads his hands, encompassing the entire cave, the village, the world beyond. "It's all that matters."
He leans forward, the chair creaking under him. "Most Outsiders pick combat classes. They want to feel powerful. They want to punch their way out of the nightmare. But that's how you get corpses. The world is designed to punish brute force. Look around—how many do you see still standing?"
Corin nods, filing it away. "So what do you suggest?"
Thorne looks to Lyra, and for the first time, her mask cracks—just a fraction. She steps forward, voice soft but firm. "Some classes are hidden," she says. "Not in the menu. You have to unlock them by what you do, or what you survive." Her eyes are luminous in the crystal light, pupils gone wide and liquid. "The best ones are never obvious."
Corin's brain starts clicking through the options. "Like what?"
Lyra shrugs, unwilling to give more. "A friend of mine found a way to become a 'Glassmancer.' All it took was losing both arms and surviving. System gave him options. He rebuilt himself."
Thorne snorts. "He lasted two weeks."
"Still two weeks longer than the rest," she says.
Corin files that away, then looks to Thorne. "You said most die. What about the ones who don't?"
Thorne's smile is all teeth. "They become interesting." He lets the word hang, savoring it. "But interesting doesn't mean alive."
He stands, stretches, and dusts his hands together. "Every class has a ceiling. The world pushes you up, then brings you down. The only way to move is sideways—find the loopholes, the cracks. Outsiders are good at that. Locals, not so much."
Lyra steps around, puts herself at an angle where she can see both men without turning her back on either. She watches Corin, eyebrows knotted. "You're not telling us what you picked," she says.
Corin shrugs. "You're not asking the right questions."
Thorne laughs again, but this time it's low, dangerous. "He's a Tactician," he says. "It's obvious. The way he talks, the way he moves—he's not strong, he's not fast, but he's two moves ahead already."
Corin doesn't confirm or deny, just keeps his face blank.
Lyra looks annoyed, but not surprised. "Tacticians get wiped out early," she says. "The world doesn't like smart people."
"True," Thorne says, "but the ones who last are the most dangerous. Even the Order is wary of them. They use Arcanists for shock and awe, but the ones they put in charge? Always Tacticians."
Corin turns the conversation. "What about the hierarchy? How do the locals see Outsider classes?"
Thorne shrugs. "Doesn't matter. You're always at the bottom. Even if you take a native class, your System signature marks you. The only thing you can do is climb so high they have to notice you, or go so deep they forget you exist."
Lyra chews her lip. "Some try to hide in the cracks. Find work, blend in, never use the System unless they have to."
Thorne shakes his head. "They die. Or worse, they get recruited by the wrong side."
Corin nods, pulling in the lines, looking for weakness. "You've seen a lot of us come and go."
"More than you'd believe." Thorne's face is bleak. "This world is an engine for culling anomalies. Outsiders, parasites, whatever you want to call us—we're the grit in the gears."
He stands again, restless, and starts pacing the small circle of the cave. "The trick is to survive long enough to become necessary. Or to become a problem the world can't easily solve."
Corin senses the undercurrent. "Is that what you are? A problem?"
Thorne grins, but it's all performance. "I'm a speed bump. You want to be a cliff."
Lyra's voice, hesitant. "Isn't that risky? The Order—"
"Let them come," Thorne interrupts. "They can't kill what they can't predict." He looks at Corin, something like pride in his eyes. "You know that, or you wouldn't have made it this far."
The cave has gone cold. The crystals dim and brighten, but never fully commit to darkness. The night outside is complete, a velvet nothing pressing against the thin membrane of stone.
Corin digs into the tension, pushes the conversation. "You said there were hidden classes. What about evolutions? If you level high enough, can you change what you are?"
Lyra shakes her head. "Rare. Usually costs more than it gives. Most end up dead or insane before they get the chance."
Thorne agrees. "Only way up is through. Best you can hope for is to survive the first three upgrades. After that, the System starts to pay attention."
