So this is the end of intro for different candidates on Earth.
Next we will be following the different humans that ended up in different trials across the Multi-verse like MC did in the Dragon Nest.
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The Gambler
Luck was a language Mateo Calderón spoke fluently. And like all languages, it could lie. The casino never slept in Las Vegas. It breathed with lights pulsing, cards snapping, dice rolling, money changing hands faster than thought. Gold and red reflections slid across polished marble floors. Laughter rang out too loud, too practiced. Somewhere between hope and ruin, Mateo's empire lived.
He moved through it like a king in exile.
Mateo was Cuban by blood, Miami by origin. He dressed impeccably, tailored suits, silk ties, cufflinks that caught the light just enough to remind people he mattered. His hair was always perfect, his smile easy, his voice smooth as aged rum. He knew everyone's name. He shook hands like favors were already owed.
From the outside, he was success incarnate: owner of one of the most exclusive casinos on the strip, host to celebrities, politicians, and men who never appeared on guest lists. His tables never went cold. His champagne never stopped flowing.
But luck, Mateo knew, was a loan with interest.
Years ago, when he was poker champion and wanted to get into the real game. He'd borrowed to build this place since his winnings were not enough, borrowed from men who didn't care about glamour or legacy. Men who measured time in deadlines and consequences.
At first, the money had felt like destiny smiling at him. Expansion. Renovation. Influence. Now it felt like a countdown. Every night the casino had to Win. Not do well, not just survive but Win big.
He watched everything. He watched dealers' hands, pit bosses' eyes, high-rollers' tells. He tracked streaks, odds, flows. He knew when to comp a suite, when to offer a drink, when to quietly ban someone who won too much too fast. The house always had an edge but lately, it wasn't enough.
Stress never showed on his face. Panic was for amateurs. Mateo smiled, laughed, toasted wins and losses alike. What he didn't say was that the walls were closing in fast. The casino wasn't just a business anymore. It was a battlefield where every spin of the wheel bought him another hour of breathing room. Every packed table pushed the inevitable a little further away.
Tonight the casino was loud enough to make him feel invincible. He stood at the edge of the gaming floor, smiling, shaking hands, the perfect host. Dice rolled. Chips clacked. Music hummed beneath it all like a heartbeat. If you listened closely, it almost sounded like safety.
A young buxom woman dressed in piece of clothing that hide only the main assets came up to him. He didn't go to her right away finishing the conversation, laughed at the right moment, he excused himself with practiced grace. Only when they reached a corridor did she speak, "They are here?"
Mateo frowned. "Who?"
"Them," was all she had to say and he knew who she was talking about.
His steps slowed when he came to the lobby and then he saw them. Mateo felt the blood drain from his face.
Three men. Calm. Well-dressed, but not flashy. No weapons visible. No hurry in their movements. One sat comfortably in the private lounge, legs crossed, hands folded like he owned the place already. Another stood near the bar, speaking softly to staff. The third leaned against a wall, watching everything with bored eyes.
For the first time in years, Mateo thought about running. The thought came uninvited—fast exits, service tunnels, a car waiting somewhere. Havana. Mexico. Anywhere but here. He even took a step back.
One turned to face him with those pale eyes. Running, Mateo realized, would only make things worse. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his tie, and walked. "Gentlemen," he greeted. "Would you like to come to my office?" Not wanting to air his dirty laundry outside.
They met in his office upstairs, away from the noise. The door closed softly behind them. No shouting. No threats. Just polite conversation, brief and precise. Questions about profits. About timelines. About promises made and broken.
Mateo answered carefully. Giving them all the reassurances they needed but then out of nowhere the first blow came without warning.
He hit the floor hard, breath gone in an instant. Someone kicked the door shut. Another pulled the blinds. He never saw who struck him next; only felt hands, pressure, the sharp clarity of pain meant to educate, not to kill.
