<div>
Gale Harper woke to the insistent buzz of his phone, a cheap model with a cracked screen that vibrated against the warped wood of his nightstand. The sound drilled into his skull, sharp and grating, like a dentist’s tool on a nerve. He squinted at the glowing digits—6:45 a.m.—and let out a low groan, rattling deep in his throat, half protest, half surrender. His arm flopped out from under the thin, scratchy blanket, fumbling until his fingers silenced the alarm. Quiet settled, heavy and fleeting, though he knew it’d shatter again in nine minutes—same as every weekday for three years.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling of his one-bedroom apartment. A water stain bloomed in the corner, brown and splotchy, vaguely heart-shaped. Peeling plaster curled away in brittle flakes, dusting the scratched dresser below. The air carried a faint whiff of mildew and yesterday’s takeout—greasy noodles he’d eaten cold because the microwave was busted again. Gale rubbed his eyes, gritty with sleep, and swung his legs over the bed’s edge. The mattress creaked, springs whining under his six-foot frame, lean but soft from too many late-night snacks and not enough effort.
His socks slid against the cold linoleum—one blue with a faded stripe, the other gray with a hole where his big toe poked through. The floor stuck in spots—spilled coffee he hadn’t cleaned—and the flickering fluorescent buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow. He reached for the coffee maker, a dented thrift-store find, hissing as he poured water from a chipped pitcher. Grounds followed, scooped from a canister with a loose lid, releasing an earthy scent that cut through the staleness.
Coffee dripped slow and dark into a mug—“World’s Okayest Employee” in chipped red letters, a gag gift from a coworker he barely tolerated. Toast came next—he jiggled the cord of a squat, silver toaster until it ticked to life, popping in the last slice of a stale loaf. The kitchen smelled of burnt crumbs and brewing bitterness. He smeared the toast with the final scrapings of peanut butter, the knife clinking against the jar—dry, nutty, slightly stale.
Leaning against the counter, mug cradled in both hands, warmth seeped into his palms. Steam brushed his face, fogging his glasses briefly before he wiped them on his sleeve. His phone lit up—gas prices climbing again. He scrolled past headlines and a tax-form cat meme, the clock stuttering to 7:05—twenty minutes until Grayson & Sons, eight hours of spreadsheets in a cubicle reeking of burnt popcorn.
He finished his toast, crumbs dusting the counter, and drained the coffee, bitter dregs coating his tongue. Rinsing the mug, cold water left a sheen on the ceramic—his reflection showed hazel eyes, bloodshot, framed by messy brown hair needing a trim, stubble shadowing his jaw from laziness. Another thrilling day in paradise, he thought, sarcasm thick as he turned away.
Dressing was slow—a wrinkled button-up, light blue with a faint cuff stain, jeans faded at the knees, sneakers with fraying laces. His backpack held keys jingling on a worn keychain, a thin wallet, a whirring laptop. Earbuds—white, one side crackling—hummed lo-fi beats as he slung the bag over his shoulder, the strap digging in.
The apartment door clicked shut, lock sticking until he jiggled the key. The hallway smelled of stale cigarette smoke from Mrs. Delaney downstairs, carpet crunching with a sour tang of cheap air freshener. Three flights of stairs—metal railing cold and slick—led to the street, where the city woke with honks and sirens.
Outside, autumn air bit his cheeks, crisp with exhaust and wet leaves. Cars hissed on damp asphalt, headlights cutting the gray dawn. He walked three blocks to the crosswalk, breath puffing in clouds, lo-fi dulling shouts and bus whines. At 7:23, the light blinked red—he waited, sneakers scuffing cracked pavement, a pigeon pecking a soggy fry nearby. Green flashed, a sharp beep cutting through, and he stepped off—five steps, six, bass dropping—then the world erupted.
He didn’t hear the truck—a 19-year-old driver, texting about a late package, blew the red. The grille loomed, silver and relentless—a split-second flash—tires screeched, muffled by earbuds, a honk too late. Metal crushed flesh, a bone-shattering crunch swallowing the beat. Pain flared—white-hot, everywhere, a scream trapped—then black, cold, absolute.
