Silas Kingsley thought, today’s a great day.
For once, the office wasn’t a battlefield. No phones shrieking complaints, no heated arguments echoing off the walls, no tension that made the air feel thick and stifling. Instead, there was… peace. Not the forced, awkward kind that comes from avoiding conflict—but the genuine, easy kind, the kind that made people laugh quietly at inside jokes and nod at one another with real warmth.
The big contract had hit a while ago this morning, bringing with it the promise of six months of bonuses for every employee. It was the kind of windfall most companies could only dream of, yet what thrilled Silas more than the money was this: the office had started to breathe as one. Smiles lingered longer than usual, footsteps carried a lighter rhythm, and even the coffee machine seemed to hum in contentment.
This was what he liked. Peace. Nothing more and nothing less.
Silas leaned back on the park bench, letting the warm sunlight wash over his shoulders. A small smile tugged at his lips. It felt… right. Safe. Rewarding. And in a world where every day at work often felt like a small battle, this quiet victory, this rare alignment of fortune and human spirit, was more than enough to make him savor the moment.
He unpacked the lunch he had grabbed from his usual sandwich shop. The pastrami sandwich—simple, unassuming—looked almost luxurious now, each slice of meat glinting with a promise of satisfaction. Even the mustard seemed sharper, the bread richer, after the peace he had carried from the office.
Again, today was indeed a great day.
Silas savored each bite, and his eyes widened, fixating on the sandwich as if it held the secrets of the universe. Somehow, it tasted richer, more vibrant than ever before. He tilted his head, wondering if this newfound sense of happiness—the quiet surge of satisfaction from the peaceful office—had awakened his taste buds. If it had, he thought with a brief, wry worry, it would be a cruel trick should life suddenly turn sour; he would mourn the simple perfection of this mouthful.
Still, he finished the first sandwich before reaching for a second. It was unusual, breaking his routine, but that rare harmony at work had left him feeling indulgent, buoyant. The second sandwich disappeared just as easily, his focus narrowing entirely to the taste, the texture, the comfort.
Around him, the world continued, unnoticed. Joggers passed with rhythmic footfalls, children’s laughter bounced across the park, and a cool autumn breeze stirred the golden leaves overhead. Silas didn’t register any of it. Not today. Not when the taste was exquisite.
After lunch, Silas walked back toward his office, just a couple of blocks from the park. The day still felt intact—sunlight, traffic, the low murmur of a city minding its own business. Normal. Predictable.
He reached the building’s entrance and stopped.
People weren’t moving. They weren’t talking. They were looking up. Not a few. Not a crowd. Everyone. Heads tilted back, mouths slightly open, the street frozen in place.
Silas followed their gaze.
His eyes widened.
A vast shadow slid across the street, swallowing light as if night had arrived early and without permission. The air seemed heavier beneath it. Silas struggled to make sense of what he was seeing, his mind reaching for comparisons and finding none.
Whatever hung above the city was not human.
The structure defied symmetry, its contours wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten. It wasn’t sleek or mechanical in any way he recognized, and it didn’t resemble anything pulled from movies or books. No familiar angles. No comforting fiction. Just something other.
The smile drained from Silas’s face, leaving it blank, stripped of expression.
“Fuck,” he said quietly.
His phone vibrated in his hand. A disaster alert flashed across the screen. It wasn’t an earthquake. It wasn’t a fire. It was worse.
UNIDENTIFIED THREAT. SEEK SHELTER.
Silas turned and went back into the office.
Thirty minutes later, the company ordered a full evacuation. Desks were abandoned, conversations cut short, productivity erased in a single announcement. Work ended early that day—not with relief, but with disbelief.
On the train ride home, Silas stood by the window, watching the city grew further away from him, heading beyond the city’s border. Above it all, the massive alien vessel hovered, silent and unmoving, claiming the sky as if it had always belonged there.
While people clamored about the alien craft—voices raised, phones lifted, excitement spilling into the train cabin—Silas simply stood and looked out, his face flat, unreadable. Where others saw spectacle, he saw disruption.
Silas valued peace above all else. And if there was one thing he knew for certain about a massive alien spacecraft blotting out the sky, it was this: peace did not arrive like that.
He made it home to his suburban house by late afternoon. He’d won it at auction months ago, a price so far below market it still felt unreal. Luck, pure and simple. The only drawback—several unexplained deaths tied to the property—had faded into irrelevance over the past six quiet months. His life had been good. Calm. Predictable. Nothing scary.
After a shower, Silas stretched out on the sofa and turned on the television. For the first time in what felt like years, he watched the news.
Breaking news.
The alien craft hovered above New York City—still hovering—and according to every expert and anchor on screen, it was the only one in the world. That detail irritated him more than it should have.