They didn't rush. They didn't lose control. When it was over, Mateo lay on the carpet, gasping, blood on his lip, vision swimming. A chair scraped softly as the aid crouched beside him. "You're not dead," the man said calmly. "That means we still believe in you."
Mateo tried to speak. Nothing came out. "The boss wants what he is owed in 30 days. We don't care if you have to sell this place or rob your grandmother."
The door closed. The casino roared on below, unaware. Mateo remained on the floor of his office, bloodied, breathing shallowly, staring at the ceiling. The lights hummed softly above him. The clock on the wall ticked forward, indifferent.
Mateo who had the lowest point in his life got the most unexpected message; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
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The Mountain Climber
Alejandro "Ale" Vargas had always been drawn to the mountains. To him, the peaks of the Andes were more than just a challenge, they were an invitation to something raw and pure, something far older than the world he was born into.
In the high-altitude villages of Peru, the air was thinner, but the world was clearer. Alejandro had grown up beneath the shadow of the mountains, in a small village nestled at the base of towering cliffs that seemed to scrape the sky. His family was poor, the land arid and unforgiving, but the peaks above them were constant, unchanging, unyielding. They were a reminder of something beyond survival, a force that shaped time and space with its silence.
His mother had always told him, "The mountains do not care for our suffering. But they give us strength if we learn to listen."
For years, Alejandro had lived by those words. As a young man, he joined a local expedition team, climbing peaks that most considered impossible to scale. He went further, higher, pushing himself into places where others turned back, where the air was so thin it burned to breathe, and the cold gnawed at your bones. He climbed for the purity of it each ascent was a conversation with the land, a form of silent communication that the world below couldn't comprehend.
But it wasn't enough. His ambition burned brighter. The Olympics were his next challenge, an unexpected opportunity that came after his reputation began to spread beyond Peru. He was a natural athlete, Alejandro competed in the winter sports events, where his climbing prowess translated into a surprising success in the most extreme competitions. That was where he was able to take home the Gold, becoming a shining star of achievement, Alejandro just saw it as another notch on his belt. The medals, the fame, they didn't matter to him. The challenge, the climb, was always more important than any accolade.
The Olympics gave him a platform, a chance to expand his reach. He traveled the world, scaling peaks from the Himalayas to the Rockies, from the Alps to the volcanic craters of New Zealand. Each summit brought him closer to a feeling that was indescribable, the rush of victory, but more than that, the peace of being alone at the top of the world.
His reputation grew. He became a legend among the climbing community, one of the best. But with that fame came unwanted attention. Companies wanting him for publicity, media asking for interviews, sponsors trying to tie him down. He resented all of it. The purity of climbing had been tainted by the world below.
But as the years wore on, climbing became less about peace and more about escape. Alejandro's past had a way of catching up with him. His child's sudden death, the debts that piled up from failed ventures, the promises he couldn't keep, the guilt that had settled in his chest like an anchor. The mountains offered him a place to hide, a place to forget. So he climbed further, higher. Above the clouds. Into the realm where the world didn't dare to follow.
One day, he received an invitation, a challenge from the most elite climbing group in the world. The invitation was wrapped in gold leaf, an elegant letter that read like a summons. "We believe you are the one to complete The Ascent of Apu Salkantay," it said. "We await you at the top!"
Apu Salkantay. The peak was a legendary challenge, feared for its sheer danger and treacherous terrain. Many had tried to conquer it; few had succeeded. Alejandro accepted not only for the challenge but also the money they offered by the shadowy, unseen patrons behind the invitation.
The climb began on a quiet morning, with the sun just beginning to cast a golden light over the jagged landscape. The first few days were smooth: ice-crusted ridges, narrow crevasses. Each step took him higher, further into the wilderness. The world below was lost, drowned by the vastness of the mountains. There was peace in that.
But the higher he went, the more the mountain revealed itself. Unforgiving winds, near-freezing temperatures, a constant, biting cold. As he neared the final ascent, the summit was wrapped in clouds, invisible, shrouded in the kind of mystery that only the highest places held.
