Twisting the doorknob as if it were a vault full of secrets - which, in a way, wasn't entirely wrong - what I found was a living room so generic that even the idea of dying of boredom there seemed like an event worth noting. Is that a good or bad thing? Look, in terms of sinister, a bingo hall on a Sunday has more excitement.
Scouring the place, all I found was a photo – a mini clone of myself with dark hair and blue eyes. And to see myself as a child, I have to dive deep into some sort of regression therapy. The photo was guarded by a dog with a collar that said 'Buddy'. I suppose that's his name, because imagining people call me Buddy is outrageous.
"It looks like me," I mutter with the enthusiasm of a vegetable. "Let's drop this," I decide, before melancholy could knock on the door.
The room offered little entertainment, except for a glaring laptop on the table, inviting me as a bear trap that yells 'free'. Without a second thought, I pull out the chair - a four-legged beast in faux leather - and without a password, I start my own private horror show of stalking potential.
slap.com. I mean, with a name like that, who needs enemies? Inside the site, an orgy of egos and glamorous lives, which isn't exactly common ground for common people like... well, like I would normally be.
My profile, a masterpiece of fiction, was stamped on the screen:
===Slap===
User ID: Dean Corleone
Age: 16 years
Photo: The holographic version of a me that looks more like a projection from my bizarre childhood dreams.
Program: Hero Program Year 1
School Ranking: 2045 out of 2055 students. Eeee... bravo?
Potential: Rating E. E for Excellent or E for 'Yikes, we're screwed'?
Occupation: A nice and glorious question mark. How original.
Looking at the information that virtual fate had bestowed upon me, the only comment I could muster was an eloquent "Shit...".
Because yes, all the signs were there, shining like a billboard in the middle of an empty road. The existence of slap.com was proof that I had, by some misadventure of fate, stumbled and fallen right into my own novel.
"Great," I murmur, the irony of my own literary creation becoming an immutable reality. "As if it wasn't enough being a disappointment in reality, now I'm officially a joke in my own fictitious universe. As an author, I think I've reached the pinnacle of meta-creation – myself as my worst critic and most pathetic character."
I'm waiting for any moment now for the joke to end and for me to wake up in my bed with a keyboard imprint on my forehead. But something tells me that instead, I should start looking for a sword or a magical tutor. Because if there's one thing my history as a Game Designer and writer has taught me, it's that a rating E means the game is definitely not going to have an 'easy mode'.
---
"Status," I mutter, probably activating some hidden function of a tutorial I never asked for. The holographic panel blinks to life, throwing in my face a list that looks more like an obituary of my hopes and dreams.
==== STATUS ====
Name: Dean Corleone
Rating: G
Attributes:
Strength: G
Agility: G
Vitality: G-
Intelligence: G
Mana Capacity: G
Luck: E
Charisma: G-
Profession: Mystic Swordsman Level 1
G, of course - as in 'Genius for getting into this', or perhaps 'Get a direct ticket to the unemployment line', who will know. But hey, at least Luck was E. E for 'Hope'? Maybe 'Screwed', fits a lot more. Extremely weak, says the status. Yes, thank you for that. As if I needed a holographic panel to tell me something new.
Congratulations, Dean Carleone. Wait, Dean Corleone? The name resonates inside me with the familiarity of an old friend and the alienation of a stranger. My name... isn't Dean? Memory is a funny thing; we lose everything that matters to us, but I remember the stupid plot enough to realize I'm kind of, well, doomed.
January 3, 2087, the screen informs me. Place: the world's greatest hero academy, the Pentagon Academy. And what am I? The Mr. Nobody of the stats.
The drums resound, oh, the irony – and they announce that I'm in deep shit... again. The protagonist of my own world, with a rating that screams underdevelopment in every direction. While everyone else is evolving, stepping from darkness into the light of higher social classes, I'm basically the guy who brought the candles... and forgot the matches.
Me, a pathetic class G awaken in a world where 'G' basically means 'time for game over'. Is it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? Like, whom am I supposed to face with this brilliant power, an aggressive ant colony?
I hope my G- charm, which I bet stands for 'Grossly inadequate', is enough to convince this bizarre literary world that I'm more than a bunch of Gs and a solitary E. But who am I kidding? If even my inner author has decided I'd be the court jester of attributes, what's left for the real Dean is a good dose of sarcasm and a dying hope that somehow he'll make it out of this without being the narrative's punching bag.
Let the saga of avoiding becoming part of the predictable death statistics begin. Oh, and any deity or system bug out there, if you're listening, I would gladly accept an upgrade. Just saying.
