Let's get one thing straight. I hate art.
I hate the pretentious way people talk about it, the way they tilt their heads and squint like they're deciphering some ancient code in a splash of paint. I hate the hushed, reverent tones they use to describe a guy in tights jumping around a stage. To me, it's all just… noise. Unnecessary, complicated noise.
My name is Evan Cross, and my plan was simple: survive my final year at the most ridiculously exaggerated art school on the planet, Helios Academy of Expression Arts. My parents, in their infinite wisdom, had decided a "global perspective" was crucial for my development. Translation: they got a lucrative job transfer to Arclight City, and I was dragged along for the ride.
The brochure for Helios looked like a fever dream. Gilded pages showed students gracefully painting on canvases larger than my bed, dancing under spotlights, and wearing Shakespearean ruffs like it was casual Friday. The school itself was an architectural Frankenstein, a bizarre hybrid of European gothic castles and minimalist Japanese estates. Think stone gargoyles perched on top of sleek pagoda roofs. It was the kind of place that screamed "we have too much money and no idea what to do with it."
My one condition for agreeing to this insanity? I get to join a sports club. Something normal. Something with clear rules, a ball, and a scoreboard. Something where the only 'expression' required was a grunt of effort. Basketball, specifically.
Which is why I was currently lost in the goddamn West Wing, a place that smelled faintly of old paper and lemon-scented floor polish.
"Okay, you useless piece of tech," I muttered, glaring at the holographic map flickering on my school-issued tablet. It was supposed to be state-of-the-art, but the path to the gymnasium kept rerouting me through what was labeled the 'Corridor of a Thousand Sighs.' I didn't have time for a thousand sighs. Club sign-ups ended in twenty minutes.
The students I passed were no help. They drifted through the halls like elegant ghosts, all sharp jawlines and designer uniforms that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. They didn't walk; they glided. They didn't talk; they emoted. One girl was literally weeping into a silk handkerchief while her friend patted her back, saying, "Let the sorrow cleanse your soul, Seraphina."
I just wanted to find a hoop to shoot.
The map fizzled again, displaying a string of corrupted code before helpfully suggesting I 'Embrace the Unknown.' I was about to embrace the tablet and throw it against the wall when I saw it.
Down a short, empty hallway, past an exhibit of what looked like angry mannequins tangled in yarn, was a single, unassuming door. It was made of dark, heavy wood, completely out of place with the chrome and glass aesthetic of the rest of the wing. There was no sign, no label. Just a tarnished brass doorknob shaped like a stoic, expressionless mask.
Must be a shortcut, I thought. The map showed the gym was on the other side of this block. Cut through here, and I might just make it. It was either this or brave the 'Gallery of Existential Dread.' I chose the door.
The knob was cold, unnervingly so. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click that echoed in the silent hall. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
And my world tilted on its axis.
The room wasn't a hallway. It wasn't a classroom. It was… a void. A cavernous black space that swallowed the light from the corridor behind me. The air was thick, still, and charged with a strange, palpable energy, like the moment before a lightning strike. The floor was a polished black marley, reflecting a faint, unseen light source from high above.
Scattered around the vast space were islands of curated chaos. A gilded throne sat next to a rack of medieval-looking prop weapons... swords, axes, and daggers that looked far too real. In another corner, a neon sign from a 1950s diner flickered beside a stack of dusty, leather-bound books. It was like a hundred different worlds had crashed into each other and this room was the wreckage.
My survival instincts, honed by years of navigating chaotic public transport and my dad's experimental cooking, screamed at me. Get out. Now.
I turned to leave, but the door was already swinging shut. It didn't slam. It closed with a soft, final thud, the sound of a vault being sealed. The click of the latch was the only sound in the universe.
"Don't bother," a voice said, cool and clear as glass. "Once the audition begins, the door remains closed."
My head snapped towards the source of the voice. In the center of the room, seated on a simple wooden stool under a single, dim spotlight I hadn't noticed before, was a girl.
She was the epitome of Helios Academy. Long, silver hair was tied back in a severe ponytail. Her posture was perfect, her back a straight, elegant line. She wore the standard Helios uniform, but on her, it looked less like school attire and more like a costume chosen with deliberate care. Her face was beautiful, in a sharp, intimidating way... all high cheekbones and a jaw that could cut diamonds. But her expression… it was a perfect blank. A canvas wiped clean of all emotion.
She hadn't even looked at me. Her gaze was fixed on the imaginary space in front of her, her focus absolute.
My brain was still trying to process the locked door. "Audition? What are you talking about? I'm looking for the gym. I think I took a wrong turn." My voice came out blunter than I intended.
The girl remained silent for a long moment. I could feel her considering me, sizing me up without even granting me a glance. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. I'm not a patient guy.
"Look," I started, taking a step forward. "I don't know what kind of weird, immersive theater thing you guys are into, but I've got about ten minutes to sign up for the basketball team. So if you could just point me to the exit…"
"The Stage doesn't make mistakes." She finally turned her head, and her eyes landed on me. They were a startling shade of violet, and they held an unnerving intensity, like she was looking straight through my skin and into my soul. There was no warmth in them. No curiosity. Just… appraisal. "No one finds this door by accident. You were called."