Of course it was New York. Hollywood had trained everyone to expect it. New York or Los Angeles, always. But did it really have to be so cliché? The world was full of remarkable cities. London. Berlin. Paris. Tokyo. Even Seoul—the new favorite. Surely an advanced alien intelligence could do better than recycling old tropes.
Silas shook his head and kept watching.
The broadcast shifted to a helicopter feed, the reporter harnessed to the side, wind whipping past as the pilot edged closer to the massive structure. Too close. Close enough that Silas leaned forward despite himself.
Then it happened.
The helicopter lurched as if it had slammed into an invisible wall. The screen erupted into chaos—static, shouting, a violent spin of sky and steel. Seconds dragged by. Then the live feed cut to black.
Silas leaned back and exhaled slowly.
Idiots, he thought.
They could have kept their distance. Reported from afar. Observed and waited.
Instead, they flew straight at it and poked the unknown.
Silas watched the replay once, then muted the sound. The internet detonated almost immediately. Some swore the aliens had attacked without warning. Others tore into the news crew for reckless bravado, calling it provocation wrapped in patriotism. The comment sections became battlefields, everyone certain, no one knowing anything.
The government’s response came quickly—and carefully. Condolences were issued. Praise for journalistic courage was offered. A firm warning followed: all aircraft were to stay clear of the unidentified aerial object.
Unidentified.
Not alien.
Not UFO.
Don’t want to admit it, huh, Silas thought.
He caught the denial instantly, tucked neatly between polished phrases and neutral expressions from the White House spokesperson. After a few minutes, boredom set in. He turned off the television and went out to eat.
Six days passed.
Nothing dramatic happened. No beams. No explosions. No declarations from the sky. Work continued, only now it was remote—an easy transition after what they’d all survived back in 2020. Meetings resumed, deadlines held, and the world pretended very hard that a city-sized alien craft wasn’t hovering above New York.
Every night, the news repeated the same reassurance. Calm tones. Careful words. Ongoing efforts to establish communication. Cooperation. Peaceful intent.
Silas didn’t buy it.
The day before, he’d spotted military bombers circling the restricted airspace. He’d seen them through his binoculars—high-end glass, crystal clear, enough to be seen across the Hudson River. A gift from his father, an avid bird watcher. No explosions followed. No official acknowledgment either. But the presence alone was enough to sour every government statement that followed.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Online, theories multiplied by the hour.
Some claimed the craft was ancient, buried beneath Manhattan long before the city existed. Others insisted it was a scouting vessel, the first step in a full-scale invasion. A few argued it wasn’t alien at all, but human—black-ops technology revealed too soon. There were cultists calling it salvation, conspiracy forums tracking imaginary signals, and amateur analysts slowing footage frame by frame, convinced they’d spotted movement.
Silas read through them with mild amusement. Ten minutes later, he lost interest. He picked up his controller and went back to his video games.
What annoyed him most wasn’t the theories—it was the saturation. Every channel. Every stream. Every recommended video. The same hovering shape, the same speculative voices, the same unanswered questions.
Time slipped by unnoticed as Silas played his game, the glow of the screen painting the room in shifting colors. Levels cleared. Enemies fell. The world narrowed to buttons and reactions.
Then the clock struck midnight.
Something changed.
A presence asserted itself—sudden, absolute. Light bloomed in the air before him, sharp-edged and unmistakably real. Floating windows snapped into existence, hovering just beyond arm’s reach.
[Link established with 8,264,327,334 individuals]
[Preparing for Trial Realm departure]
[You have been designated to Realm-22,655]
Silas stared at the words, his mind stalling, refusing to catch up. His heartbeat thudded loud in his ears. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t a glitch. The air felt wrong—charged, expectant.
Before he could speak, before he could even curse, the windows vanished and were replaced.
[Transfer will begin in…]
[10… 9… 8…]
Silas was on his feet instantly. Shock burned off, replaced by instinct. Whatever this was, he wasn’t about to sit there like an idiot and let it happen to him unprepared. One phrase echoed in his mind.
Trial Realm.
Trials meant tests.
Tests meant survival.
He bolted for the kitchen. Drawers flew open. He grabbed the only knife he owned—nothing special, just steel and weight—and yanked a cluster of mineral water bottles from the counter. He clutched them to his chest, plastic crinkling under his grip.
He didn’t know the rules.
He didn’t know the objective.
But he knew one thing—staying alive came first.
[2… 1… 0…]
[Transfer begin]
Light erupted from his body, crawling across his skin in luminous threads. His form fractured, breaking apart into countless blue particles that lifted him off the floor and tore straight through the ceiling, the roof, the night sky itself.
Across the world, the same thing happened.