Corin raises an eyebrow. "And if it doesn't like what it sees?"
Thorne laughs, the sound scraping against the rock. "Then you get hunted. By the world, by the Order, sometimes by the System itself. It hates anomalies. It will cheat to erase them."
Corin feels the chill settle in his ribs, but it's not fear, exactly. It's the cold rush of possibility, the thrill of a puzzle with the solution just out of reach.
He changes tack. "What about alliances? Do classes matter if you work together?"
Lyra's smile is sad. "Everyone wants to be the leader. Nobody wants to die for someone else."
Thorne sits again, tired now. "The only time alliances work is when everyone has a secret. Or a shared enemy. Until then, it's every rat for himself."
They fall silent, the conversation exhausted. The cave is tight with unspoken questions, but nobody wants to break the truce.
Corin watches the crystals, the way they reflect faces in fractured blue, the way they never quite let the dark win. He feels the System in his head, already spinning the next prompt, the next move.
He knows the world is a meat grinder, but he's not interested in becoming sausage.
He's after something bigger. Even if it kills him.
The quiet holds, sharp and unbroken, as the cave waits for what comes next.
# Scene 3 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
The air in the cave is a standstill—three breaths, three bodies, and the slow crawl of crystal light as the only witness. Corin feels the weight of their expectation as something physical, a hand at his nape, pressure building with every second he doesn't answer.
He almost says it: Tactician. He's rehearsed the word, the bluff, the way it would play on Thorne's hard mouth and Lyra's keen, dissecting stare. But the moment the lie gets halfway up his throat, the System intervenes.
It starts as a glitch: a flicker at the edge of vision, a ripple that distorts the familiar three-choice menu into a pinched, writhing knot. The other options judder, collapse, then snap back in place with a fourth, alien icon pulsing at the bottom.
[ADAPTIVE OUTSIDER – RARITY: UNKNOWN]
He glares at it, but the icon pulses—demanding, almost petulant. The System overlays its own explanation:
[Adaptive Outsider: You have demonstrated nonstandard thinking, risk tolerance, and environmental flexibility. This class offers unique skill growth, cross-tree access, and event-triggered evolution. Immediate stat gain: minimal. Long-term potential: maximum.]
[Warning: This class sacrifices instant power for exponential growth.]
[This path is only offered to the rare Host who can disrupt the established order.]
He scans the text twice, then glances at Thorne, who's watching him the way a cat watches a trapped bird—curious, hungry, but patient.
"You seeing ghosts, boy?" Thorne asks. The crystals catch on the whites of his eyes, turning them flat and cold.
Corin shrugs, playing it off. "Just lag. Sometimes the System bugs out."
Lyra tilts her head, and for a moment Corin sees something like recognition—a flash of memory or warning, quickly buried.
The cave light surges again, the veins in the wall crawling with blue fire. Corin's brain hums with the need to choose, but the new option—Adaptive Outsider—feels radioactive. A lure and a dare, a path cut for him alone.
He weighs the cost. The prior conversation was clear: Astrayis chews up those who specialize, then spits them out when they hit the ceiling. This path promises to play the world's own game, but slower. Smarter.
He looks at the icons, one last time:
Shadow Walker: Perfect for hiding. Not enough to win.
Survivalist: Live longer. Still end up dead.
Tactician: Outsmart the world. Until the world decides to cheat.
Adaptive Outsider: No rules. No ceiling. Maybe no bottom, either.
He almost laughs. It's the delivery van all over again: everyone expects you to take Main, but if you're really desperate to survive, you take the one road nobody else can imagine.
He taps the new icon. The menu shudders, the cave light strobing in time with the motion. A pulse of cold—real cold—lances through his skull, and the System pours in a burst of color and sound:
[Class: Adaptive Outsider selected.]
[Ability unlocked: ASSIMILATION—gain access to skills and traits of entities observed in action. Efficiency scales with exposure and analysis.]
[Level 1 bonus: None. Future bonuses determined by event triggers.]