I let out a short, sharp laugh. It sounded unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. "Called? By who? The ghost of bad metaphors? I followed a broken map. End of story."
"Your story has already begun," she said, her voice dropping a fraction of a decibel. It sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "You stepped onto the stage. You accepted the role."
Okay, this girl was a special kind of crazy. A true method actor who never broke character. Fine. I'd play along for a second if it got me out of here.
"Right. The role," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "And what role would that be? Tree #3? Spear Carrier #5? I'm flattered, really, but I'm going to have to pass."
I walked back to the door and grabbed the mask-shaped knob. I twisted. Nothing. I pulled. It was like trying to pull a mountain. I put my shoulder into it and shoved, grunting with effort. The door didn't rattle. It didn't budge. It felt like it was carved from solid bedrock.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my composure.
"I told you," the girl's voice echoed from behind me. "The performance is underway."
I spun around, my heart starting to hammer against my ribs. "What the hell is this? Some kind of club hazing? It's not funny."
"We don't deal in what is 'funny'," she replied, rising from the stool in a single, fluid motion. She moved with a silent grace that was almost inhuman. "We deal in what is real."
As she spoke, the room began to change.
It started subtly. The single spotlight above her brightened, intensified, casting long, sharp shadows that danced at the edge of my vision. Then, other lights began to flicker on high in the unseen ceiling, bathing the scattered props in pools of gold, crimson, and deep blue. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and something else… something that smelled like old velvet and dust.
A low hum vibrated through the floor, a resonant frequency that seemed to shake the very marrow in my bones.
"What… what is happening?" I stammered, taking an involuntary step back.
The girl, Taria, regarded me with that same unnerving calm. "The stage is setting itself. For you."
My eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking an explanation, a rational answer. A projector? Holograms? Some kind of advanced VR tech? This was Arclight City, after all. But this felt different. This felt… real. The gilded throne wasn't just a prop anymore; it seemed to radiate a faint, golden aura of authority. The rack of swords gleamed with a deadly light, the edges looking impossibly sharp.
Then I heard it. A sound inside my own head.
A clear, melodic chime. The kind of sound effect you'd hear in a video game when you level up or accept a new quest.
And then, a new light appeared. Not in the room, but in front of my eyes. A translucent blue panel of text shimmered into existence, hovering in my field of vision like a heads-up display.
My blood ran cold. I knew what this was. I'd seen it a thousand times in the games I played, in the webnovels I binged late at night.
It was a system window.
[Welcome to the Stage of Ascension]
[Searching for a suitable role for the new participant…]
[…Error. All supporting roles are filled.]
[…Error. All ensemble roles are filled.]
[Analysis Complete. Participant's unique signature signature detected: Unscripted Variable.]
[Potential… Unprecedented.]
[Override Protocol Initiated.]
[Congratulations! You have been cast as the Main Character!]
I stared at the floating text, my mind refusing to process what my eyes were seeing. Main Character? What the hell was this?
"I see," the silver-haired girl said, her violet eyes fixed on me. For the first time, a flicker of something... was it surprise? interest?... crossed her perfect, emotionless face. "So that's what you are."
Before I could ask what she meant, the floor beneath my feet lurched. The black marley cracked, splitting apart as massive, grey flagstones pushed their way up from below. The scattered props dissolved into motes of light, while the walls of the black box theater receded into darkness, replaced by towering stone columns that stretched up into an impossibly high, vaulted ceiling.
The air grew thick with the smell of smoke and iron. The distant sound of a crowd roaring, and the clash of steel on steel, echoed around us.
I stumbled back, my sneakers scuffing against ancient stone. The school uniform I was wearing felt… wrong. It was shifting, the fabric thickening, twisting into something heavier, more ornate. I looked down to see the plain white shirt morphing into a deep crimson tunic, embroidered with gold thread. My slacks were gone, replaced by black breeches and tall leather boots. A heavy cloak settled on my shoulders, its weight real and suffocating.
Another blue screen popped up in front of me, its text glowing with ominous importance.
[First Scene: The Tyrant King's Redemption]
[Your Role: Kaelen, the Iron-Fisted King. A ruler despised by his people, facing a rebellion at his gates.]
[Objective: Survive the trial. Convince the Rebel Leader of your repentance. Your dialogue is your only weapon.]
[Failure to perform will result in System-enforced consequences.]
I looked up from the terrifying message, my gaze locking with the girl. She was also changed. Her school uniform had been replaced by a simple, rough-spun dress, her silver hair now matted with dirt. In her hand, she held a gleaming, very real-looking dagger. Her expression, however, was the same... cold, controlled, and utterly unreadable.
She took a step forward, the new light catching the dangerous glint in her eyes.
"Don't disappoint the audience," she said, her voice no longer that of a high school student, but of a desperate, hardened revolutionary. "Your life depends on this performance, Your Majesty."
The system had called this an audition. The girl had called it a performance.
But as I stood there, in a throne room that wasn't there a minute ago, wearing the clothes of a king I'd never heard of, facing a girl with a knife and the eyes of a killer, I knew exactly what this was.
It was a dungeon. And I had just been forced to become the main character.
***