It was, by all measures, a beautiful and peaceful day.

  The sky above the city stretched wide and pale, washed in a soft blue that looked almost deliberate—as if someone had carefully chosen it to soothe the nerves of those living beneath.

  The wind moved lazily between buildings, carrying with it the faint scent of rain from somewhere far away, though no clouds threatened the horizon. Traffic hummed at a steady, civilized rhythm. No sirens. No alarms. No emergency broadcasts.

  Just another ordinary day in a world that had long since forgotten what ordinary truly meant.

  Narin stood near the glass entrance of the Nexus Corporation complex, stretching his arms high above his head as his shoulders rolled with a dull, familiar ache. His spine cracked softly—once, twice—as he exhaled through his nose, the tension of a long shift finally loosening its grip.

  “Ah…” he murmured, voice low, roughened just slightly by age and fatigue.

  42 years old.

  That number had never bothered him.

  At 190 centimeters tall, Narin naturally drew the eye without trying. His posture was relaxed, unassuming, yet balanced—like someone who had long ago learned how to occupy space without challenging it. His hair, parted down the middle and falling loosely to his shoulders, shimmered under the afternoon sun in a deep midnight blue, so dark it almost looked black until the light caught it just right.

  When he had first been born, the doctors had paused longer than usual.

  His parents had stared in confusion—and mild panic—at the strange color crowning their newborn’s head. It wasn’t until years later, after digging through old family records and half-forgotten stories, that they learned the truth.

  An ancestor on his mother’s side.

  Icelandic.

  A small, distant explanation for something that had followed Narin his entire life: the way people always seemed to look twice.

  That, combined with his calm eyes and the faint, ever-present smile that rested naturally on his lips, gave him an oddly reassuring presence. Not charismatic in a loud way. Not striking in an aggressive one but steady.

  The kind of man people unconsciously trusted with keys, secrets, and silences.

  It was no surprise that he was popular at work.

  Nexus Corporation—

  the largest company in the world.

  The place where lives were registered, measured, ranked, and quietly rewritten.

  From identity verification to class assessment.

  From tutorials and training to long-term user monitoring.

  From data management to psychological profiling so deep it bordered on invasive.

  Nexus handled it all.

  Officially, it was a corporation.

  In practice, it owned the future of anyone who held a high-ranking class.

  Because behind Nexus stood the Core.

  The System.

  30 years ago, it had appeared without warning.

  There was no prophecy.

  One day, the world simply woke up different.

  Monsters crawled out of ruptured space.

  Dungeons carved themselves into reality.

  Gates opened like wounds that refused to heal.

  And alongside the chaos, the Core chose humans.

  It gathered them into unseen groups—classified by criteria no one fully understood—and from those groups, it randomly selected individuals to enter what it called the Interview.

  The first part was brutal.

  A series of escalating challenges designed to push the limits of body, mind, instinct, and will.

  There was no obligation to continue.

  The Core allowed absolute freedom of choice.

  Which, cruelly, meant absolute responsibility.

  If you stepped into a challenge you could not complete, there were only two outcomes.

  Death or being trapped there forever.

  So most people stopped early.

  They quit while they still could.

  The second part of the Interview, however, was deceptively simple.

  One hundred open-ended questions.

  No time limit.

  No correct answers.

  No requirement to answer all of them.

  You only answered if you chose to.

  And once you were done, the Core granted you a class—one that matched both your performance in the first part and the truths you revealed in the second.

  A poor performance might earn you a simple Swordsman class.

  A strong one could elevate you to something rarer.

  Spellblade.

  Battlemage.

  Specialist variants that blurred roles and rewrote expectations.

  And those who were never chosen?

  Those who never even entered the group?

  They remained normal humans.

  Narin slid his jacket over his shoulders, fingers moving with practiced ease as he stepped out into the parking structure.

  The air was cooler here, shaded and faintly metallic. His footsteps echoed softly as he approached his car.

  He let out a quiet sigh as he reached for the door handle.

  That answer is simple.

  Me.

  He settled into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath his weight. The door closed with a solid, reassuring thud, muting the outside world.

  If you didn’t get chosen, life went on.

  Narin didn’t hate that fact.

  Not even a little.

  When his coworkers had asked him about it—hesitant at first, then more openly—this was always his answer.

  He remembered it clearly.

  The break room.

  The hum of vending machines.

  The faint smell of reheated coffee.

  They had looked at him with curiosity… and something close to pity.

  Narin had simply smiled.

  A faint, warm curve of the lips.

  His voice, gentle and soft, carried a slight rasp—weathered by time, not bitterness.

