The screen flickered.
Raymond's mental command selected [ Reward Settlement ], his pulse hammering in his throat—not from fear this time, but anticipation. The profile had given him questions. Maybe this would give him answers. Or at least something useful. Something he could work with.
Text cascaded down the display in sequential lines, each one appearing with a soft chime that echoed in the white room's silence.
[ Calculating experience... ]
[ Difficulty Modifier: Tutorial - Easy. 10 EXP awarded ]
[ Main Mission: Survival - 3 Days. 10x3 EXP awarded ]
[ Final Mission Rating: B+. 60 EXP awarded ]
[ Skills Generated: Basic Tier. 50x2 EXP awarded ]
[ Overall EXP acquired: 200 EXP ]
[ Level 1 -> Level 3 ]
[ Allocatable stats awarded: 4 ]
Raymond stared at the breakdown, his mind working through the mathematics. Ten points for completing the tutorial. Thirty more for three days of survival—ten per day, apparently. Sixty for the B+ rating. A hundred from the two skills he'd generated.
Two hundred total. Enough to jump two levels at once.
But the four allocatable stats—those were real. Tangible. Points he could spend to make himself stronger, faster, more resilient.
A new prompt materialized at the bottom of the screen.
[ Do you wish to allocate your stats? ]
[ Yes ] [ No ]
Raymond's mind hovered over the options. His pulse quickened despite himself. Power. Direct. Immediate. The system was offering him the same thing it had in the desert cave, but more of it this time.
He confirmed the choice [ Yes ].
Going all in on one stat felt short-sighted. Endurance kept him alive, but agility would keep him from needing that extra health in the first place. Better to spread the investment. Cover his weaknesses.
Raymond's mind moved to the plus sign beside AGI. He pressed it four times in succession, watching the number climb from three to seven. The counter beside Unallocated dropped to zero. The plus signs across the other stats dimmed, fading to that same greyed-out state as the minus icons. Inactive. Spent.
All except one.
The plus sign beside Endurance still glowed.
Huh?
Raymond's brows drew together. His eyes fixed on the stat line.
END: - 3 + (+4)
The bonus. The four points he'd purchased back in the desert cave with his reputation points. They sat separate from his base stat, displayed in parentheses like a modifier rather than part of the total.
Something clicked.
Let's see if my guess is right.
His mind pressed the plus sign beside Endurance.
The numbers shifted.
END: - 4 + (+3)
The base stat increased by one. The bonus decreased by one. The system was treating them as the same pool—letting him convert his purchased bonus into permanent base stats.
I was right.
Raymond didn't hesitate. His mind pressed the plus sign three more times, watching the bonus drain away as his base stat climbed to seven.
A new prompt materialized on the screen.
[ Do you wish to confirm? ]
[ Yes ] [ No ]
Of course I confirm.
The attribute window refreshed. The numbers settled into their final positions, clean and permanent.
=== ATTRIBUTES ===
STR: 4
AGI: 7
END: 7
PER: 5
INT: 4
WIL: 7
Unallocated: 0
Unlike the last time, nothing happened.
No surge of vitality. No flood of renewed energy coursing through his limbs. His body felt exactly the same as it had moments before—tired, worn, unchanged.
Raymond frowned. The Endurance boost in the desert had been immediate. Tangible. This felt like clicking buttons on a screen with no feedback, no confirmation beyond the numbers shifting on the display.
Maybe it's what the stats affect.
Endurance governed health, stamina—things he could feel in his body's current state. But Agility? Reflexes and coordination wouldn't show themselves standing still in an empty white room. He'd need to test them. Move. React to something.
Later. After whatever came next.
A new prompt materialized on the screen.
[ Do you wish to return? ]
[ Yes ] [ No ]
Simple. Direct. Two words that carried weight far beyond their brevity.
Raymond's mind went still.
Return?
The implication crashed into him like a physical blow. His earlier speculation—the white room as some sort of game lobby—it had been correct. This wasn't a prison. Wasn't a containment zone. It was a waystation. A checkpoint between runs.
Which meant he could go back.
His heartbeat climbed, hammering against his ribs. The teenage body's hormones surged, amplifying every spike of emotion before his training could suppress it.
Good news. He could return to the real world. Or what passed for real in this simulation.
Bad news. He had no idea what waited for him on the other side.
Too many variables. Too many unknowns.
But staying here solved nothing.
Raymond drew a slow breath. Held it. Let his pulse settle back toward something manageable. The panic ebbed, replaced by cold calculation. Whatever waited on the other side, he'd handle it. Same as always.
Several minutes passed before his mind moved.
He pressed [ Yes ].
Light exploded across his vision. White. Blinding. Overwhelming. His eyes slammed shut against the intensity, but it burned through his eyelids anyway, searing itself into his retinas.
Then nothing.
When awareness returned, he was sitting.