If anyone had been watching—if anyone had still been there to see—it would have looked like the planet itself was bleeding blue light. Endless streams of blue rose from cities, villages, forests, and oceans, all converging upward, all racing toward the massive alien spacecraft hovering above the Earth.
Silas vanished into the flow.
And humanity’s trial began.
* * *
Silas opened his eyes.
White—endless, blinding white—rushed him like a breaking wave. It wasn’t light in the usual sense. There was no warmth, no glare, no pain. And yet it made him flinch all the same, a reflex without a body to obey it.
That was when the unease began to crawl up his spine.
He tried to lift his arm.
Nothing happened.
No resistance. No weight. No sensation at all.
Silas tried again, harder this time, the way a man does when he’s sure his body will listen if he just means it enough. Still nothing. He attempted to turn his head, to blink, to breathe more deeply—and discovered, with a tightening knot of dread, that those impulses went nowhere.
Panic followed. Slow at first. Then faster.
He didn’t like this. Not one bit.
Silas Kingsley had never been fond of cages—whether made of walls, rules, or circumstances—and whatever this was fit the definition too neatly. Restriction. Confinement. Control. All the things that made his jaw tighten and his pulse spike.
Just as the pressure in his mind threatened to rupture—
A familiar blue shimmer slid into existence.
Clean. Calm. Indifferent.
[Welcome]
[Choose your desired class]
The words hovered before him.
Below them, a list unfolded—longer than it had any right to be. Rows upon rows of titles cascaded downward into the white, vanishing somewhere beyond perception. Silas frowned, wondering how he was supposed to read any of it when, at a thought alone, the list shifted upward, smooth and obedient.
So. Thought-driven. Figures.
His panic ebbed, replaced by something colder and more dangerous: focus.
Only then did the question hit him.
No explanation. No briefing. No why, Silas thought. Just choose your class and move on.
Silas let out a slow breath he wasn’t sure he actually possessed. He understood this—far too well, in fact. Anyone who had ever touched an RPG would. Classes. Roles. Strengths and weaknesses. A system pretending to be neutral while quietly rewarding those who knew how to play it.
And that was the problem.
What about the rest?
People who’d never played an RPG. Never min-maxed a build. Never learned the difference between utility and survivability. The elderly. The toddlers. People who thought “class” meant a classroom and not a life-defining decision.
The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
If this thing had dragged everyone into it, then fairness had never been part of the design. Only efficiency. Only outcomes.
Cruel, when you thought about it.
Silas sighed, the sound echoing nowhere.
Thinking about it wouldn’t change anything. Worrying about strangers wouldn’t help him survive whatever came next. If this was a trial—and everything so far screamed that it was—then hesitation was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
He focused again on the list.
One choice.
No undo button.
Silas straightened—mentally, at least—and began to scroll.
[Warrior]
[Guardsman]
[Rogue]
[Archer]
[Black Mage]
[White Mage]
[Red Mage]
[Blue Mage]
[Green Mage]
[Grey Mage]
[Purple Mage]
[Bard]
[Blacksmith]
[Tailor]
[Alchemist]
[Artificer]
[Engraver]
[Merchant]
[Innkeeper]
[Cook]
[Farmer]
[Fisherman]
[Breeder]
[Builder]
[Jack]
Silas read the list from top to bottom.
By the time he reached the end, one thing was painfully clear—this system wasn’t balanced. Not even close.
The familiar staples were there: the dependable frontline bruisers, the agile skirmishers, the archetypes anyone who’d ever rolled a character would recognize. But the deeper he went, the stranger it became. Magic-based classes splintered into razor-thin specializations, each promising power at the cost of flexibility. Then came the non-combatants—and their sheer numbers drowned out the classics.
Innkeeper. Tailor. Farmer.
It made Silas pause.
What kind of trial needed an innkeeper?
Could someone really survive whatever was coming armed with nothing but hospitality and a warm bed? Or was that the point—bait dressed up as choice? A quiet trap laid for the hopeful, the curious, the desperate to believe there was safety in a world built for a trial.
The thought tightened his jaw.
If survival was guaranteed, it wouldn’t be called a trial.
Silas pushed the question aside and returned to the basics. If this thing was going to force a decision, then it owed him at least a proper explanation. He focused on one of the simplest entries and willed it open.
The list responded instantly.
[Warrior]
[Close-combat class. Fights on the frontline. Can use all melee weapons without penalty.]
[Offensive: ★★★★☆]
[Defensive: ★★★☆☆]
[Mobility: ★★★☆☆]
[Utility: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Survivability: ★★★☆☆]
Silas frowned.
That was… underwhelming. Bare-bones. Almost lazy. But the star ratings did their job. At a glance, they told a story—solid damage, decent staying power, a good survival rate. A blunt instrument, but a reliable one.
