The golden-bordered notification hung there, in his vision, patient and implacable, reminding him that the fate of his entire town was now, somehow, his problem. Chris sat in his gaming chair, staring at the quest that refused to be minimized.
[World Quest: Civic Stabilization]
The objectives felt impossibly grand, like the final, world-saving tasks at the end of a hundred-hour RPG, but he had been given them after finishing the tutorial.
[Objective: Increase the [Community Approval] and [Infrastructure Integrity] stats for the Buckhannon geographic zone to a minimum of 50/100.]
He tried to conceptualize it, to break it down into manageable steps like he would with any other quest. How did one "increase" a town's Community Approval rating? Was there a meter somewhere he had to fill? Did he have to go around completing smaller quests for individual citizens, like finding a lost cat for Brenda G. or helping Gary L. with his taxes, until the town's collective happiness level went up? The thought of that much social interaction was exhausting.
And Infrastructure Integrity? Did that mean he had to become the Pothole Phantom full-time? Was he supposed to single-handedly repave the entire county, one complimentary "Void Fill" protocol at a time?
He mentally reviewed his current skillset. He had [INSPECT (Tier 2)], a powerful diagnostic tool that was excellent for telling him how screwed he was. He had [Minor Probability Manipulation], a useful skill for getting better loot drops and finding convenient parking spaces, but probably not for stopping a massive embezzlement scheme. His [Item Creation] ability was limited by his complete lack of resources, and the [System Functions Library] was an incomprehensible list of functions he didn't have the security clearance to use. His current abilities were not enough for a task of this magnitude.
A feeling of deep, weary resignation settled over him. There was only one option left. It was the one menu on his HUD he had been actively avoiding since it appeared, the one that represented a level of commitment he wasn't sure he was ready for. It was the point of no return.
With a deep, long-suffering sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his entire stalled life, Chris navigated to the [CLASSES] tab on his HUD. He had to level up. He had to specialize. He had to, for the first time in his life, choose a career path.
He mentally selected the tab.
A new window, crisp and professional, opened in the center of his vision. It was clean, elegant, and more intimidating than any final boss he had ever faced. In the top center, in a sharp font, were the words:
[USER, please select your first Class.]
Below that, a stark warning message was displayed, each word landing with the weight of a granite block.
[Warning: This choice is permanent and cannot be changed (though future opportunities may be present to gain new classes). Your chosen Class will determine your primary path of advancement and the types of skills you will unlock.]
Chris's breath caught in his throat. Permanent. In Vexlorn, if he didn't like his Riftwarden build, he could just spend a few hours farming gold, visit the class trainer in the main city, and respec his talent points. If he really hated it, he could just delete the character and roll a new one. There were no do-overs here. This was his one and only character slot. His life.
Below the warning was a single, massive, scrollable window. On the right side, the scrollbar was a tiny, impossibly thin sliver of light, indicating a list of options so vast it was almost infinite. This was it.
He took a deep breath, the way a person does before they jump into a cold pool. He began to scroll.
The list of available classes was immense, and immediately disappointing. He had secretly hoped for epic, fantasy-inspired choices. He had dreamed of [Archmage of the Realms], or [Shadow Assassin], or even [Cosmic Space-Knight].
The System, in its infinite and deeply literal wisdom, had other ideas. The first few classes he scrolled past were so bizarrely specific, so mundane, that he thought it had to be a joke.
[Aquatic Veterinarian]
[Sous Chef]
[Victorian Era Furniture Restoration Specialist]
[Cat Whisperer]
[Expert Knitter]
He stopped on [Expert Knitter], a morbid curiosity forcing him to read the description.
[Class: Expert Knitter. Unlocks abilities related to the creation of complex woolen garments. Grants access to the [Knitting] skill tree, including abilities like [Purl Stitch], [Casting On], and the Tier 3 active skill, [Aggressive Cable-Knit Sweater].]
He stared. He could choose to become an Expert Knitter. He could, theoretically, solve the town's corruption problem by knitting the mayor a very aggressive sweater. The thought was so absurd it almost made him laugh.
He continued to scroll, hoping that the epic, powerful classes were just further down the list. He scrolled past a long section that seemed to be dedicated to various forms of middle management and bureaucratic drudgery.
[Accounts Payable Clerk]
[Bureaucrat]
[Human Resources Manager]
[Municipal Sanitation Engineer]
[Urban Planner]
The sheer number of real-world jobs, presented as if they were epic RPG classes, was both hilarious and disappointing. This was the universe's most comprehensive and soul-crushing job application form.