<hr>
Gale didn’t expect to wake—not like this.
Awareness crept back, a tingling itch across a body he couldn’t feel. He floated in a vast void—endless shadow streaked with glowing lines, pulsing like cracks in reality. No ground, no sky—just cold, silent emptiness pressing in. His chest tightened—or would have. “Hello?” he called, voice thin, echoing. “Anyone? What is this?”
The lines flared, converging into a figure—tall, lean, cloaked in rippling shadow. Glyphs writhed across it—circles, slashes, hooks—like living tattoos. A hood hid its face, save for golden eyes glinting like coins. It crossed its arms, smirking invisibly.
“Well, well, well,” it drawled, rhythmic and mocking. “Look who finally dragged his sorry ass in. Took you long enough, Earth-boy. I was about to send a tow truck—oh, wait, too late for that.”
Gale grasped at memory—the crosswalk, the blur. “Who are you? Where am I? Am I… dead?”
The figure snorted, gravelly. “Dead? Buddy, you’re a smear on 5th Street—truck turned you into modern art—splat, crunch, finito. Should’ve dodged, but you were vibing too hard.” It mimed earbuds, eyes glinting.
Gale’s voice rose. “A truck? And you’re laughing?”
“Savoring the poetry,” it said, glyphs spelling “KAPOW” before fizzing out. “Not random, Gale Harper—that was me setting the stage. I’m Runicar, God of Runes, one of the Centum Divinae. Congrats, you’re my pick.”
“You killed me?” Gale’s thoughts spun. “On purpose?”
“‘Killed’ is dramatic—I relocated your soul with flair. You’re welcome—Earth was a snooze. Here’s the gig: every thousand years, me and my ninety-nine pals grab a hundred souls. You’re an Aspirant—get strong, master my power, ascend to godhood. One catch—ninety-nine others are in the race, each with a godly hype-man. One winner per cycle.”
“A competition?” Gale stammered. “And you’re my sponsor?”
“Bingo!” Runicar clapped, glyphs flashing “SMART GUY.” “I’m giving you rune crafting—scribble magic words, make stuff happen. Fuel’s energy crystals—magic, feelings, dead beasties. You’ll be a spell nerd if you don’t flop.”
“I’m an accountant! Why me?”
“Coin flip, boredom—doesn’t matter.” Runicar raised a hand, and Gale’s arm tingled, a rune coiling across his phantom skin—his Divine Sigil, glowing faintly. “My mark—don’t embarrass me.”
Gale stared at it. “Magic with this? Then what?”
“Fight eventually,” Runicar shrugged. “They’re scattered across Terestria—far apart at first. Kill stuff, level up, hit the Trial of Ascension—pass, duel a god, maybe me, take their spot. Fail, live long, die old—one winner per thousand years.”
“What if I say no?”
Runicar laughed, glyphs spelling “LOL.” “No? Truck’s hit, soul’s mine—ascend or bust. Don’t suck—I’ve got a rep.”
The void shook, Runicar waving as lines spiraled into a vortex. “Time’s up—write your destiny or let some punk do it. Tutorial’s coming, so don’t zone out, genius.”
“Wait—!” Light engulfed Gale, and he fell, slamming into something solid.
<hr>
He gasped, air flooding new lungs, sharp and cold. His eyes snapped open to a gray sky, wispy clouds drifting over a shallow valley. Cold stone pressed against his back, gritty with dew—ancient slabs ringed him, etched with humming runes, their buzz tingling his skin. His body felt different—alive, healthy, human but reborn—no creaky knees, no faint wheeze, just lean muscle and steady breath. He sat up, running hands over his arms—firm, smooth, no flab—EXP at 0/100, a blank slate.
A window flickered, hovering like a hologram:
[Welcome, Aspirant Gale Harper. Divine Sponsor: Runicar, God of Runes. Tutorial Initiated.]
Runicar’s voice crackled through, smug as ever. “Rise and shine, newbie! Ditched your sad Earth bod for a shiny new one—healthy, human, no refunds. You’re a blank slate, but you’ll beef up fast. Say ‘Open Status’—don’t mumble, I hate that.”
Gale swallowed, voice steady in his new throat. “Open Status.”
