Chapter 7: "I Can't Even Pick a Class in Peace"
(In which Chris questions life, game design, and how many fantasy classes one dimension truly needs)
So I thought we had our team. A trio of questionable mental states and varying combat usefulness: me, Diana, and Felix. We weren't exactly Team Rocket, but we had charm, we had heart, and… okay fine, we had zero synergy, but we were trying, okay?
And then came the blur.
I didn't even see the guy at first—just heard the stomp-stomp-STOMP of fast, determined footsteps like someone was speed-running across marble.
Next thing I knew, bam—there was a wooden sword inches from my nose, held by a kid who looked like he'd just finished a GQ photoshoot during a training montage.
"Hey, loser," he growled.
"Hi?" I said automatically, then paused. "Wait, do I know you—?"
And then Diana stepped in, laughing way too brightly. "Oh. Heyyy, look who showed up! My adorable baby brother!"
Adorable.
Yeah, no. This kid was terrifying.
He was, what—thirteen? But looked like he'd already written a thesis on "Why Older Sisters Have Terrible Taste in Friends."
Sleek black hair, sharper cheekbones than most adult models, and eyes like he was sizing up whether he could beat me in a duel with one arm tied behind his back. (Spoiler: he absolutely could.)
"Chris," he said, voice dripping with contempt and possibly suppressed trauma, "where's my money?"
…Oh.
That kid.
"Uhhh," I began, suddenly remembering a very regrettable pizza bet and an even more regrettable double-or-nothing game of virtual dodgeball. "That $199 was supposed to be metaphorical."
He raised the sword slightly.
"Metaphorical interest is now $250."
Diana just laughed and gave him a pat on the shoulder, like he wasn't currently threatening my life over what might've been a truly fantastic slice of pepperoni three months ago.
"This is Alex," she said. "My baby bro. Isn't he cute?"
Alex turned the sword slightly. "I'm not cute. I'm your insurance."
Felix raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now. Maybe he sensed a fellow misanthrope.
"Wait, wait," I said, putting my hands up, trying not to flinch from the wooden weapon. "What are you doing here? Isn't this a game for like—adults? With bills and cynicism?"
Alex rolled his eyes like I had just asked why the sky was blue. "Magic doesn't care about age. It picked me. Not my fault I was born better."
I felt a powerful urge to trip him.
He turned to Diana. "You were about to join a team without me?"
Diana blinked. "I didn't even know you got summoned, kid!"
"Didn't matter. You were supposed to assume I would," he muttered darkly.
Oh, great. He had main character energy.
Before we could say anything else, Alex flicked his bracelet—same as ours—and linked it with Diana's.
A bright green light pulsed between them.
Teammates.
Then he turned to me.
"...Fine," he grumbled. "You can join too. As long as you keep three sword-lengths away from my sister."
Diana rolled her eyes. "He's not into me, Alex."
"I'm into my money back," he snapped, still glaring.
And then—click. He tapped his bracelet to mine.
Another green pulse.
I was in.
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I tried again. "So, uh, what's your power?"
He jabbed a finger toward his sword. "Trigger-based. I can channel energy into any weapon I wield. Mostly blades. Gives them slicing force, impact, shockwaves—you name it."
Then, right in front of us, his wooden sword hummed. A glowing blue aura surrounded the edge, buzzing like a lightsaber on a budget.
He slashed once, and a nearby bench exploded into splinters. (RIP to that bench. It died bravely.)
"That... is awesome," I muttered.
"Yeah," he said. "Unlike your power, which I assume is losing at Mario Kart and owing people money."
Diana put a hand on his shoulder. "Alex. Be nice."
Alex looked me dead in the eye and said, "I am being nice. I didn't say he was useless. Yet."
Felix had to turn away to hide his smirk.
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So, turns out Diana's little brother Alex wasn't just a walking haircut ad with a vendetta against me and a frankly terrifying affinity for wooden weapons. He was also level 20.