His brain, a finely tuned engine of optimization and strategic analysis, kicked into overdrive. This was a reflex, a deeply ingrained response honed by two decades of studying character build guides, watching theory-crafting videos on YouTube, and arguing about patch notes on Reddit forums. This was the most important decision of his life. He could not afford to pick a "gimped" class. He couldn't just pick something that sounded fun. He had to pick the best, most overpowered, most "meta" build available. He had to find an S-Tier or higher class.
He started to scroll with a new purpose, actively searching for something, anything, that sounded like it might have combat applications or reality-bending potential. He scrolled for what felt like an eternity, the tiny scrollbar barely moving. He saw impressive-sounding classes, the kinds of jobs that required actual effort and dedication in the real world.
[Astrophysicist]
[Cardiothoracic Surgeon]
[Historian]
[Marine Biologist]
[Quantum Physicist]
He paused on [Quantum Physicist], his heart giving a hopeful little flutter. That had to be an S-Tier class, right? He focused on it, but a familiar, frustrating notification popped up.
[Class Locked. Prerequisite Not Met: Requires Ph.D. in Physics or equivalent real-world knowledge.]
Of course. The System wasn't just going to hand him a degree in quantum physics. He had to actually know things. His C- average in high school science was, it turned out, a significant handicap in his new life as a... whatever he was. He checked the others. All of them were locked, each one gated behind a level of real-world education and achievement he had never even considered pursuing.
Frustration began to bubble in his chest. This was a classic pay-to-win model. The players who had invested time and effort into their pre-System lives had access to all the best classes. He was stuck in the free-to-play starting zone with the joke options.
He continued down the list, his hope beginning to fade. And then he saw them. Tucked away between [Planetary Cartographer] and [Plumber], there they were. The real classes. The epic, god-tier, end-game specializations. And every single one of them was grayed out.
[God-Emperor (locked)]
[Reality-Eater (locked)]
[Planetary Architect (locked)]
[World-Forger (locked)]
[Alpha and Omega (locked)]
He focused on [God-Emperor], his heart pounding. The prerequisite note that appeared was even more insulting than the last one.
[Class Locked. Prerequisite Not Met: INSUFFICIENT EXISTENTIAL STANDING.]
He wasn't just unqualified. He was, on a fundamental, existential level, not worthy. The System had looked at his entire being, his thirty years of procrastination and inertia, and had given him a failing grade in existence. You had to be this tall to ride the god-emperor ride, and he was about three lifetimes too short.
He let out a long, weary sigh and continued to scroll. The list seemed endless, a testament to the System's absurd, maddening literalism.
[Apiarist]
[Arborist]
[Geologist]
[Linguist]
[Philosopher King (locked)]
[Sommelier]
[Zoologist]
Each class had only a vague, one-line description that offered no real insight into its skill tree, its late-game potential, or its synergy with other builds. It was a minefield of suboptimal choices. He paused on [Apiarist].
[Class: Apiarist. Unlocks abilities related to the cultivation and management of bee colonies.]
His mind raced, desperately trying to theory-craft a viable build. Okay, so maybe he could choose Apiarist. He could cultivate bee colonies. Maybe he could unlock a skill to summon a swarm of angry bees. Could he use a bee swarm to intimidate the mayor into canceling the corrupt paving contract? Was that a viable strategy for increasing a town's [Community Approval] rating? What was the cooldown on a bee swarm attack? Did bees do poison damage?
The sheer weight of the possibility was crushing. The System was offering him the chance to be anything, from a beekeeper to a sanitation engineer, and the freedom of that choice was a prison. In Vexlorn, there were ten classes, each with a clear, defined role. You could be a tank, a healer, or a DPS. The choices were simple, the paths well-trodden. This... this was... paralyzing.
His mind, which could flawlessly execute a twenty-step spell rotation against a dozen on-screen enemies while simultaneously monitoring three different cooldown timers, was completely and paralyzed by this single, monumental decision. The fear of making the wrong choice, of picking a suboptimal path, of gimping his one and only character for the rest of his life, was so great that he could not make any choice at all. He scrolled back and forth, his vision blurring, the names of the classes blending into an incomprehensible soup of mediocrity. Plumber? Arborist? Sous Chef?
It was too much.
With a low groan of mental exhaustion, he mentally slammed the "close" button on the [CLASSES] menu.
The screen vanished. The list of possibilities was gone. He was left in the familiar gloom of his bedroom, his heart pounding, his mind frazzled.
He would deal with it later. Procrastination, the one skill he had indisputably maxed out over a lifetime of dedicated practice, had won the day. The fate of the town could wait. He had to pick a class first. And that was a battle he was not yet ready to face.