Not lying down. Not standing. Sitting upright on something that gave slightly under his weight—a reclining bed, the kind with adjustable angles and soft padding.
His eyes adjusted to normal light levels.
The white room was gone.
He sat in a small space. Four meters by four meters, maybe. Clean. Minimalist. White walls, but different from before—these had texture, seams, the look of manufactured panels rather than infinite void. A single overhead light cast even illumination across everything. No windows. One door set into the far wall, sealed tight.
A cell. Or a pod. Something designed for one person to occupy temporarily.
Before Raymond could process where he was, alarms shrieked to life.
Sharp. Piercing. The sound cut through the small space like a blade.
"Player Candidate Ray has awakened. Notifying doctors to rush to Pod #903."
The announcement rang out in a flat, synthetic voice. Clinical. Automated. It repeated twice more, each iteration identical to the last.
Raymond's hands moved instinctively to push himself up from the recliner. His palms pressed against the padding, muscles tensing—
Hospital gown.
He glanced down. Thin fabric, pale blue, the kind that tied at the back and left you half-exposed. No boots. No tactical gear. Just bare feet against the cold floor.
What the hell?
The door hissed open before he could stand fully.
Two figures rushed through, white coats billowing behind them. The first wore glasses—wire-rimmed, perched on a narrow nose. A smile stretched across his face as his eyes landed on Raymond.
"Mr. Ray, please don't exert yourself more than necessary. You might still be feeling the aftereffects."
His voice carried that practiced calm doctors used when they wanted you to stay put. He crossed the small space in quick strides, one hand already extending toward Raymond's shoulder.
Raymond's instincts screamed at him to move. To create distance. To assess the threat properly before letting anyone get that close.
But he didn't.
These people expected someone. Expected Ray. Expected normal behavior from a player candidate waking up after a scenario. Any deviation—any sign he wasn't what they thought he was—could raise questions he couldn't answer.
Raymond let the doctor guide him back down onto the recliner. The padding compressed under his weight. His body settled into the cushions, compliant and cooperative.
The smile on the doctor's face widened slightly. Satisfied.
The doctor moved with practiced efficiency, pulling a small device from his coat pocket. He pressed it against Raymond's wrist—cold metal, smooth surface. A soft beep. Numbers flickered across a tiny screen Raymond couldn't quite read from his angle.
"Congratulations, Mr. Ray."
The words came warm, genuine. The doctor's smile hadn't dimmed.
"You've awakened as a Player. I bet the news has already reached the Ministry by now."
He moved the device to Raymond's neck, then his chest, checking readings Raymond could only guess at. Vitals, probably. Or something more specific to whatever "awakening" meant in this context.
After a minute, the doctor straightened and pocketed the device. His smile widened further.
"Everything's in order. You're cleared."
He turned toward the door, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Congratulations again, Mr. Ray. Truly."
The happiness in his voice rang real. No artifice. No hollow corporate enthusiasm. Just authentic pleasure at Raymond's success.
But underneath it, something else flickered across the doctor's expression. Brief. Quickly suppressed. The tightness around his eyes. The way his smile didn't quite reach them anymore.
Envy.
The door hissed shut behind him.
Raymond sat alone in the pod, his mind already working through what he'd just witnessed.
Player status has high value here.
That much was obvious. The doctor's genuine congratulations mixed with that flash of envy told him everything he needed to know. Whatever being a Player meant in this world, it opened doors. Provided opportunities. Status. Power, maybe.
And the Ministry.
What kind of government entity handles Players?
The name implied bureaucracy. Structure. Official recognition and registration. Which meant Players weren't hidden. Weren't experiments locked in black sites. They were acknowledged. Tracked. Managed through proper channels.
At least I won't be dissected in the name of research or something.
The thought brought a small measure of relief. His teenage body relaxed slightly against the recliner, tension bleeding from shoulders that had been coiled tight since the moment he'd woken.
But relief only went so far.
I need to gather intel. Fast.
Common sense. Cultural norms. How this world actually functioned beyond simulation scenarios and white rooms. What Players did. What the Ministry wanted. What expectations came with the title he'd apparently just earned.
Flying blind got people killed.
Raymond exhaled slowly and let his eyes drift closed. His body needed rest anyway—the stat allocations might not have hit him immediately, but exhaustion still sat heavy in his limbs. And he wasn't going anywhere. Not until these Ministry people showed up to register him.
Might as well sleep while he could.
His breathing steadied. Deepened.
He'd find out soon enough what came next.
Raymond sat on the recliner, a disposable cup pressed to his lips. The liquid inside was cold, sweet—cherry and pineapple, or something approximating them. But underneath the fruit flavors sat that unmistakable chemical aftertaste. Synthetic. Lab-made. The kind of drink that came from powder packets and artificial essences rather than anything that had ever grown on a tree.
He swallowed and lowered the cup.
The pod door hissed open.