  “Well,” he had said, scratching the back of his head as if embarrassed, “I don’t really know when—or if—I was ever chosen to be in a group.”

  A pause.

  “You know the Core doesn’t care about age,” he continued, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful. “You can be selected as a baby. Or as a young child.”

  He had chuckled quietly then.

  “And if that happened…” his smile softened, “it might be better that it didn’t, right?”

  Silence had fallen like a dropped curtain.

  He had noticed their expressions changing.

  Their eyes widening.

  Their thoughts spiraling somewhere dark.

  Narin sighed, then laughed.

  It was a warm laugh. The kind that filled the space gently, like sunlight through a window.

  “See?” he said, waving a hand lightly. “You guys—let’s be happy to have a normal life, yeah?”

  He leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely.

  “I don’t have to fear dying in dungeons or gates,” he continued, tone easy. “I don’t have to wonder whether my party will stab me in the back. I get to go home, sleep in my own bed, and wake up the next day.”

  His eyes had moved from face to face.

  He knew—not all of them had given up on becoming a User.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “But for me,” he finished quietly, “this life is enough.”

  And then—

  To his complete surprise—

  They broke.

  Their laughter mixed with sobs.

  Their Hands grabbing his sleeves.

  Their arms wrapping around his torso, his shoulders, his neck.

  Some cried openly.

  Some clung to him like anchors.

  Some hugged him so tightly he could barely breathe.

  The suddenness of it all sent a jolt of panic through him.

  His eyes widened.

  His hands hovered uselessly in the air.

  “W-Wait—wait, wait, guys—!”

  By the time Narin finally reached home, the sky had begun to mellow into a softer hue, the sunlight slanting low between buildings and painting the neighborhood in warm amber lines.

  His house sat tucked between two taller structures—small, leaning slightly toward medium in size, modest without being shabby. It wasn’t flashy. No reinforced gates, no glowing sigils embedded into the walls like those owned by high-ranking Users.

  Just a house.

  One he had bought with money earned slowly, carefully, through years of diligent work.

  The neighborhood around it was lively. Shops still open. Footsteps passing by. Voices drifting in fragments through open windows. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed, and a street vendor called out his last sale of the evening.

  Yet the moment Narin stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the noise softened, as if it respected the boundary.

  Click.

  The lock slid into place.

  Silence—clean and deliberate—settled over the interior.

  His home was immaculate.

  Not obsessively sterile, but thoughtfully organized.

  Shoes aligned near the entrance.

  A faint citrus scent lingering in the air from a cleaning agent he favored. Nothing out of place, nothing unnecessary.

  He slipped off his shoes and rolled his shoulders, the fatigue of the day finally catching up to him now that there was no one left to smile for.

  “Home…” he murmured.

  The living area was modest but warm. Neutral-colored furniture. A dining table that had never hosted more than three people at once. Near the back of the house sat a small, separate room—kept clean, unused.

  A guest room.

  It was set aside for friends.

  Despite his appearance, despite his popularity, Narin didn’t really have any.

  And that was fine.

  He passed by tall bookshelves lining the walls—his quiet pride. Books of all kinds. New releases. Old, yellowed volumes with cracked spines. Academic texts. Fiction. Even books whose contents were little more than ornamental knowledge—titles people bought to look intelligent rather than become it.

  Narin bought them anyway.

  He liked the weight of them.

  The smell.

  The quiet promise that knowledge didn’t need to be useful to be valuable.

  After a quick shower, steam still clinging to his skin, Narin retreated into his bedroom wearing nothing but his boxers. Droplets of water slid down his shoulders as he reached for the hair dryer, plugging it in with a familiar motion.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped loosely around his neck, humming softly under his breath.

  An old song.

  The warm air buzzed gently as he dried his hair, fingers occasionally running through it to guide it into place. Once dry, it naturally settled into its usual style—a center part, cleanly divided down the middle, the front left slightly loose and framing his face.

  The faint smile returned to his lips.

  And then—

  A soundless shimmer.

  A translucent screen snapped into existence directly in front of him.

  Narin froze.

  The hum of the hair dryer continued for half a second longer before he realized it was still on.

  His pupils widened.

  “…Huh?”

  The text was unmistakable.

  [ You have been chosen. ]

  [ You will be teleported to the Interview in approximately 10 minutes. ]

  [ Please prepare yourself. ]

  The hair dryer slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

  “What…?”

  The screen flickered.

  Then vanished.

  Before his breath could even catch, another one appeared.

  [It is advised that you prepare yourself both physically and mentally.]

  His throat went dry.

  The words disappeared again, replaced by a stark, pale interface—white and gray, emotionless and absolute.