Alejandro's crew was beginning to struggle. The men that had joined him for this final ascent were seasoned, but the mountain was taking its toll. One by one, their confidence faltered, their pace slowed.
The summit was within reach, but the storms had other plans. As they neared the final ridge, snow began to fall heavily. Visibility dropped. The wind howled with an anger that seemed unnatural. The group's co-leader, a man with a reputation that matched Alejandro's, turned to him, eyes full of doubt. "We're losing the window. We need to turn back. It's not worth it."
Alejandro's breath was shallow, his heart pounding. He had felt this before. The temptation to turn back but he felt the pull of something older than ambition…something primal, almost sacred. "I will go on," he said quietly, resolute.
One by one, the others fell back. Alejandro pressed onward alone. Step by step, he clawed toward the summit, each breath a struggle, each heartbeat a drumbeat in a ritual older than the mountains themselves.
At last, the clouds parted enough for him to glimpse the peak. There, waiting among the wind and stone, was a figure unlike any he had imagined: an old priest, draped in robes of deep crimson and gold, with a feathered cloak making him look like a bird of prey. His eyes shone with the knowledge of things long forgotten by the world below.
"You have come," the priest said, voice like the wind over glaciers. "Few do. Fewer still arrive unbroken."
Alejandro, wind-lashed and bloodied, "So you are the one that invited me?"
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The Shipping Magnate
The rivers of Bangladesh were veins of gold to those who knew how to read them. From the wide, silt-heavy waters of the Padma to the twisting tributaries of the Meghna, boats glided like silent messengers, carrying everything from rice and jute to textiles dyed with colors.
At the center of this web of commerce sat Rahim Ahmed. His office overlooked the port of Chittagong, where cranes clawed at containers stacked like giant sugarcane stalks and ships slipped into the horizon, heavy with promise. Rahim was a man molded by history, he carried the legacy of centuries of Bengali merchant princes ancestors who had sailed dhows across the Bay of Bengal, trading silk, salt, and spice with ports as far as Damascus, Malacca, Cairo, and Venice.
They had survived empires, storms, and pirates; not through brute force, but through cunning, reputation, and the relentless pursuit of opportunity. Rahim carried that legacy with him in every deal he struck.
Today, his trading empire spanned shipping lines, warehouses, and textile mills. From Dhaka to Dubai, from Kolkata to Kuala Lumpur, Rahim's ships carried not only goods but influence. Competitors whispered that he could move markets with a single contract, and governments knew better than to cross him.
He was a rotund man with the quiet command of someone used to moving both goods and people across continents. His skin was the color of river clay, and his eyes shimmered with the calculation of a man who had inherited centuries of trade instinct but softened by a smile that put everyone at ease.
He knew the names of the dockworkers, the families of his captains, the children who ran errands for his warehouses. When the monsoon left villages flooded, it was Rahim's ships that carried rice and medicine. When artisans struggled to sell their textiles abroad, Rahim's fleet would find buyers. He had the wealth of a empire, the influence of governments, but the heart of a generous uncle, the kind you'd invite over for dinner and trust to give wise advice and coin for a child's pocket.
He never flaunted his power. Governments knew to respect him; competitors knew not to underestimate him. Yet he treated everyone with the same quiet courtesy. He believed wealth was a tool, not a weapon.
As he leaned on the balcony of his office, the sun setting over the river delta, Rahim watched his cargo ships return, their holds heavy with spices, garments, and electronics. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of salt and fish, but to Rahim, it smelled of opportunity. A storm was forming on the horizon, rumors of rival syndicates and corrupt officials angling for his routes. But Rahim smiled. The river bends, the winds, the tides, they were all part of the game he had mastered since childhood.
Rahim headed down to the docks, walking down it and greeting crews by name. "Good work, Farid," he said to a young deckhand. "Keep your father's fishing boats safe while I arrange the next shipment. Don't worry about overtime." He patted the boy on the shoulder with a warmth that made even the harshest labor feel lighter.