Level. Twenty.
Same as me.
Which was the exact number where you could say "I'm not totally useless," but not nearly enough to go toe-to-toe with a Chaos Beast without screaming halfway through. In other words, he was competent—but not unbeatable.
Thank you, universe.
"I'll let you lead," Alex said, like he was doing me a huge favor and not just trying to avoid paperwork.
I blinked. "Wait. Seriously? You don't want to be leader?"
He shrugged and tossed his wooden sword from hand to hand like it was a pencil. "Leading is boring. I just wanna hit stuff. You make the decisions, I'll clean up."
Diana looked at me and gave a dramatic gasp. "Chris! The heavens have smiled upon you!"
"I know," I muttered. "Praise be to whatever eldritch game-dev Immortal that dropped us in here."
Felix, as usual, remained unreadable. But he gave me the tiniest nod of approval, which I assumed was his way of saying "You are slightly less disappointing than I expected."
So, we had a team.
I was officially the leader.
Which sounded cool, until you realized that meant I was responsible for keeping a teenage sword prodigy, an emotionally evasive dark mage girl, and a possibly feral silent ninja alive.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well. About that.
Not five minutes later, a couple of hot-headed players nearby decided they were too cool for rules and started sparring like they were auditioning for a live-action anime reboot.
Big mistake.
ZAP.
I kid you not—glowing ethereal chains shot out of nowhere, wrapped around both their bodies like magical handcuffs, and then—
ZZZZTTT!
They lit up like a pair of human glow sticks.
I'm not exaggerating. These guys got roasted by actual divine tasers.
One screamed something like, "This isn't fair!"
The other just passed out with his tongue sticking out like a cartoon character.
A floating message appeared over their heads:
❌ Combat in Safe Zones is Forbidden.
☠ Violators Will Be Restrained and Disciplined.
🔌 Electricity Builds Character.
We all collectively took a step back.
Alex turned to me and nodded thoughtfully. "I was going to duel you. Good thing I didn't."
"Yeah," I said. "You'd be doing the Macarena in midair by now."
Diana whistled. "Guess that's why no one's tried pickpocketing."
Felix finally spoke, just a low whisper:
"Smart system. Prevents team betrayal and chaos escalation. Hm."
Right. Of course he liked it. Probably reminded him of some shadow organization's rulebook.
I looked around the palace's massive hall again—the first safe zone of this bizarre magical Hunger Games. People were finally settling in, organizing, forming alliances, trying to understand their bracelets, or failing to read the fine print and regretting life.
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Let me just say this right away: picking a class in a death game is way harder than picking your high school electives. At least back then, the worst that could happen was ending up in Advanced Geometry and crying in the bathroom after your first test. Here? Choose wrong and I might be the guy whose role is "screams bait" on the battlefield.
So yeah, no pressure.
The moment our team was assembled (Felix the human shadow, Diana the tar-slinger, and Alex the murder child with a wooden sword and a personal vendetta against my bank account), I called a huddle.
"We're level 20," I said, keeping my tone casual even though I was internally screaming. "And that sounds cool until you remember this game goes up to 200. So basically, we're toddlers with pointy sticks."
Ren—Alex, sorry, still getting used to not calling him The Demon With the Blade—rolled his eyes. "Speak for yourself."
"I am speaking for myself," I shot back. "And as your very grateful leader, I want us to all check if anything's changed now that we've leveled up. Powers tend to evolve, remember?"
Diana nodded. "Right. We might've unlocked new skills or, hopefully, the ability to not die in one hit."
Even Felix gave a slow blink of agreement, which I interpreted as "yes, Captain." Or possibly "why are you still talking."
Anyway, I mentally opened my bracelet's interface, and with a soft shimmer of light, I slipped into my Game Mode—which is basically a cozy pocket dimension made of menus, stats, and existential dread.
It's like a pause screen, but more judgmental.