  [ Time Remaining: 9:59. ]

  Narin’s mind… stalled.

  It wasn’t panic.

  No. Not yet.

  It was as if someone had yanked the plug on his thoughts entirely.

  Blank.

  Then—

  A second later—

  Everything rebooted at once.

  “What—WHAT—WHAT?!”

  He sprang to his feet, the bed creaking as his sudden movement sent the towel slipping to the floor. He didn’t even notice.

  “Oh—oh no, no, no—!”

  He fumbled, half-tripping as he tossed the hair dryer aside and rushed to his drawers, yanking them open with shaking hands.

  He was still in his boxers.

  His clothes flew everywhere.

  Shirt—no, jacket—pants—where is my socks?!

  His movements were frantic but oddly efficient, driven by years of routine rather than calm. Buttons fumbled. Zippers yanked too hard.

  He dressed in record time.

  Breathing hard, he glanced up.

  [ Time Remaining: 9:40. ]

  “…Okay. Okay.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling as they dragged across his scalp.

  “What should I do…?”

  The question echoed again and again in his mind, overlapping itself.

  He swallowed.

  “I’ve heard about this,” he muttered. “The… prepare yourself physically and mentally thing. People joke about it all the time.”

  A weak laugh escaped him.

  “So it’s real. Very great. Very fantastic... hahah...”

  He rubbed his chin, thumb and forefinger stroking it unconsciously as he paced the room, eyes flicking back to the timer every few seconds.

  “I mean… I can’t really do anything, right?”

  His gaze drifted toward the door.

  “Weapons…? I’ve only got kitchen knives.”

  He paused.

  “…Wouldn’t it be better to just use whatever weapon they give at the start of the challenge anyway?”

  He stopped pacing.

  “Hmmm…”

  His eyes closed without him realizing it, brows knitting together as he thought.

  “Well,” he exhaled, opening them again, resolve settling in his chest like a quiet weight. “I’ll take whatever I can.”

  Decision made.

  He grabbed his backpack from the corner of the room and began stuffing it with everything that even remotely felt useful.

  Sedatives.

  Painkillers.

  A bottle of ammonia.

  Rope.

  A notebook and pen.

  A small mirror.

  A LifeStraw—still in its packaging, a gift from Nexus during an employee anniversary celebration.

  Deodorant spray.

  A first-aid kit from the cabinet.

  A pocket watch.

  Three kitchen knives.

  Then two more.

  Then every knife he owned.

  Two power banks.

  And finally, after a moment of hesitation, a baseball bat—its surface slightly worn, the memory of the last time he used it floating faintly in his mind.

  It was three years ago.

  He zipped the bag shut just as he checked the screen again.

  [ Time Remaining: 1:00. ]

  “…Good enough,” he muttered, slinging the heavy backpack over his shoulder.

  His chest rose and fell as he steadied himself.

  “I finished in time.”

  Thirty seconds left.

  He stood in the center of his room, the weight of the moment finally pressing down on him.

  “Pfft…”

  He let out a breath, shoulders lifting as he hugged himself lightly, grounding his body in the present.

  “I really can’t believe I got chosen… at this age.”

  His brows furrowed.

  “…Ugh. I’m old now.”

  A grimace tugged at his lips.

  “What’s going to happen to my back…?”

  A pause.

  “…Maybe I should just give up after the first challenge.”

  His eyes closed.

  The room felt… strange.

  Like the air itself had shifted.

  A new screen materialized behind his eyelids.

  [ Teleporting to the Interview. ]

  And before his eyes could open again—

  the world changed.

  Narin opened his eyes.

  His body tightened first—muscle memory kicking in before conscious thought could follow. His shoulders squared, his spine straightened, and his grip instinctively clenched around the strap of his backpack.

  A subtle tension coiled beneath his skin, not explosive, not panicked, but alert.

  Ready.

  Or at least… ready enough.

  His mind followed a heartbeat later.

  Whether it was truly prepared or not didn’t matter anymore. There was no room left for hesitation.

  If the Core had decided this was the moment, then this was the moment.

  He inhaled slowly then exhaled.

  The air here felt different.

  Not colder. Not warmer.

  Just… thinner. As if the space itself had been scraped clean of excess emotion.

  Before him hovered a familiar gray screen, its edges faintly pulsing like a living thing.

  [ Congratulations! You have been chosen! ]

  Narin’s lips twitched.

  “…Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “I noticed.”

  Another screen slid into place beneath it, heavier somehow—its presence pressing against his senses even before he finished reading.

  [ This is the first part of the Interview. ]

  [ It is advised that you perform to the best of your ability. ]

  [ There is only one chance. ]

  His throat tightened.