A glowing blue window appeared:
[Status: Gale Harper]
<ul>
<li>Level: 1</li>
<li>EXP: 0/100</li>
<li>Health: 100/100</li>
<li>Energy: 50/50</li>
<li>Stats:
<ul>
<li>Strength: 5</li>
<li>Endurance: 5</li>
<li>Dexterity: 5</li>
<li>Agility: 5</li>
<li>Vitality: 5</li>
<li>Wisdom: 5</li>
<li>Focus: 5</li>
<li>Intelligence: 5</li>
<li>Charisma: 5</li>
<li>Appearance: 5</li>
<li>Luck: 5</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Unspent Points: 0</li>
<li>Abilities: Crystal Manifestation (Rank 1)</li>
<li>Skills: Rune Etching (Rank 1)</li>
</ul>
“Stats?” Gale thought, scanning the list—EXP at 0, a game’s beginning. Runicar chuckled. “Level 1—total scrub—kill stuff, do quests, level up—100 for the first rung, scales after. Each level gives 5 points—Strength for muscle, Endurance for grit, Dexterity for finesse, Agility for zip, Vitality for not croaking, Wisdom for smarts, Focus for your crystal gig, Intelligence for brainiac stuff, Charisma for sweet-talking, Appearance for pretty-boy vibes, Luck for dice rolls. Your body shifts—bulk up with Strength, glow with Appearance—distribute those 5 points, say ‘Assign’ and pick.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Gale frowned, flexing his hands—new, calloused but firm. “Assign—2 to Focus, 1 to Endurance, 1 to Dexterity, 1 to Vitality.”
The window updated:
<ul>
<li>Focus: 5 → 7</li>
<li>Endurance: 5 → 6</li>
<li>Dexterity: 5 → 6</li>
<li>Vitality: 5 → 6</li>
<li>Energy: 50/60</li>
</ul>
A rush tingled through him—breath deepened, fingers nimbler, mind clearer. “Holy crap,” he breathed—EXP still 0/100.
“Neat trick, huh?” Runicar chuckled. “Next, your starter: Crystal Manifestation—energy crystals fuel runes, pop up in Terestria’s high-mana zones, guarded by nasties that’d chew you up. Lucky you, I gave you a shortcut—spend Energy to pull ambient magic into crystals, Focus cuts cost, boosts yield—try it, say ‘Manifest Crystal.’”
Gale glanced at his Energy—50/60. “Manifest Crystal.”
The Sigil flared, a warm pulse up his arm—Energy dropped to 45, a tiny crystal shimmering into being, clear and pulsing. “That’s it?” he asked, skeptical.
“Don’t whine, it’s Rank 1—level it, pump Focus, churn out bigger ones,” Runicar snapped. “Last step: skill—Rune Etching’s yours, 10% faster scribbling—or Basic Combat, less sucking with that dagger—say ‘Select’ and choose.”
Gale eyed the rusty dagger nearby. “Select Rune Etching.”
[Skill Selected: Rune Etching (Rank 1) - 10% more accurate rune crafting]
“Not the dumbest pick,” Runicar said. “Tutorial’s over—dagger, crystal, half a brain—use ‘em. Ninety-nine others are out there—move it.”
The windows vanished, leaving Gale alone, EXP at 0/100, Energy at 45/60—Terestria’s hills loomed, 99 rivals waited. He gripped the dagger, muttering, “Write my destiny—jackass.”
The wind whistled, hills looming afar. Ninety-nine rivals waited. Gale exhaled, gripping the dagger. “Guess I’m in it now.”
<div>
Gale sat on the cold stone slab, the dagger resting across his knees, its chipped blade catching the faint light of the overcast sky. The valley stretched around him, a shallow bowl of gray-green grass and weathered rock, bordered by ancient slabs that loomed like silent sentinels. Their surfaces bore runes—faint, eroded carvings that hummed with a low, resonant buzz, tickling the air against his skin. The wind carried a sharp, earthy scent—damp soil and distant pine—whistling softly through the gaps between the stones. His new body felt foreign yet alive, every breath deep and steady, every muscle taut with untested potential. The Divine Sigil on his forearm glowed faintly beneath his sleeve, a coiled glyph pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The translucent windows had vanished, Runicar’s smug voice fading into memory, leaving Gale alone with the dagger, the tiny energy crystal hovering an inch above the stone, and a mind buzzing with more questions than answers. He stared at the crystal—clear, no bigger than a grape, its surface shimmering with a soft, inner light. It bobbed gently, as if caught in an invisible current, a tangible piece of the madness he’d been thrust into. “Write my destiny,” he muttered, echoing Runicar’s parting shot. “Yeah, sure. Jackass didn’t even say how.”
