Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve: Unavailable

The messages window promptly opened a web browser. It could have been designed by Google, except it was remarkably uncluttered. One tab, no menus, no bookmarks, no toolbar—okay, maybe it wasn’t that much like a browser.

It was just a basic white screen with a scroll bar on the right.

While I watched, fireworks began shooting all over the window and outside it. Super weird, very colorful, kind of pretty, but definitely not paying any attention at all to the boundaries of the window.

The words, “Congratulations on reaching Level One!” floated up the screen.

Was I watching a PowerPoint presentation?

The fireworks were still exploding around the window when it hit me.

Not a message or a sound, but a sensation that started in my chest and radiated outward like I'd just chugged the world's most effective energy drink. Warmth spread through my limbs, chasing away the bone-deep exhaustion that had been settling into my muscles for the past couple of hours.

My knee, which had been sending up steady complaints every time I shifted position, suddenly went quiet. Not just quiet—it felt good. Better than good. I flexed it experimentally and felt nothing but smooth, pain-free movement.

"Whoa…” I breathed, rolling my shoulders. The aches from swinging Warden's Edge like a sledgehammer were gone, too. The random bruises from falling on my butt, crawling in the dirt, yanking myself out of the way of a crossbow bolt or two—all gone.

I felt like I'd had the best meal of my life, followed by the best night’s sleep of my life, followed by a day luxuriating around the pool. Which was deeply unsettling, because ten seconds ago I'd been just about ready to fall over from exhaustion.

The words in front of my eyes went spinning off to the side exactly like the kind of PowerPoint presentations my classmates used to do in college. My physical aches and pains were completely gone, but I closed my eyes in a brief moment of mental pain. I suspected the System was trying to communicate with me using the metaphors best suited to my brain, but really, PowerPoint?

The spinning text settled into the center of the screen, now reading “Welcome to Your New Life!” in a font that looked like it belonged on a motivational poster.

Then an animated figure appeared—a cartoon person with an unnaturally bright smile and perfectly symmetrical features. It waved at me with the enthusiasm of a plastic, battery-operated, maneki-neko, that white Japanese cat figurine.

“Hi there, new System participant!” the avatar chirped in a voice that somehow managed to sound both peppy and robotic. “You’ve just taken your first step towards surviving in the multiverse. Congratulations!”

I stared at the screen. The System had created a mascot. A perky life coach to walk me through my brain modification options.

“At Level 1, you get to make some important choices that will shape your entire future! First up is your class! Think of it as choosing your specialty, your calling, your path to greatness!”

Five icons appeared on screen, each with its own little animation. A sword for warrior, a fireball for mage, a bow for ranger, a dagger for rogue, and something that looked like a shepherd’s staff for… cleric, maybe?

“Each class comes with unique abilities and growth opportunities. Just click on any class to learn more about your potential future paths!”

I clicked on warrior, mostly to see what would happen.

The cheerful mascot’s smile didn’t waver, but a big red “Unavailable” stamp appeared over the warrior icon with an almost apologetic thunk sound.

“Oops! Looks like that one’s not right for you! But don’t worry: your perfect class awaits.”

I was going to kill this cartoon person. Somehow. Even though it wasn’t real.

I clicked on the mage icon. Mage was better than warrior, anyway. The big red “Unavailable” stamp appeared again.

“Oops! Looks like that one’s not right for you! But don’t worry: your perfect class awaits,” the avatar repeated, word-for-word.

“Oh, my God,” I muttered. “This thing hates me.”

I didn’t want to be a ranger. A bow and arrow? I couldn’t even toss my paper towel into the trash can half the time. Good news, the system didn’t think that was right for me.

I wasn’t excited about being a rogue, either. Stealth might be fun, but I didn’t think of myself as the back-stabbing type. Plus, it didn’t go with my shovel.

No worries, the system agreed with me. Another Unavailable stamp.

I held my breath before clicking that last icon. I was completely unsuited to being a cleric. The only time I mentioned God was to take his name in vain. Clerics ought to be healers, though, and that might be okay.

Unavailable.

“What does it say?” Jack asked. He must have seen my reaction on my face, because he was leaning away from his tree trunk, his own expression urgent.

“They’re all unavailable,” I said numbly. Disassociation was getting a workout. “I can’t choose a class.”

