The Call was something that started several hundred years ago.
Tim had read about it in the digital archives of his new world… pages that spoke about humanity's downfall in the same sterile tone that history books used to describe wars.
But it wasn't just some distant myth. It was the reason this world even existed in its current, shattered form.
According to the records, Earth had been thriving back then.
The year was 2160.
Humanity had finally conquered disease, climate change was being reversed, and technology was reaching levels that could only be described as divine.
Artificial intelligence managed cities.
Nanotech rebuilt bodies.
People believed they had reached perfection.
And then, without warning, the first gate opened.
The first Call.
Thousands of people suddenly fell asleep mid-step, mid-conversation, mid-life… and never woke up the same again.
Their souls were dragged to a world that could only be described as apocalyptic… a place ruled by chaos, monsters, and survival.
That was the first recorded incident, and it changed everything humanity knew about existence.
Ever since then, the Call had become a part of life… an unpredictable curse that no one could escape. Some people were never called however they could be killed by people who had failed their call.
Life was just like an inevitable prison.
Tim sighed as he recalled some words that an Awakener had told him a month ago.
"When one gets Called to the Apocalypse, they awaken a Class which certifies them as an Awakener. However, when you die there… you die forever."
There was no respawn.
There was no second chance.
Death in the Call meant your physical body in the real world would twist into something monstrous… something that was barely human.
The twisted corpses of the dead were known as Abominations… creatures that carried the echo of human memories but none of their souls.
Their bodies attacked anything living, spreading fear across the remaining world, and also alongside the countless dungeon gates as well.
Still, on the bright side… if you survived, life after the Call wasn't all bad.
Those who made it back became Initiates.
The lowest rank of Awakeners.
And even Initiates were valuable.
They earned around 15,000 credits per month, which was considered high-class living in the Supercities.
Tim gave a small, hollow laugh. "Fifteen thousand credits a month for surviving hell. What a deal."
He leaned back in the strange white void he was trapped in.
He wondered if there was an Awakener watching over his body in the real world, just like in the news.
But then he remembered how expensive it was to hire one.
Only the rich could afford such a thing.
He frowned. "Yeah… no way Lina could pay for that."
Just thinking about her made his chest tighten.
'I hope Lina's fine,' he thought.
She must've been panicking, seeing him collapse out of nowhere. He could almost imagine her face… those soft eyes filled with worry, her voice trembling as she called for help.
He hated it.
And he also hated the thought of her suffering even for a second.
He exhaled and shook his head.
'Focus, Tim.'
If he wanted to see her again, he had to survive.
And maybe, if he did survive, he'd finally have an excuse to rest his head between those heavenly breasts of hers.
A grin tugged at his lips at the thought… Motivation was motivation.
But the moment didn't last long.
[You will now be sent into the Apocalypse.]
His pulse quickened and the white world around him shattered like glass.
Everything went dark.
He blinked once and found himself lying on his back.
But this wasn't a field.
It looked like one at first glance, but the grass wasn't green. It was ash.
Gray ash that crumbled beneath his fingers when he touched it. The air smelled of burnt earth, and a cold breeze that made a chill run down his spine.
He sat up slowly.
His breathing came out shaky as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
"What the hell…"
He looked down at himself and froze.
He wasn't wearing his normal clothes anymore. Gone were his jeans and shirt. In their place were medieval robes which were oversized and heavy stitched with strange patterns that glowed a bit.
The entire scene felt too real.
The cold air, the texture of the ash, even the tremor in the ground beneath him… it was all there.
He turned his head and instantly regretted it.
At his foot was a human skull.
Its hollow sockets stared up at him like an empty warning. The jaw was cracked, half-buried in the ash.
Tim backed away instinctively.
"Holy shit—"
He swallowed hard. "Okay… okay, don't panic."
This was the Call.
The real thing.
His mind raced. 'If I remember right… I should be getting my Class around this time.'
That's what the records said… no one started their Apocalypse until their Class manifested.
That was the rule so he waited.
[Ding!]
[Your Class is being chosen…]
He blinked at the glowing blue text that appeared in the air.
His heart skipped.
"Oh thank god." He immediately sat properly and clasped his hands together in a makeshift prayer pose.
"Please give me a good one… please…"
His voice trembled.
He'd read enough to know how much Class affected survival.
It wasn't random… not entirely but it was influenced by compatibility.
If someone's soul resonated with combat energy, they got a fighter's class.
If their soul was in tune with life essence, they became healers.
And if they were unlucky enough to draw something unstable… well, that was another story.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.
Classes were divided into three kinds, each one crucial to humanity's survival.
The first were Combat Classes, which, as the name implied, dealt directly with fighting… physical or magical.
Swordsmen, Mages, Archers… these were the people who faced the Apocalypse head-on.
The second were Support Classes, those who handled defense, healing, or reinforcement.
They weren't as flashy as Combat types, but without them, teams crumbled.
Some Support Classes even specialized in crafting and logistics.
He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Tailor was technically a Support Class.
How did tailors survive in the apocalypse? He wondered but there was no public answer...
And lastly there were the Mystic Classes.
These were strange, rare, and dangerous.
They didn't fight in the usual sense.
Their abilities were spiritual like dealing with souls, minds, or the unseen.
Necromancers, Warlocks, Oracles… their power operated on a different level.
Tim licked his lips nervously.
"All in all," he muttered, "the rarer your class, the harder your Apocalypse."
That was the cruelest part of it.
A swordsman and a necromancer could never have the same kind of fight.
The stronger your potential, the deadlier the trial you faced.
He exhaled deeply and lowered his hands. "Let's just get it over with."
[Ding!]
[The Dead Call Your Name.]
[You have become a Monarch's Chosen.]
[Unique Class has been awakened…]
[You have received Unique Class: Dark Necromancer.]
Tim froze.
Every word that appeared before him sank like a stone in his chest.
His throat went dry.
He dropped to his knees, staring up at the sky or what passed for one.
The ashen clouds above him swirled slowly, and faint black motes of light drifted through the air like dying embers.
'Oh lord… I'm cooked.'
He tilted his head back and stared into the endless ashen sky, a single tear sliding down his face.