He reached out, fingers brushing the crystal’s smooth edge. It was cool, solid yet weightless, and settled into his palm with a faint tingle, like static on a winter day. Gale turned it over, inspecting it closely—analytical by habit, a holdover from spotting discrepancies in spreadsheets at Grayson & Sons. It was something, at least. Fuel, Runicar had called it, for rune crafting—whatever that meant. He glanced at the dagger, its rust-pocked steel dull but sturdy. If he was stuck here—and he was, truck-splat and all—he’d need to figure this out. Not because he wanted to play god-games, but because doing nothing wasn’t an option. Not with ninety-nine others out there, each with their own edge.
Gale exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the wind’s chill ground him. Back home, he’d been a junior accountant, a cog in a machine that didn’t care. But he’d always been cleverer than the job let on—catching errors in budgets no one else noticed, tweaking formulas to save time, outsmarting the system quietly. It never got him anywhere there. Here, though, it might. Here, he’d make it count.
“Okay,” he said, voice low but firm, determination flickering to life. “Step one: don’t die again. Step two: crack this system.” He tapped the dagger against the stone, a soft clink echoing in the quiet. The Sigil warmed, a subtle nudge, but Runicar’s tutorial had been light on details—crystals, runes, stats, no real how-to. Gale’s brow furrowed, analytical gears turning. He needed more than vague taunts. The status menu had popped up before—maybe it held answers.
“Open Status,” he said, testing it again. The familiar window flickered into view:
[Status: Gale Harper]
<ul>
<li>Level: 1</li>
<li>Health: 100/100</li>
<li>Energy: 45/60</li>
<li>Stats:
<ul>
<li>Strength: 5 (Muscle power, lifting capacity)</li>
<li>Endurance: 6 (Stamina, fatigue resistance)</li>
<li>Dexterity: 6 (Hand-eye coordination, precision)</li>
<li>Agility: 5 (Speed, reflexes)</li>
<li>Vitality: 6 (Health, regeneration)</li>
<li>Wisdom: 5 (Insight, intuition)</li>
<li>Focus: 7 (Mental clarity, energy efficiency)</li>
<li>Intelligence: 5 (Problem-solving, memory)</li>
<li>Charisma: 5 (Charm, persuasion)</li>
<li>Appearance: 5 (Physical attractiveness)</li>
<li>Luck: 5 (Chance, fortune)</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Unspent Points: 0</li>
<li>Abilities: Crystal Manifestation (Rank 1)</li>
<li>Skills: Rune Etching (Rank 1)</li>
</ul>
The numbers glowed, a framework he could shape. “Not bad for a dead guy,” he murmured, but his eyes lingered on the bottom—Abilities, Skills. Crystal Manifestation he’d used, draining Energy to make that pebble-sized crystal. Rune Etching promised faster crafting, but how did he craft? Runicar had said “scribble magic words,” but which words? How? The Sigil pulsed, as if mocking his confusion.