Three men stood in the threshold. All of them wore bespoke three-piece suits—tailored, expensive, the kind that announced status before a word was spoken. Mid-thirties, maybe. Young for whatever positions they held, but carrying themselves with the confidence of people who knew their authority was recognized.
The man in front was the oldest of the three. His suit strained slightly around a belly that had started to develop—not obese, just the soft accumulation that came from desk work and good meals. His gait as he stepped forward spoke of years navigating bureaucratic corridors. Measured. Practiced. The walk of someone who knew exactly how to present himself in every situation.
A smile stretched across his slightly chubby face. Sunny. Genuine, or a perfect imitation of it.
He entered the pod. One of the others followed, taking position slightly behind and to the left. The third remained outside, standing at attention in the corridor.
Smart. Two people already made the four-by-four space feel cramped. Three would have been uncomfortable. Unprofessional.
The leading man's smile never wavered.
"Mr. Ray, congratulations on awakening as a Player."
His voice carried warmth, enthusiasm that felt rehearsed but not insincere.
"I don't have to tell you how happy we at the Ministry of Federal Education are. You're the fifth candidate player to have awakened this year."
He extended his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
A handshake. Professional courtesy. Welcome to the club.
Raymond set the cup in the holder mounted to the side of his bed and accepted the handshake. The man's grip was firm without being aggressive. Professional. The hand of someone who shook palms dozens of times a day and knew exactly how much pressure conveyed competence.
He released and lifted his other hand to his forehead, his expression shifting to mild embarrassment.
"Oh, look at my manners. I forgot to introduce myself."
The smile returned, sheepish this time.
"My name is Kim Min-Jun. I'm the team leader of this district."
He gestured to the skinnier man beside him—sharp features, neat hair, posture that spoke of careful discipline.
"This is Lee Ji-Hoon."
His hand swept toward the doorway where the third man stood.
"And the one outside is Bileg Bator. Both working under me."
Lee Ji-Hoon stepped forward and extended his hand. Raymond shook it—another firm grip, another practiced motion. Outside, Bileg Bator offered a silent nod. Stocky build. Broad shoulders. Alert stance in the doorway like he was standing guard.
Raymond's breathing stayed steady. Even. He watched them without saying more than necessary.
Kim Min-Jun's sunny smile settled back into place as he clasped his hands together.
"Now, for the official work."
His tone shifted—still friendly, but edged with the formality of someone transitioning into protocol.
"As you know, an awakened Player is a great asset to the Federal Government. You'll get priority choice of university across all of the pan-human space sectors. There are some minor monetary benefits as well, but we don't need to delve into those right now."
He paused, letting the weight of the offer settle.
"However, to avail those benefits, you'll need to register your Player identity and share your level with us."
His hand gestured toward Lee Ji-Hoon.
"Please."
Lee Ji-Hoon reached into the leather bag slung across his shoulder and produced a tablet—sleek, thin, the screen already glowing with an active interface. He held it up toward Raymond, angling it so the display faced him clearly.
Kim Min-Jun seemed to catch Raymond's hesitation. His expression softened, understanding settling across his features. This wasn't his first time dealing with a newly awakened Player.
"You don't have to worry, Mr. Ray."
His voice carried reassurance, the practiced tone of someone who'd delivered this speech before.
"We'll only see what you wish to share with us. You can also choose not to go through with this, but that would mean giving up all the benefits. Please think it through."
He gestured toward the tablet Lee Ji-Hoon held.
"If you agree, place your palm on the screen. When the prompt appears from the World System, approve it."
Raymond's eyes narrowed slightly.
He knew this tactic. The illusion of choice. Technically voluntary, but structured so refusal carried consequence. Classic bureaucratic pressure—offer benefits with one hand, require compliance with the other.
But he was operating blind. He could reject them, walk away, but doing so gained him nothing. No information. No understanding of how this world functioned. No baseline for what came next.
Better feign compliance. See what they have in store for me.
Raymond lifted his hand and placed his palm against the tablet's screen.
The surface was cool, smooth. A faint vibration hummed beneath his skin.
Then the interface materialized.
That familiar pale blue rectangle, translucent and hovering in his vision. The holographic display only he could see, tracking with his gaze exactly as it had in the desert, in the white room.
[ Do you wish to share your player name and level? ]
[ Yes ] [ No ]
Raymond affirmed mentally.
The interface vanished.
The tablet screen in Lee Ji-Hoon's hands lit up, bright text populating the display.
[ Player Name: Ray #776784 ]
[ Player Level: 3 ]
Kim Min-Jun's eyes went wide. Saucers. His mouth fell open slightly, the sunny smile replaced by raw shock.
Lee Ji-Hoon's grip on the tablet tightened, his knuckles going white.
"Level 3????"
The words burst from Kim Min-Jun's mouth, loud in the cramped pod space. Disbelief carved into every syllable.