Thorne's head jerks, as if he's heard something Corin hasn't. "You just did something," he says.
Corin shakes his head, trying to clear the echo of the System's voice. "Just picked a class. Like you said."
Lyra steps closer, her eyes hungry for any tell. "Which one?"
Corin lets the silence build, then says, "Survivalist. If I die, I'm useless to everyone."
Lyra looks disappointed. Thorne grins, but the smile is thinner than before. "Safe choice. But don't count on it saving you."
Corin just nods, but inside he's burning. The new class doesn't feel like much—no surge, no visible change—but when he looks at the world, it's sharper, colors more saturated, every edge humming with latent potential.
He can feel Lyra watching him, reading the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, looking for any sign he's lying. He almost hopes she spots it.
The cave has gone unstable. The crystals flare and dim, each pulse mapped to the spike in his heart rate, the bright slash of his every movement. He wonders if they're feeding off his energy, or if it's the other way around.
Thorne sits back, lights a stub of pipe, and watches the blue haze pool at his feet. "Now that you've picked, time for the fun part. The System's going to test you. It always does. You ready?"
Corin says nothing, because the answer doesn't matter.
The System is already prompting him, lining up the next decision.
[New Objective: Unlock Assimilation by observing a high-tier entity in combat.]
[Warning: This event must occur within 24 Astrayis hours, or the class will be revoked and replaced with default assignment.]
He almost chokes. "That's it? I have to watch someone fight?"
The System pings a confirmation, emotionless as ever.
Thorne misreads his silence. "It's always like this. First the carrot, then the stick. You get a taste of power, then the world expects a show."
Lyra finally relaxes, just a little. "If you want, I can take you to the arena. There's always a duel or a pit fight. Or you can find a pack of the city's worst and let them chase you for a while."
Corin files both options away. But the System is already feeding him possible vectors, paths with the highest probability of triggering the event. Arena. Patrol. The monsters that nest in the water tunnels.
He turns back to Thorne. "What about the Order? Any of them worth watching?"
Thorne's mouth twitches. "If you're suicidal, sure. But you're not ready for that. Even a Level 5 Order grunt could turn you inside out."
Corin shrugs. "I don't have to fight them. Just observe, right?"
He can feel Thorne's suspicion, but the old man just nods. "You'll figure it out."
Corin stands, stretches the ache out of his legs. He can feel the newness of the class like a phantom limb, a suggestion of something growing under the skin. The crystals near his head buzz in response, shedding bright flecks of light onto his hair and shoulders.
Lyra pulls a wrapped package from her coat—food, real food, not blue meat or crusts of bread. She tosses it to Corin. "You're going to need your strength," she says.
He fumbles the catch, but recovers, and tears into the package. It's a dense, sweet cake, studded with dried fruit and something that might be nuts. The taste is electric. For the first time since landing in Astrayis, he feels almost human.
Thorne pushes off his rock, done with the conversation. "We'll check in tomorrow," he says, eyes never leaving Corin. "If you're still alive, you can have the rest of the map."
He and Lyra exit together, footsteps measured, shadows long against the wall. The cave shrinks in their absence, and for a moment Corin just stands, holding the half-eaten food and listening to the System tick away the hours.
He tries out the new ability, focusing on a cluster of crystal mites scurrying across the wall. At first, nothing—just insects doing their thing. But then, a flicker:
[Observation: Crystal Mite]
[Skill learned: Surface Adhesion (Basic).]
It's a joke, but it works. He holds out a hand, touches the wall, and his skin sticks to the rock just enough to feel the drag.
He laughs, a raw sound, and the cave laughs back, showering him with light.
He can't wait to see what happens with something bigger.
He finishes the cake, wipes the crumbs on his jeans, and prepares to meet the dawn. The System is awake now, every second a live wire, every choice a pivot point.
He's not afraid. He's ready.
Outside, the new day is waiting, a thousand possible futures stretching away like veins of crystal in the dark.
And for the first time, Corin Faelwyn is exactly where he wants to be.