Gale tilted his head, scanning the window’s edges. A faint tab glowed in the corner—three horizontal lines, like a menu icon. “Huh,” he said, cleverness sparking. “More options?” He focused on it, willing it to expand, and it did, unfolding into a sidebar:
[Menu Options]
<ul>
<li>Status</li>
<li>Rune Lexicon</li>
<li>Ascension Guide</li>
<li>Inventory (Empty)</li>
</ul>
“Rune Lexicon?” Gale said aloud, intrigued. He focused on it, and a new window slid open:
[Rune Lexicon]
<ul>
<li>Description: Contains the 1,000 most-used words in your native tongue (English), paired with their divine runes. Combine 2-5 words to craft effects, fueled by energy crystals. Sigil activation required.</li>
<li>Sample Entries:
<ul>
<li>Fire [?] - Ignites or heats.</li>
<li>Cut [?] - Slices or severs.</li>
<li>Strong [?] - Enhances power or durability.</li>
<li>Light [?] - Illuminates or glows.</li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Note: Full list accessible via mental query. Experimentation encouraged.</li>
</ul>
Gale’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Okay, that’s something.” A dictionary of magic words, each tied to a rune he could etch. He tested it mentally—sharp—and a jagged spiral glyph flashed in his mind: [?]. “So I’ve got a toolbox,” he said, filing it away. “But how do I use it?” The Lexicon hinted at combining words, but the mechanics were still fuzzy. He’d need to test it, hypothesize, refine—analytical to the core.
He switched to the next tab. “Ascension Guide,” he said, and another window appeared:
[Ascension Guide]
<ul>
<li>Objective: Ascend to godhood by replacing a member of the Centum Divinae.</li>
<li>Process:
<ol>
<li>Gain Experience (EXP) through combat, quests, or crafting to increase your Level. No maximum Level exists—growth is infinite.</li>
<li>Each Level grants 5 Stat Points to distribute, enhancing your body and mind.</li>
<li>At Level 100 (minimum), you may attempt the Trial of Ascension—a divine test of your sponsor’s domain. Success grants a duel against a seated god.</li>
<li>Victory in the duel secures your ascension. Only one Aspirant ascends per 1,000-year cycle; others live extended mortal lives based on Vitality and Level.</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>Current Cycle: 99 rivals active. Time remaining: 999 years, 364 days.</li>
</ul>
Gale leaned back, processing. “No max level,” he murmured, “but 100’s the gate.” A hundred levels to climb—daunting, but not impossible. EXP from fighting, quests, crafting—he could work with that. His cleverness flared: crafting might be his edge, safer than brawling monsters he wasn’t ready for. The timer—nearly a millennium—meant no rush, but ninety-nine rivals meant competition. One would hit 100 first, and he’d need to be ready.
He dismissed the windows, mind buzzing. The Lexicon gave him words, the Guide gave him goals. Now, the dagger. He held the crystal against its blade, near the hilt, and hesitated. “Let’s see what happens,” he said, determination steadying his voice. The Sigil warmed, and he focused, picturing cut [?] and sharp [?] from the Lexicon. “Cut Sharp,” he said, tentative.
The Sigil flared, heat surging up his arm, and a glow traced his fingertips. His hand moved—clumsy at first, Dexterity at 6 steadying it—and scratched two runes into the steel. Cut emerged as a jagged slash with a hooked tail, Sharp as a pointed spiral. The crystal pulsed, then dissolved into motes of light, sinking into the runes. A soft crack sounded, and the blade shimmered, its edge gleaming sharper.
Gale blinked, testing it against the stone. It scraped a thin line, deeper than the rust should’ve allowed. “Well, damn,” he said, a spark of satisfaction flickering. He didn’t know the full system—trial and error had worked—but he’d cracked the basics. Cleverness paid off, and he’d refine it further.
“Manifest Crystal,” he said, curious. Energy dipped to 40, and another tiny crystal formed. The valley’s magic was thin—not a “high-mana zone” with natural crystals and monsters he couldn’t face. His ability was his lifeline, tied to Focus and Energy. He pocketed the crystal, its glow dimming in his jeans—Earth clothes, somehow still with him.
The valley felt quieter now, the wind sharper. No birds, just the slabs’ hum and distant hills. Gale stood, stretching his new legs, feeling their subtle strength. Ninety-nine others were out there, each with their own gods. He wasn’t a fighter—not yet—but he’d outthink them. Determination hardened: he wouldn’t lose to this world.
“Level 100’s the first hurdle,” he said, gripping the dagger. “One step at a time.” A trampled grass trail wound east toward the hills—a path, maybe to answers. He paused by a slab, tracing its ancient rune—a coiled loop, unfamiliar. “Something to decode later,” he murmured, analytical mind ticking.
With dagger in hand and crystal in pocket, Gale started down the trail, wind at his back.