I blinked and found myself exactly where I expected: the same dim interrogation-style room, metal chair beneath me, single hanging light above the table, and across from me, the blank humanoid—motionless, featureless, waiting.

  The mannequin tilted its head. “Welcome back, Mike.”

  A status window floated in my vision:

  Time until next floor begins: 49 minutes 32 seconds.

  I squinted at him, then activated Inspect.

  Name: Jeff (System Assistant)

  Lvl: N/A

  NPC

  “Jeff?” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “That is my name.”

  “…Really? Jeff?”

  “Yes. Really. Jeff.”

  Same unsettling monotone. Same uncanny mannequin face.

  “You have questions,” he continued. “This is an appropriate time to ask them.”

  “No kidding.” I leaned back. “First thing—why am I here this early? Last time I didn’t get a countdown with fifty minutes left.”

  “You fell asleep before the induction threshold.”

  “So that’s a thing? Sleep early, arrive early?”

  “Correct. Falling asleep before 10:00 p.m. brings you into the pre-floor staging chamber. Time here is reserved for planning, optimization, rest, and preparation. Many participants use it strategically.”

  I looked around.

  “So… a waiting room.”

  “A staging area,” Jeff corrected. “But yes.”

  “And how long do I get here?”

  “You may remain until the moment the floor begins. In tonight’s case, 47 minutes 54 seconds.”

  I nodded. “So eventually this room becomes something else? Like a workshop or training hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “A… home base?”

  “At Level 10, professions unlock. Once you obtain one, this room will evolve to accommodate your needs. It will become your personal center for crafting, refinement, meditation, and long-term development.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “So professions are different from my class?”

  “Yes. Class determines combat growth. Profession determines your identity within the System and your role beyond combat.”

  “Examples?”

  “I cannot provide specifics until Level 10.”

  Fair enough.

  I rubbed my palms together, feeling the faint warmth of glowing markings. “Alright then. Let’s go down the list. I’ve got questions.”

  Jeff folded his hands neatly. “I am ready.”

  “Why can I see my stat sheet in the real world?”

  “You are already partially inducted into the System.”

  “The System.”

  “Yes.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “I do not care. Or are you asking me to elaborate?”

  I stared at him. “Yes, Jeff. Elaborate.”

  “In that case: the System governs the Dream Dungeon and the Multiversal framework around it. You are now linked to it. This is why you retain partial interface access while awake.”

  “So everyone on Earth will eventually be inducted?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing the reason I can’t summon my items in real life is because I’m only partially inducted.”

  “That is a correct guess.”

  I moved on before I got annoyed again. “Next question. What was up with the princess on Floor One? Why did she look like my ex? What happened to her?”

  “If you are referring to the individual in chains, that was Emma Williams.”

  “I KNOW it was Emma. I’m asking why her.”

  “The System selects someone from your real life who meets compatibility criteria—an emotional anchor intended to influence your decisions and reveal core traits.”

  My stomach twisted.

  “That objective was optional. What would’ve happened if I didn’t save her?”

  “She would have died,” Jeff said plainly. “The same rules apply to her as to you.”

  My pulse spiked. “Wait—she didn’t agree to any of this.”

  “No. You did. Your induction affects the people around you.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “You did not ask.”

  “You didn’t let me!”

  “I do not recall forbidding questions.”

  My jaw clenched. Useless arguing with him.

  “Fine. Next question. Earth’s rank—what does it mean?”

  “If Earth performs poorly, it will be assigned a low-tier Multiversal rank.”

  “And that leads to?”

  “Limited protection. Limited resources. Limited autonomy.”

  I felt a cold pit forming. “Meaning?”

  “Exploitation. Predation. Absorption. Annexation.”

  “By who?” I asked, though I dreaded the answer.

  “Higher-ranked worlds who may view your planet as a resource.”

  Jeff raised a hand and a grainy hologram appeared—an unfamiliar planet rotating slowly.

  “Designation: Vora-9. A world that failed its induction evaluation.”

  The view zoomed in. Cities in ruins. Insectoid soldiers marching through streets. Humanoid prisoners dragging metal crates behind chains.

  “Vora-9 ranked in the bottom percentile. It was annexed by a higher world. Its population was repurposed.”

  “Repurposed?” I whispered.

  “Labor. Harvest. Experimentation. Most slave planets cease to exist within two generations.”

  My hands curled into fists. “So that’s what happens if I fail?”

  “Yes. Although statistically speaking, your odds are better than Vora-9’s original candidate. He quit on Floor 4.”

  “…Quit?”

  “Yes. Mental collapse. Very messy.”

  I didn’t want details. “And if I succeed?”

  “Earth gains stability, protection, and the right to develop freely.”

  “So this whole thing is a cosmic placement exam to decide whether we get colonized.”

  “Accurate.”

  My mouth went dry.

  “How many floors do I need to clear to avoid that outcome?”

  “It varies by universe. However, worlds that become slave planets typically do not clear anything above Floor 30.”

  “Floor 30,” I repeated. “That doesn’t sound impossible.”

  “It is not impossible,” Jeff agreed. “Improbable. Yes.”

  My throat clicked as I swallowed.