“Can you assign your attributes?” he asked. “Check your profile.”

I blew out a careful breath. If you’ve ever dealt with a customer support specialist trying to work you through some technical problem when they can’t see your screen, you know how exactly how I felt.

“How did it work for you?” I asked.

“I selected mage and then it gave me a few options,” Jack replied. “I picked fire right away, but I think earth and ice were my other choices. Then I had three abilities to select from. Fire ball, which is what I took, and fire armor, and a fire arrow. I got three attribute points, two that went automatically into intelligence and one free. Then leveled up again, same deal with the attribute points. It was all straightfoward.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I shrugged. “All of the classes are unavailable, so I don’t know what to do next.”

“Try saying help,” Jack suggested.

I did not quite glare at him. Like, it was maybe a scowl? But not quite a glare.

“Help,” I said flatly. I couldn’t believe Jack thought that would work. Since when had the System been helpful?

The perky mascot froze. Its cheerful smile stayed plastered across its face, but its head tilted to the side. “Confirming,” it said, in a completely different voice. “Standard progression path terminated. Initiating adaptive attribute allocation level one.”

The list I’d seen before popped into view.

Physical

Strength - 2

Agility - 3

Endurance - 2

Mental

Intelligence - 4

Perception - 6

Resilience - 6

X-Factor

Presence - 3

Serendipity - 3

Will - 5

And then it changed. Just a little. The very last number switched from 5 to 10.

I blinked at it.

“What is it?” Jack said. “Something happened. I can see it.”

“Um, yeah,” I started, just as the System said, “Attribute allocation complete. Trait ‘No Means No’ unlocked. Please confirm level advancement.”

“Confirm?” I said, hesitantly.

The perky mascot vanished, the white screen came back, and the fireworks started up again. Congratulations on reaching Level Two! Appeared in the middle of the display.

The fireworks kept going for a few seconds, and then the screen sort of futzed for a bit, like a streaming service losing connection, the fireworks stopping, then starting up again. The mascot didn’t reappear, but the words, “Select your…” faded in, then faded out.

Then the words “Standard progression path terminated. Initiating adaptive attribute allocation, Level Two,” appeared, followed by my attributes list.

“Oh, this is so weird,” I muttered, watching intently. At least it was increasing my attributes. I mean that had to be a good thing, right?

At Level Two, the System added 4 to my Resilience score, and 1 to my Perception score. It finished with, “Attribute allocation complete. Trait ‘Shake It Off,’ unlocked. Please confirm level advancement.”

At Level Three, it gave me 3 more in Perception and 2 in Serendipity. It finished with, “Attribute allocation complete. Trait ‘Eyes Wide Open’ unlocked. Please confirm level advancement.”

At Level Four, the System added 5 to Serendipity, and unlocked the trait, Lucky Break.

I was feeling a little breathless when I confirmed my level advancement to level five. Okay, so I didn’t have a class or an ability, but all these attributes and traits were adding up. I wanted to pause and look at what the traits were and what they did, but I also wanted to find out where the System was going with this.

Same fireworks, same congratulations, but the perky mascot was back for about three seconds, just long enough to say, “We consider the fifth level to be a milestone.” And then it froze, vanished, and the message, “Standard progression path terminated,” appeared yet again. This time, it wasn’t immediately followed with that business about initiating adaptive attribute allocation. Instead, the white window just stayed empty while I waited.

And waited.

Patience is not one of my virtues. It felt like hours. It was maybe twenty seconds. Just long enough for me to start shifting uncomfortably, and for Jack to ask, his voice low and worried, “Are you okay?”

Then the familiar [Alert, Alert, Alert] appeared, followed by:

Class not selected.

Ability not selected.

Class assigned.

Ability available for selection.

I took a deep breath, a little shaky. Was the system just messing with me? I didn’t pick a class, so it picked one for me. Arbitrary, annoying, asshole behavior.

I’d been busy. I’d had things to do, goblins to kill, forests to explore.

If I thought it would mean anything, I’d give it the finger. But if life had taught me one painful lesson, it was that when you think the system is messing with you, you should really just smile politely and get out if you can. I was looking forward to getting the hell out of this stupid scenario.

Then I remembered mana-crazed squirrels and combustion no longer working, and the expectation that millions, probably billions, of people were going to die. I grimaced. There was no getting out.