Rahim was heading to the main ships when something appeared in front of his face; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
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The Animal Herder
The desert did not forgive easily, but it respected strength.
Youssef ibn Kader had learned that long before he ever carried a rifle. Long before blood money and border wars paid his way across continents. Long before men whispered his name with fear and hired him when they needed a problem ended far from law or mercy.
Now, he walked through the sand at dawn, guiding his goats, sheep, and camels toward a shallow grazing basin at the edge of the Anti-Atlas. The bells around their necks chimed softly, a gentle music carried on the cool morning wind.
His robes were plain, sun-faded, his beard was now getting streaked with gray. To anyone passing by, he was just another herder: quiet, patient, unremarkable. That was how he wanted it.
Youssef was Amazigh, born of mountain and desert people who had crossed these lands long before maps had names for them. His ancestors had resisted empires, vanished into stone and sand when conquerors came, and reemerged unchanged when those empires fell. They taught their children that survival was not about domination, but movement; not about strength, but understanding. You did not fight the land. You learned it.
That lesson carried him far. Youssef had spent most of his life as a mercenary. North Africa, the Sahel, the Levant, the Balkans, East Africa, Southern Europe; he had crossed them all, fighting for causes he never believed in, protecting men who deserved no protection. He had commanded convoys through ambush zones, broken sieges, led retreats that should have been massacres. He survived not by brute force alone, but by movement, deception, and an instinctive understanding of terrain. He never fought the land. He used it.
When the wars finally ended or more like when he simply walked away since they always went on, he returned to Morocco, his old homeland and where his people lived between mountain and sand. He traded weapons for animals, contracts for seasons. He built a small stone home near the desert's edge, married late, and learned again how to sleep without listening for footsteps.
The animals trusted him. They always did. Camels knelt when he approached. Dogs followed without command. Even the goats seemed to sense the stillness in him, the coiled patience of a man who had survived chaos and chosen peace.
That morning, the air felt wrong. The horizon blurred, not with heat, but with movement. The wind shifted, carrying the taste of iron and dust. Youssef paused, eyes narrowing. He had felt this before on battlefields, before charges, before entire plans collapsed.
A sandstorm was coming. He moved immediately, not in panic, but with the calm precision of a veteran commander. He whistled once, sharp and low. The dogs snapped to attention. The herd tightened, flowing together as if guided by a single will. Youssef turned them toward a rocky outcrop he had chosen before for exactly this reason.
The sky darkened. The wind howled. Sand rose like a living wall. As the storm crashed over them, Youssef wrapped his scarf tight and stood firm, one hand on the stone, the other resting lightly on his staff. The animals huddled close, sheltered by rock and by him. Sand scoured his back, howled in his ears, tried to erase everything but it did not move him.
He had faced worse storms made of steel and fire. When it passed, the desert emerged changed but familiar, dunes reshaped, tracks erased. Youssef checked his herd, one by one, calm and methodical. All were safe.
He looked out across the endless sand, eyes steady. Once, he had crossed mountains with armies at his heels. Now, he guarded a handful of lives and a quiet corner of the world. The desert had not broken him. It had accepted him.
Readying to continue on his journey something appeared out of nowhere which had him reaching for his weapon. [CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
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The Music Conductor
Paris had built cathedrals of sound long before it raised towers of glass, and on this final night, every note seemed to hold its breath. Maître Julien Moreau stood alone on the stage of the Opéra Garnier, the house lights dimmed, the chandeliers asleep above him like captured constellations.
He raised his hands slowly, feeling the familiar tremor in his fingers, a betrayal of flesh he could no longer deny. The doctors had given it a name, a careful string of syllables meant to soften the truth. A degenerative nerve disease. Progressive. Irreversible. This would be his last performance.
