Ethan Cole sat cross-legged on the threadbare couch in his cramped apartment, a place that always smelled faintly of reheated noodles and stale laundry.
The blinds were half-closed, letting thin streaks of muted sunlight slice across the floor.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, catching the light like specks of forgotten gold.
He yawned and flopped backward, the springs in the couch squealing in protest.
He wondered if the universe had any decency left. It had been an unremarkable Tuesday: bills overdue, messages from his mom about his "life plans," and the crushing weight of knowing his college dropout status didn't make him very employable.
He had just finished microwaving the last of his ramen when the air hummed.
It wasn't the soft, ambient hum of the refrigerator or the rattle of the building's pipes.
This was a deep, thrumming vibration that seemed to come from the walls, the floor, and his own chest all at once.
He frowned, setting the noodles down and rubbing at the ache forming between his eyes.
He muttered to himself, "Great. An earthquake? A power surge? An alien invasion? Just pick one already."
Then the sky split.
It wasn't a cloud shifting or a weird sunset.
It was a jagged, violent tear in the sky itself.
A sickly green light spilled through the rip, fracturing over the rooftops like shards of a broken emerald.
Cars on the street jerked as the streetlights flickered; birds scattered into the air in a panicked, darting flock.
'Not a game trailer this time.' He thought, his mind struggling to form a coherent thought.
Then out of nowhere a voice spoke in his head.
It was clear, calm, and neutral, as if it were reading a manual while sipping tea.
[System Initialization… Commencing Global Activation. All human participants are now online.]
Ethan froze.
His fingers curled around the edge of the couch, his heart thumping audibly in his ears.
For a long moment, he considered that he might have finally snapped.
That the stress, sleep deprivation, and caffeine overdose had converged into one massive hallucination.
But then the vibration intensified, making the floor tremble beneath him, and he knew he wasn't dreaming.
[Humanity has been enrolled in the Cosmic Survival Tournament. Objective: Conquer designated Thrones of Power. Failure will result in extinction-level consequences.]
He pinched the bridge of his nose, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "Right," he whispered to himself. "Totally casual Tuesday material. Nothing to panic about."
From every phone, every television, every smart speaker across the city—and the globe—the announcement repeated itself.
Social media exploded in a frenzy of screaming and disbelief.
Live feeds showed people floating above cities, glowing with energy, or collapsing as some kind of power ignited inside them.
Some laughed in delight; others fell to their knees, wailing.
Ethan's own hands twitched with the faint, frustrating hope that he, too, would get a power.
But nothing happened.
Then the interface appeared.
It was a subtle flicker of light at first, like a heat shimmer in the corner of the room.
Then a translucent panel slowly materialized in midair, hovering at eye level, framed in faintly glowing cyan lines.
It had a faint depth, like a real object, and its edges flickered, glitching in and out like a corrupted hologram.
Floating buttons hovered inside—square icons with unreadable glyphs and bars filling and emptying in odd patterns. The panel hummed softly, as if aware of him, or maybe impatient.
[Global System – Participant ID: 000427]
A cursor blinked steadily, deliberately, waiting for him to act.
[Welcome, Participant. You have been assigned your interface. Initialization will begin.]
Ethan leaned back slowly, his eyes taking in every detail.
The panel's surface reflected faintly on the coffee table.
Small errors made the glyphs jitter occasionally; one corner of the interface seemed to ripple like water.
He reached a tentative hand toward it. The air felt heavier near the panel, charged with an unknown energy.
His fingers hovered, afraid to touch it.
"Okay," he whispered. "Maybe it's like… one of those augmented reality apps. Yeah. Totally normal. Calm down."
[Displaying Tutorial. Humanity must reclaim Earth from invading factions. Each faction has planted Thrones of Power in designated territories. Participants must conquer Thrones to gain Survival Ranking Points. Survival Ranking affects resource allocation, skill acquisition, and… existential continuity.]
He blinked. "Existential continuity?" he muttered, the words feeling foreign and ridiculous. "That's… reassuring."
The panel flickered, expanding slightly, revealing an array of bars, stats, and symbols.
Some of the icons seemed interactive; others just hovered, glowing faintly. Hovering over one caused a small window to pop up, filled with cryptic text and tiny graphs.
Another icon displayed a three-dimensional map of the world, overlaid with colored zones, some flashing with alarming urgency.
[System Interface Functions: Skill Assignment | Quest Allocation | Combat Simulation | Boss Interaction | Inventory Management]
Ethan's lips twitched as he examined it, half in awe and half in panic.
His life had been a series of small, inconsequential failures, and now... this. It was like someone had handed him a cosmic spreadsheet and said, "Good luck."
[All participants will receive powers appropriate to their assigned roles. Participant ID 000427: anomaly detected.]
'Anomaly?'
The word hung in the air.
A cold dread coiled in his stomach. "Of course," he muttered. "The universe finally notices me, and it's a glitch. Fantastic."
The interface flickered again, briefly showing a progress bar filled with static, and a tiny 3D icon of a crown spinning slowly.
His apartment seemed to hold its breath.
The hum vibrated faintly against the walls, the floor, even through the couch cushions.
Somewhere, a neighbor's television clicked on and off erratically.
Across the street, a cat hissed at the sky.
[Error. Power allocation cannot be determined. Interface requires administrator override. Recommended action: Await further instructions.]
[Participant ID 000427, awaiting administrator input. Optional: Confirm readiness for interface assignment.]
He stared at the blinking cursor. It waited patiently, like a sentient being.
"...Sure," he said finally, his voice cracking slightly. "Whatever that means."
[Interface Assignment: CONFIRMED.]
The interface's glow intensified, a cascade of colors rippling across the panels.
Bars rose and fell, tiny symbols spun, and a miniature holographic Earth appeared, orbiting in midair, pulsing with zones of light and shadow.
A new message appeared, framed in sharper cyan lines.
[Participant 000427, anomaly confirmed. Boss Catalogue unlocked. First entry requesting permission to enter: Demon King Zar'uth the Eternal.]
Ethan froze.
The empty ramen spoon in his hand trembled.
He could hear the faint hiss of his kettle, the hum of his fridge, the muted city noises outside—all mundane, all normal.
And yet the interface pulsed with a cosmic, impossible authority, as if the universe itself had leaned in to look at him.
"...First entry?" he whispered. "What does that even mean?"
[Permission Granted? Y/N]
He rubbed his eyes, half-expecting this to be some cruel prank, half-expecting a heart attack to finally end things. "Y... yeah. I guess?" he said, his voice trembling. "I... don't know what I'm agreeing to."
[System Note: Standby for further instructions.]
The apartment was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the interface and the occasional flicker of its holographic panels.
Ethan sat back, letting his eyes linger on the floating 3D world, trying to process the impossible.
Somewhere in the distance, a streetlamp went out, and a dog barked at nothing.
And then, impossibly, absurdly, the final message appeared, glowing like a threat and a promise all at once:
[Participant 000427, please note: Demon King Zar'uth the Eternal is requesting permission to enter.]