The rough wool of his blanket scratched Alexi's cheek, but he didn't care. He'd been awake for at least an hour, tracing the familiar, spidery cracks in the wood on his bed frame. A grin stretching his face so wide it almost hurt. He pictured the translucent blue screen in his mind, just as he'd been taught, and for the third time since waking, he read the words that were the entire reason for this day.
[ Name: Alexi]
[Race: Human ]
[ Class: *** ]
[ Skills: Farming Apprentice, Archery Apprentice, Carpentry Apprentice, Sword Novice, Mining Novice ]
[ Abilities: *** ]
Today.
The word was a silent shout in his mind.
Today is the day.
The day he finally
starts
the journey to fill that triple-star void next to Class and Abilities. His parents had saved since the day he was born, every spare copper, every denied luxury, to give him this chance.
His grin wasn't just simple joy; it was a heavy, fragile thing, built from seventeen years of their hushed whispers, their skipped meals, their mended-twice-over clothes. Everything they had was bundled into this one, singular opportunity.
At seventeen, for a steep price, you were allowed to challenge the first floor of the dungeon. Most in their tiny, remote village of Balean saw it as a fool's gamble, a coin tossed into a bottomless pit. The risk, they said, wasn't worth it. But it was the only way; you couldn't get access to a Class without at least completing the first floor. Alexi, however, saw the ones who
had
risked it. The few who returnedâscarred, sometimes haunted, but fundamentally
changed
âthey were the ones who mattered.
They had a Class.
They weren't just farmers, miners, or menders anymore. They could wield magic, swing a sword with unnatural speed, or heal a wound that would otherwise fester. They gained Abilities specific to that Class, powers that seemed like miracles to those without one. They weren't destined for the crushing, dusty darkness of the mine or a life of patching other people's clothes. And that future, that escape, all started with one floor. The barrier between
what you are
and
what you could be
.
He sprang from the thin straw mattress, the rustling loud in the quiet hut, and pulled on the tunic his mother had re-stitched just last week. The fabric was worn thin at the elbows, the original color faded to a dull brown, but it was clean. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, too jittery to bother with a comb.
"Breakfast is ready, Alexi!" His mother's voice, calling from the single common room, was brightâtoo bright. It was a strained, painful cheerfulness that twisted something in his gut.
He stepped out of his small sleeping alcove. The familiar smell of woodsmoke and watery oatmeal filled the cramped space, which served as their kitchen, dining room, and living area. He headed for the small, three-legged table, his mind already miles away in Tribeca, and plopped down onto his usual chair without thinking.
There was a sharp, sickening
crack
of dry wood, and suddenly the world tilted.
He hit the packed-earth floor with a dull thud, the splintered leg of the chair skittering away toward the hearth. For a moment, there was only the hiss of the pot over the fire.
His mother didn't even turn. Her back, ramrod straight, was framed by the open hearth as she lifted the pot. "How many times, Alexi," she said, her voice flat, devoid of real anger, just... tired. "How many times have we told you to be careful with that one."
A hot, stinging flush of shame crept up his neck. "I'm sorry, momma. I... I forgot." He scrambled to his feet, clutching the broken pieces of wood. It wasn't just a chair. It was
half
their seating. Now only one remained. His father, when he returned, would eat standing after a hard day in the mine rather than let his ma.
Another small, daily hardship added to the pile. A pile built to give
him
this chance. He knew that the loss of the chair was a disaster. They had saved money at every single step, and now this. The thought of the escape token, which he would buy in Tribeca, made his stomach clench. To use itâto be pulled from the dungeon before finishing the floorâwas to come home a failure. To die... that was a terrible, distant fear. But to fail? To return and see this, the one chair, the patched clothes, and know that all their sacrifice, all their budgeting, had been for nothing... that felt infinitely worse.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. . He tried to swim, to push himself away, but he was powerless. He barely had time to turn his face before his head slammed into the unmoving rock with a sickening, final
thud
.