Julien was born between worlds. His father, from an Algerian family that immigrated from Oran, he was a poet and writer for most of his life. It was his mother, a Parisian to the bone that had grown up on Debussy and Ravel, the daughter of a civil servant who believed culture was France's true inheritance that he learned the piano from and picked up his love of music from.
Julien learned quickly. By the time other children were struggling through scales, he was dissecting phrasing, asking why one tempo breathed and another suffocated. He did not play to impress. He played to understand. Sound was a landscape to him, and he wanted to map it.
As a teenager, he entered the conservatoire and devoured it. He studied composition, theory, orchestration; anything that allowed him to see music whole. Conducting came later, almost accidentally, when a professor placed a baton in his hand and asked him to "hold the room together." Julien lifted his arms, and the chaos aligned. It felt right. Natural. As if the orchestra had been waiting.
He climbed fast. Regional orchestras became national ones. Assistant roles turned into guest invitations. By his twenties, he was conducting works many men twice his age never touched. He pushed orchestras harder than they liked, demanded clarity, stripped away excess. Some musicians resented him. Others followed him blindly.
He went through competitions, won awards, gained prestigious appointments, and the world opened to him. Vienna. Berlin. Milan. New York. Tokyo. Each hall another summit, each orchestra a new terrain. He learned their habits, their egos, their limits. He adapted without compromising. His reputation grew until it no longer belonged to him. Critics spoke of precision, of authority, of a great gravitas in his presence. They called him cold, commanding, harsh but brilliant, always brilliant like a shining star.
By his thirties he stood at the top among the greats. They called him Le Roi de la Musique, the King of the podium. However at the summit came the weight. Sponsors wanted spectacle. Patrons wanted accessibility. Administrators wanted him to soften, to charm, to sell. Julien resisted. Music did not exist to please. It demanded perfection, it needed everything.
The higher he rose, the lonelier it became. And then, quietly, the betrayal began. A tremor at first. Barely noticeable. Fatigue in his hands after long rehearsals. A stiffness he blamed on age, on travel, on overwork. Until the diagnosis came: clinical, polite, absolute.
Tonight's program was his choosing, his farewell if you would. His final ascent.
As the audience settled; politicians, patrons, critics, ghosts of former students, the silence grew heavy. Julien stepped onto the podium to thunderous applause. He acknowledged it with a slight bow, elegant, restrained. No wasted motion. He saved everything for the music.
He lifted the baton. For a moment, his fingers threatened to disobey. Pain flared, sharp and electric. The disease whispered its promise: this is ending.
Julien inhaled, grounding himself the way his father once taught him: feel the floor, feel the breath, feel the weight of history behind you. Then he brought the baton down. The orchestra exploded into light.
Sound flooded the hall, radiant and precise. Strings shimmered like gold leaf. Brass blazed with royal arrogance. Percussion marched with certainty. Julien conducted not with force, but with absolute clarity. Each gesture was deliberate, distilled, essential. He wasted nothing every movement carried meaning, like a dying sun burning hotter as it collapsed.
As the movements passed, his pain grew. His hands shook more violently between phrases. Sweat darkened his collar. But the orchestra followed him perfectly. They always had.
In the final movement, the music stripped itself bare. Grandeur gave way to fragility. Julien faltered as his power, his reputation, everything was gone in a blink of a eye. What remained was humanity in its rarest nature.
Julien held the last note suspended, trembling, luminous. Then he cut the sound. Silence crashed down harder than applause ever could. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the hall erupted.
Julien lowered his arms slowly. The baton slipped from his fingers and clattered softly against the wood. He did not bend to retrieve it. His hands hung at his sides, finally at rest. He had made his final set and what a work of art it was.
As the applause washed over him, Julien closed his eyes. Whatever comes next: retirement, decline, loneliness, weakness… it did not matter. He had given everything he had left to the music. And music will remembered him.
Opening his eyes he saw the most peculiar of messages: Earth has been initiated into the Multi-Verse!
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Author Note: I have more people I wanted to introduce but for now we will stop here.