I just hoped the System hadn’t decided I should be a cleric, because that was really not my style.

I didn’t get a little cartoon icon to tell me about my new class, just more words.

Assessed initial responses, prior interactions, combat behaviors, participant relationships, resource management, system adaptation.

Analysis completed.

Defensive Honor recorded. Title, First Defender.

Companion animal affiliation recognized: Soul-bond with Zelda, Loyal Heart.

Reluctant heroism demonstrated: inadvertent acceptance of challenge scenario.

Creativity under pressure observed: improvised weapons mastery and adaptive strategy demonstrated under duress.

Achievements earned:

Wield the Wild: Defeated superior foe (5+ levels) using botanical or plant-based weaponry.

Mercy to the Fallen: Life-saving aid rendered to a former adversary.

Attribute minimums achieved:

Extreme Stubbornness: Will 10+; ‘No Means No’ trait active

Bounce Before Breaking: Resilience 10+; ‘Shake It Off’ trait unlocked

Refusal to Look Away: Perception 10+; ‘Eyes Wide Open’ trait unlocked

Lucky Beyond Belief: Serendipity 10+; ‘Lucky Break’ trait unlocked

Assigned class: Thorn’s Edge Guardian.

Epic-tier, unique class.

Requirements: Soul-bond, Defender title, Will 10+, Resilience 10+, botanical synergy.

A protector rooted in defiance and resilience, the Thorn’s Edge Guardian stands between the world and its undoing. Drawing strength from deep bonds, creativity under pressure, and a refusal to yield, this class wields both the ordinary and the wild as weapons.

The Thorn's Edge Guardian specializes in creating impenetrable defensive zones using both martial prowess and nature magic. They excel at area denial and turning any environment into a fortress.

Class abilities focus on defense, restoration, improvisation, and the redirection of harm. The Guardian’s power flourishes at the boundary—where things break, where others would turn away, where hope clings like a thorn.

Unique evolution: Class abilities and traits adapt to the Guardian’s choices, companions, and environment.

Abilities:

Passive: Verdant Sanctuary—Territory under Guardian protection develops natural defenses over time.

Passive: Bond Amplification—Soul-bonded companions receive significant stat bonuses and shared abilities.

Please select additional active abilities now.

I blinked at it, and read it again. Slowly. Then a third time.

“You’re killing me here,” Jack muttered.

“I’m not a cleric,” I said, feeling… well, like that disassociation skill had kicked in again.

“Oh.” He sounded the tiniest bit disappointed and I shot him a glance.

“No, no,” he said, hastily, putting a hand up. “You do you. No complaints. Just—” The hand gestured toward his burns, and the corner of his mouth twitched, half wry smile, half grimace. “I’m sure there’s another healing potion out there somewhere.”

Jack had a tree trunk behind him, where he’d been leaning ever since I dragged him over to it earlier, but I’d been sitting nearby, legs outstretched, Zelda coming and going around us. She was currently asleep next to me, head tucked just by my good leg, but I lifted the bad one a couple inches off the ground, then bent it toward my chest.

“You don’t need a potion, dude. You just need to kill a few of those goblins and level up again. I feel like I could party all night long now.”

His jaw dropped. “Leveling up heals you?”

I nodded.

He punched the air. “Yes! I guess I didn’t notice when I leveled up. I wasn’t hurt and I was running pretty hot.” He looked in the direction from which the goblins had been coming, then made an expression that I could tell was him checking out his own countdown clock. “I wonder how many of those goblins I’d need to kill.”

“The lowest level ones gave me either 27 or 28 XP.”

“27 or 28?”

“Yeah. Alternating.”

“So really 27.5, and you get the full point when you add the two halves together.”

Oh. I’d wondered, but I’d sort of assumed it was random, just one goblin being a tiny bit different better than the other. Maybe having sharper teeth or something.

“Can you tell me the XP for any other levels?”

“Sure.” I went back into my imaginary messages interface, scrolled around the messages and reported the numbers to him. Sixty for level two, 97 and 98 for level three, 140 for level four.

Jack picked up a loose stick and started scrawling numbers into the mossy ground, so I returned to my class.

Thorn’s Edge Guardian.

I didn’t want to tell Jack, but I was pretty sure it was better than a mage.