Inside, I hovered in digital space, surrounded by translucent blue windows full of numbers and words that looked suspiciously like someone's D&D notebook threw up.
Stats Panel:
Constitution: 5
Agility: 6
Dexterity: 4
Intelligence: 6
Wisdom: 6
Charisma: 5
Each number felt like a polite way of saying: Congratulations! You are aggressively average!
Then I saw it.
Stat Points Available: 40
Apparently, I got 2 points per level. Quick math—yes, I can do math when death is involved—20 levels gave me 40 points to distribute. That's huge. That's enough to go from "meh" to "okay, now I can actually do a push-up."
But the real surprise?
Class Selection: UNLOCKED.
And wow, I wasn't ready.
I blinked as a massive scroll of glowing classes unfurled in front of me like a magical restaurant menu designed by overachieving fantasy nerds.
Let me give you a sample of the options:
Warrior – The classic. Smack things, survive hits, grunt proudly.
Paladin – Warrior with a light show and divine guilt.
Mage – Glass cannon with sparkly boom booms.
Healer – Instant respect but also instant target.
Rogue – Already taken. Felix would kill me just for trying.
Tamer – Comes with animals. Hopefully not ferrets.
Bard – Charisma-based nonsense. I could seduce the enemy into tripping?
Monk – Punch first, explain with philosophy later.
Druid – Nature's favorite child. Would need a plant allergy check.
Ranger – Archer with camping problems.
Berserker – For people who want their blood pressure to be a weapon.
Alchemist – Potions and kabooms. Could be fun.
Necromancer – Socially awkward, but comes with friends from beyond the grave.
Summoner – Hirelings! Freelancers of war!
Knight – Less flash, more crash. Heavy armor.
Wizard – Like Mage, but with ten times the homework.
Barbarian – Shirt optional. Grunting mandatory.
Engineer – I love explosions.
Chaos Mage – ...I feel like this one comes with a therapist.
And it didn't stop there. The list kept scrolling. There were even weird ones like:
Chef – Yes. Combat cooking.
Dreamwalker – Attacks while napping. A lifestyle, really.
Banisher of Beans – This one may have been a glitch.
I sat cross-legged in the pocket dimension, surrounded by magical floating words, trying very hard not to freak out. We already had:
Felix, our resident Rogue. Silent, deadly, allergic to eye contact.
Diana, who was pretty much a Battle Mage, and could make weapons out of dark goo.
Alex, aka Little Brother of Doom, was a Swordsman. Self-explanatory.
That meant we needed:
Someone who could protect, maybe put up barriers.
Someone with long-range options to avoid getting smacked by angry lobsters.
Maybe someone with support or healing, so we don't die from stubbed toes or surprise traps.
And of course, who does that leave to cover all those bases?
Me.
The guy who once dropped his phone on his face while texting.
I flopped backward in the floating void. "Why couldn't my power have been 'automatic team builder' or 'massive brain mode'?"
Still, I wasn't choosing yet. I needed to see what options came with each class and how my stats would match up. No point putting everything into Strength if I end up picking "Magic Librarian."
With a sigh, I closed the panels for now. Outside the pocket space, my team was probably staring into their own menus, discovering fun things like "fireball level 1" or "why does my sword glow now."
Me?
I was trapped in the eternal loop of indecision.
But at least I wasn't being electrocuted by magic chains.
So, you know.
Progress.
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If you've ever spent three hours making a Skyrim character only to delete it because the nose was slightly crooked, then welcome to what it felt like picking my class. I'd stared at the magical floating class list until I started seeing words that weren't even real. (Seriously, "Banisher of Beans"? Still not over it.)
But after combing through every class from Mage to Battle Mage to Paladin—and even the ever-tempting Engineer (who wouldn't want to throw enchanted wrenches at goblins?)—one class caught my eye and refused to let go:
Chaos Mage.
Yeah. Just the name sounded like a lawsuit waiting to happen. It practically screamed, "Do not pick unless you enjoy mayhem, explosions, and existential questions about your own power."