  “One chance,” he echoed under his breath, voice low and steady despite the weight settling in his chest.

  Then—

  Something changed.

  The next screen didn’t appear so much as arrive.

  Narin felt it.

  A pressure—subtle but undeniable—like standing at the edge of a deep body of water, knowing that once you stepped forward, the ground would be gone.

  [ Please choose your Starter Pack. ]

  Four options unfolded before him, aligned neatly, each one radiating a different kind of intent.

  [ The Survivalist ]

  [ The Scholar ]

  [ The Adventurer ]

  [ The Gambler ]

  “…Ah,” Narin breathed out softly.

  A faint, humorless smile crossed his face.

  “Yes. This part.”

  He’d heard about this countless times.

  Stories traded in break rooms, whispered during late-night shifts, half-boasts and half-regrets layered over cheap coffee and exhaustion.

  Narin’s eyes moved slowly, deliberately, to the first option.

  The Survivalist

  The information unfurled in clean lines.

  An adrenaline-boosting injection.

  Increases speed and reaction time by 200% for five minutes with severe fatigue afterward.

  A high-grade survival knife.

  It is Virtually indestructible and capable of cutting through basic leather armor.

  Three concentrated food pellets.

  One pellet provides satiety for one week.

  Narin tilted his head slightly.

  His gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

  Then his expression shifted—just a little.

  A crease formed between his brows.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  It was too dangerous.

  It was too dependent on pushing the body past its limit.

  He didn’t look back as his eyes moved to the second option.

  The Scholar

  The text felt… calmer.

  Not safer but deliberate.

  Omni-Goggles.

  It provides thermal tracking and mana trace detection.

  It Allows the wearer to perceive enemy weaknesses and traps.

  An Empty Grimoire.

  A notebook with endless pages.

  Recording monster information inside it increases the damage of your next attack.

  A Mana Ring.

  It can reduce mana trace and accelerates mana recovery.

  Narin’s hand rose to his chin, fingers stroking it slowly as his thoughts deepened.

  “I remember this one,” he whispered.

  Another memory surfaced.

  “If you use the grimoire right,” someone had said, voice hushed with awe,

  “you can stack knowledge until your next hit becomes… lethal. One blow.”

  “That…” Narin murmured, eyes narrowing slightly, “…can be very good.”

  His fingers pressed a bit harder against his chin.

  Knowledge.

  Observation.

  Preparation.

  It suited him more than he liked to admit.

  Still, he forced himself onward.

  The Adventurer

  A fashionable hoodie.

  This fashionable hoodie is highly bulletproof and sharp-resistant, and it's lightweight.

  Skeleton Key.

  It can unlock any door or safe tested.

  Limited uses: 10.

  Signal flare gun.

  It can request help from unknown creatures and also inflicts temporary Blind on enemies.

  Narin barely finished reading before his head began to shake.

  “Nope. Nope.”

  He let out a short breath, almost a laugh.

  “Unknown creatures?” he muttered. “That’s just a polite way of saying completely unpredictable.’”

  His eyes flicked back up.

  “And the rest isn’t even that impressive.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “Next.”

  The Gambler

  Before the details even fully appeared, Narin’s mouth had already pulled into a disappointed line.

  “…Gambler,” he said flatly. “Really?”

  The contents loaded.

  Broken Hero’s Sword.

  A blunt, battered sword.

  1% chance to land a one-shot hit.

  Unknown Liquid Vial.

  A potion that randomly inflicts a status effect.

  Weight of Greed.

  An amulet that halves defense.

  Doubles points received from the system.

  Narin stared.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then his eye twitched.

  “Well,” he said dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “there’s a reason it hasn’t been chosen.”

  His voice sharpened, irritation breaking through his calm.

  “Because it's trash. Absolutely fucking trash!”

  His hand dropped, palm opening in disbelief.

  “It not worth the risk at all. And the people who choose this?” His tone rose, uncharacteristically sharp. “Those fools are already dead without doubt.”

  He rubbed his forehead as if warding off a headache.

  “Just looking at it makes me feel sick.”

  Silence settled.

  The four choices hovered patiently.

  But the decision had already been made.

  Narin straightened.

  His voice was clear and certain.

  “The Scholar,” he said.

  “I choose you.”

  The screen vanished instantly.

  A new one replaced it, colder, final.

  [ Confirming Starter Pack. ]

  [ The selected pack will be granted momentarily. ]

  His fingers curled once.

  Another shift.

  The space around him felt like it was pulling inward.

  [ Teleporting user to Challenge: 1. ]