---
So, the saga of our sarcastic hero unfolds in the epic setting of Terra Nova - a tapestry woven with the threads of modern fantasy and the unpredictability of an author who had a bit too much fun with the chaos button. Let me elaborate a little on this story for you:
In the remote reaches of the cosmos, Terra Nova emerged as a beacon of intergalactic meeting, a bubbling cauldron where cultures and species would take their first step toward peaceful coexistence. This brings us to our grand cosmic joke from 60 years ago: the portals. And, you know, when portals pop up spreading magical energy like confetti at a cosmic carnival, you'd expect creatures of all sorts to come to the party.
It was a new age for our little blue planet, now with elves, dwarves, ogres, and demons treading upon our turf. The elves brought with them the elegance of the old world and wisdom, the dwarves, their artisanal dexterity and a peerless knack for business, the ogres... Well, the ogres were just too big to ignore.
But like every good story - and I emphasize 'good' with all the sarcasm I possess - there was a snake in this freshly discovered paradise. The demons, with their bizarre colonialist fascination, decided this was their next Promised Land. Oh, and who had the bright idea to throw this wrench into the works? Oh, that's right, it was me.
Thanks to that lapse of creative judgment, Terra Nova became the stage of the first universal war - a bloody mess of a dispute where humans, elves, and dwarves showed the demons and ogres the exit door, with a well-placed boot at their rear.
Defeated, these unwelcome visitors were sent back to their own, likely very hospitable, corner of the universe. Truce signed, the universal alliance was formed and peace was restored. Well, for the meantime.
Now, with mana flowing like the latest trend in energy drinks, humans - oh, these curious creatures - experienced a mass ascension, as if a global lightning bolt of awakening had called them. The result? A bunch of superhumans called the Awakened, with abilities that definitely weren't in the original human instruction manual.
And like any self-respecting RPG, a class system came with the territory. Yes, because nothing says 'epic adventure' like the incessant need to climb the magical social ladder.
But hey, not everyone can be a Gandalf or a Merlin in this new world. Some of us are stuck with the G-digit status, symbolizing 'Guaranteed Not Heroic'. In this genre of story where you are what your level says, I'm practically an extra armed with a toothpick in a swordfighting club.
And the ambition of Dean Carleone? Limited, by the universe and by the reckless author that is me, to a ladder that goes from class G to the exasperating class E - enough to keep from accidentally killing himself with his own sword, but not quite enough to avoid being incinerated by a class C dragon on a bad day.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must decide whether to extinguish the fire of my fate with a bucket or a glass of water - after all, it's a matter of personal choice.
---
Faced with the prospect of decorating an underground hideout with zero funds in my pocket, escaping to the icy Antarctic starts to seem like an inviting resolution. Just imagine, me, Dean, becoming a chic hermit in an igloo, counting penguins to fall asleep. Or...
I could dive headfirst into the Pentagon Academy, an immaculate nest of 'future heroes', where I would, undoubtedly, find the quickest way to get involved in deadly trouble. Sounds promising, right?
For a moment, I contemplate the endless ice landscape. But hold on... the Antarctic wasn't quite what I had in mind when I thought about holidays. So I pause dramatically, since apparently, making jokes about my catastrophic fate is all I have left.
Let's be rational, Dean. Running away is tempting and smart – arguably too smart for someone with a survival rate shouting "cannon fodder" in a world ruled by magic portals.
But what if? What if I took those "hacks" I reserved for the protagonist? I could bend the rules, subvert expectations, become the unexpectedly competent anti-hero. But, of course, that would mess up the narrative masterpiece that is the 'chosen ones' and their triumphant journey. We can't have that, can we?
Now, speaking seriously, it's time to discover these innate abilities. 'Mystic Swordsman', sounds, at the very least, poetic for someone whose existence seems like a cosmic joke. Having an affinity with the mystical offers a glimmer of hope, maybe even an edge. That is, as long as I survive long enough to make it worthwhile.
Ah, and the climb to the esteemed E, the Everest of magical social classes? Given that I'm at the level of a snail stuck in super glue, the way up seems infinite.
Sam, the chosen one, with his limitless talent, may have a shortcut to glory. For him, climbing the ladder of life is like changing socks. Meanwhile, this guy here, with his E horizon, will need a miracle or two decades of intense training. A bit unfair, perhaps?
But what is a saga without its challenges? A tale without its dramatic highs and lows? Or a fallible hero without his picturesque journey to discover how much he can twist fate with sarcasm as sharp as his sword?
So, I move forward, arming myself with sarcasm, a pinch of hope, and an uncanny ability to hatch potentially disastrous plans. It may be a long walk to E, but at least the path is strewn with material for good jokes.
If I'm to die as an E, at least let it be with an ironic smile, right? And who knows, maybe I can rewrite a bit of my own story along the way.
---
Author's note:
Hello readers 👋 thank you for sticking with me to the end.
Well, definitely this story won't be about some overpowered protagonist who can obliterate everyone with a snap of his fingers. But I'll try to make sure he's not an ant among humans.