Naturally, I picked it.
Not because I'm crazy. (Well, maybe a little.) But because the Chaos Crystal in my bracelet actually pulsed when I hovered over it. And no, that wasn't poetic. It literally pulsed. Like it was excited. Or hungry.
The Chaos Mage class was... versatile, to say the least. It didn't come with dozens of preset spells. Nope. Instead, it offered two very important things:
Magic Missile – Basic attack spell. Point, think, boom.
Chaos Barrier – A defensive spell that looked like shimmering static and felt like rubber-wrapped plasma.
Everything else? Freestyle.
As in, my mana follows my imagination. That's right. If I could imagine it—and my body could handle it—I could do it. Wings made of fire? Possible. Gravity slaps? Also possible. Teleporting banana peel traps? Probably not worth the mana, but technically still possible.
And with that, I was in.
"Class Chosen: Chaos Mage."
"Unique Trait: Chaos Infusion unlocked. Mana is now semi-sentient. Good luck."
I didn't like the way "good luck" was phrased. It sounded a bit too sincere.
Now that I had my class, it was time to deal with stats. Because while I could imagine summoning a lightning dragon with laser eyes, if I had the constitution of a soggy tissue, it wouldn't matter. I'd faint halfway through the roar.
My original stats were:
Constitution: 5
Agility: 6
Dexterity: 4
Intelligence: 6
Wisdom: 6
Charisma: 5
I had 40 stat points to spend and a dream. Time to make this squishy nerd into a semi-durable chaos wizard.
Here's what I went with:
Constitution: 10 – Gotta survive the feedback when I try dumb ideas like "mana wings."
Agility: 15 – Dodge. Duck. Dip. Dive. Dodge. If I can't take a hit, I'd better not get hit.
Dexterity: 10 – Aim matters when shooting magical laser spaghetti.
Intelligence: 16 – More mana. More spell slots. Also, better at learning new stuff.
Wisdom: 16 – Faster mana recovery. Also, less likely to accidentally set my hair on fire.
I left Charisma as it was. I wasn't trying to run for mayor.
I hit "confirm" with a deep breath—and immediately regretted not doing this somewhere private.
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As soon as I confirmed the changes, my body lit up like a mana firework.
I could feel the stats taking effect. My limbs stretched slightly, bones realigned, muscles tightened. I wasn't turning into a bodybuilder, but suddenly, I had definition. Like someone slapped "combat ready" mode onto my previously chill physique.
Then came the problem.
My clothes?
Absolutely not built for sudden magical puberty.
There was a riiiip sound, and then—pop!—shirt gone. Pants? Hanging on for dear life.
In the real world, I gasped.
And then I panicked.
"Mana covering, mana covering, mana covering!" I whispered, trying to will my chaos energy into something less NSFW.
Thankfully, Chaos Mage came with a neat little trick: adaptive mana shroud. I basically wrapped myself in a swirling coat of magic that looked like shimmering black cloth with flickers of purple and blue. Fashionably ominous. Barely decent.
I blinked and reoriented to the world around me.
The palace hall. The crowd. My team.
Everyone staring at me.
Diana had turned red. Alex had a smug look like I knew this guy was a weirdo. Felix didn't move, but I swear I heard a quiet scoff. Someone definitely snapped a picture.
To make things worse, my stomach growled.
Loudly.
Apparently, reshaping your body with stat boosts drained your Satiety Factor, which meant I had to eat. A lot. Immediately.
"Okay," I said, holding my glowing mana robe closed like a bath towel. "Two things. One: I'm fine. Two: I need snacks. Like… now."
Diana gave me a deadpan look. "You're seriously going to pretend that didn't just happen?"
"Better than pretending it did," I replied, as my stomach grumbled again like it had a personal vendetta against me.
And that's how I learned the first rule of being a Chaos Mage:
With great power comes great hunger… and questionable wardrobe stability.