He closed it and tapped another.
[Rogue]
[Utility class. Excels at escaping. Cannot wield two-handed weapons or large shields.]
[Offensive: ★★★☆☆]
[Defensive: ★★☆☆☆]
[Mobility: ★★★★☆]
[Utility: ★★★★☆]
[Survivability: ★★★★☆]
Silas snorted softly.
Another terrible description. But again, the stars spoke louder than the words. Speed. Flexibility. The ability to get out alive when things went sideways—which, if his instincts were right, was a great hook to snare anyone who valued their lives.
So that was the pattern.
Not elegance. Not fairness.
Just enough information to make a decision—and enough ambiguity to make the wrong one lethal.
Silas leaned back into the white nothingness, eyes narrowing as he scrolled onward.
Then he opened up Archer.
[Archer]
[Long-range combatant. Engages enemies at distance using bow and arrow. Limited to short one-handed weapons for close quarters.]
[Offensive: ★★★★☆]
[Defensive: ★★☆☆☆]
[Mobility: ★★★★☆]
[Utility: ★★☆☆☆]
[Survivability: ★★★☆☆]
Silas stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
Then decided it wasn’t worth the effort of commentary.
He moved on.
Color flooded the list—literally.
The mage classes unfolded like a spectrum, each hue carving magic into narrower and narrower lanes. Black Mages hurled the elements. White Mages existed almost entirely to keep others alive. Red Mages sat comfortably in the middle, competent at everything, exceptional at nothing—magic, steel, flexibility. A safe bet for the indecisive.
Blue Mages leaned toward summoning. Green Mages wrapped themselves in status effects, buffs, debuffs—battlefield manipulation rather than destruction. Grey Mages bent time itself. It sounded impressive. Too impressive. The kind of specialization that left no room for error.
And then there was Purple.
Raise the dead. Spread curses. Those kind of dark things.
Silas didn’t linger there.
Magic, as a whole, had a seductive pull. Who hadn’t dreamed of hurling fire or rewriting reality with a word? But the numbers beneath the descriptions told a colder story. Defense at rock bottom. Survivability scraping the floor. One mistake, one surprise, and the dream ended in a smear across the battlefield.
Glass cannons. All of them.
Then there were the production classes.
They didn’t just exist—they dominated the list, outnumbering combat roles by a good margin. Silas scrolled, reading each one in turn, and found the descriptions growing even thinner, as if whoever designed this system had grown bored halfway through.
[Blacksmith]
[Production class. Crafts metal items. No weapon penalties except mage-centric equipment.]
[Offensive: ★★★☆☆]
[Defensive: ★★★☆☆]
[Mobility: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Utility: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Survivability: ★★★☆☆]
Respectable. Solid. Slow.
Then—
[Merchant]
[Production class? Trades goods.]
[Offensive: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Defensive: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Mobility: ★★☆☆☆]
[Utility: ★★★★★]
[Survivability: ★★★★★]
Silas raised an eyebrow.
Five stars in utility and survivability? That wasn’t an accident. That was a hint—or a warning.
And then came the one that had been bothering him from the start.
[Innkeeper]
[Production class? Provides safety.]
[Offensive: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Defensive: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Mobility: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Utility: ★☆☆☆☆]
[Survivability: ★★★★★★]
Six stars.
The only class on the list that broke the scale.
Silas leaned back into the white nothingness, lips pressing into a thin line.
Either this system was lying.
Or survival didn’t mean what most people thought it did.
The system didn’t ask who he wanted to be. It asked how much he was willing to risk.
And of all the options laid out before him, one refused to be ignored.
Innkeeper.
The word safety carried weight, sure—but it was the stars beneath it that held Silas’s gaze. Six stars. Not four. Not five. Six. Among twenty-five classes, it stood alone, the only one bold enough to break the scale.
That wasn’t balance.
That was a signal.
Silas let the thought turn over in his mind. Survival first? A cautious all-rounder? One of the classics proven by a thousand battlefields? Or do what the reckless always did—flip the table and go all in? YOLO, as the internet had once so eloquently put it.
He drifted there longer than he meant to, suspended in a white void that offered no clock, no shadow, no sense of movement. Time became meaningless. It could have been a minute. It could have been an hour. The system clearly didn’t care either way to show it.
Silas scrolled again. Warrior. Rogue. Archer. Mage after mage after mage. Numbers. Roles. Promises written in sterile blue text.
And then, quietly, insistently, his old dream surfaced.
The one he’d never outgrown.
The choice settled with surprising calm.
I’ve made my decision.
His focus locked onto a single entry. The window brightened, as if acknowledging it had been chosen long before he admitted it to himself.
I choose you, Silas thought.
A brief pause. Then certainty.
“I am, a Black Mage.”
