For a solid ten seconds, my brain did the only rational thing it could: it completely shut down.
My consciousness was a blue screen of death, filled with a looping error message that just read: what the FUCK?
This was a prank. It had to be. An absurdly high-budget, technologically impossible prank orchestrated by a bunch of drama nerds with too much time and family money. The girl... Taria Voss, I remembered her name from the academy's website... was just a seriously dedicated actor. The shifting room was projectors. The clothes were some kind of nanite-fabric nonsense. The system windows floating in my vision were advanced retinal projections.
It all made sense. Except for the feeling.
I reached out a trembling hand and touched the armrest of the massive throne beside me. My fingers met cold, unyielding iron. I could feel the intricate carvings of dragons and skulls, the faint texture of age and rust beneath the polished surface. It didn't feel like a hologram. It felt real. The heavy velvet cloak on my shoulders had a tangible weight, pulling me down, making me stand straighter just to support it. The air, thick with the scent of smoke and damp stone, filled my lungs with every panicked breath.
My gaze snapped back to Taria. She was no longer a high school student. Her entire being was infused with a desperate, righteous fury. The way she held the dagger wasn't awkward or rehearsed; it was the grip of someone who knew how to use it. Her knuckles were white. Her violet eyes burned with a cold fire that seemed to see me not as Evan Cross, a lost transfer student, but as Kaelen, the Tyrant King.
Okay, Evan. Think. I'm a rational person. I solve problems. The problem right now is a locked room and a girl who's a little too into her LARPing session.
The blue windows were still hovering in my vision, a persistent, unwelcome intrusion. If this was a game, there had to be a menu. A logout button. A tutorial.
I focused on the largest window, the one that had assigned me my 'role.' Mentally, I pushed at it, thinking, 'Close. Exit. Menu.'
Nothing happened.
Then I tried something else, a command I'd used a thousand times in VR games. 'Status.'
Chime.
A new window instantly replaced the old one, and my stomach dropped.
[Character Status]
Name: Evan Cross
Title: The Main Character
Current Role: King Kaelen (The Tyrant)
[Core Stats]
Strength: 10 (Average for a non-athletic youth)
Agility: 12 (Quick reflexes)
Stamina: 11 (Can run for a bus)
Intelligence: 15 (You're not a genius, but you're not an idiot)
[Performance Stats]
Presence: 2/100 (You have the stage presence of a wet sock)
Charisma: 3/100 (Your sarcasm is not as charming as you think)
Emotional Resonance: 1/100 (You are emotionally constipated)
Improvisation: 18/100 (You're good at talking your way out of trouble, but not this much trouble)
[Skills]
... None ...
My eyes widened. It had my name. It even had a snarky, accurate description of my personality. This wasn't a generic system. This was... tailored to me. My gaze fell to the bottom of the window, where a single line of red text was blinking insistently.
[Active Condition: Bound by the Stage. Failure to complete the scene's objective will result in a penalty.]
Penalty? What kind of penalty? A bad grade? Detention?
As if reading my thoughts, another message flashed into existence, this one edged in a stark, alarming crimson.
[System Rule §1: All performances are real within the Stage Instance. Physical sensations, including pain, are replicated with 100% fidelity.]
[System Rule §2: As the Main Character, your consciousness is the anchor of the scene. Should your HP reach zero due to performance failure or external factors, the scene will collapse, resulting in the deletion of the anchor.]
[In short: You die here, you die for real.]
The air in my lungs turned to ice. Deletion of the anchor. A clean, clinical, terrifyingly permanent phrase. This wasn't a prank. My life wasn't being graded; it was the wager. Every muscle in my body went rigid. The prop dagger in Taria's hand suddenly looked like the most dangerous weapon in the world.
Taria, oblivious to my internal crisis, took another deliberate step forward, her worn-out boots scuffing softly on the stone floor. Her voice, filled with that perfectly rehearsed venom, cut through my panic.
"For ten years, your taxes have bled our farms dry. Your decrees have sent our sons to pointless wars. Now, you sit on your throne of lies while the city starves. Speak, Tyrant! Offer one reason why my blade shouldn't grant you the silence you've given your people."
My objective flashed in my mind's eye: Convince the Rebel Leader of your repentance.
My brain, however, supplied a different response. A very Evan Cross response. The sarcasm was a reflex, a defense mechanism I'd honed to a razor's edge.
"Hold on," I blurted out, holding up a hand. The gesture felt strange and pompous in these kingly robes. "Pointless wars? Starving city? Look, I literally just got here. Can you give me the SparkNotes version of whatever I supposedly did?"
It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it the instant the words left my mouth.
Taria's eyes narrowed, her façade of cold fury cracking to reveal a flash of genuine confusion, quickly replaced by even deeper contempt. "Mocking us, even at your own end? You are truly irredeemable."
But her reaction was nothing compared to the System's.
Chime.
[Warning: Dialogue choice is OOC (Out Of Character). The role of 'King Kaelen' does not possess meta-awareness.]
[Audience Approval has critically decreased!]
[Pain Penalty Initiated: Level 1.]
A white-hot spike of agony drove itself into my right temple. It wasn't a headache. It was a clean, sharp, invasive pain, like a needle being pushed directly into my brain. I cried out, my hand flying to my head as my vision swam with black spots. The pain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache and the metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
It was real. That pain was absolutely, horrifyingly real.
The System wasn't asking me to play a game. It was holding a gun to my head and telling me to dance.
Another chime, softer this time.
[The Main Role System has been permanently bound to Host: Evan Cross.]
[Welcome, Lead Actor. As the Main Character, you bear the narrative's weight. Your performance dictates the world's stability.]
[You cannot log out. You cannot refuse. All consequences are real.]
[Good luck.]
The finality of those words hit me harder than the pain penalty. Permanently bound. I was trapped. Not just in this room, but in this... system. This nightmare. My only way out was to play along. To act.
The one thing I hated. The one thing I was completely incapable of doing. My 'Performance Stats' were a testament to that. A wet sock. Emotionally constipated. The system wasn't just a judge; it was a savage critic.
I straightened up, forcing myself to ignore the throbbing in my head. I looked at Taria, really looked at her this time. She wasn't my opponent. She was my scene partner. The dagger wasn't a weapon, not yet. It was a prompt. A very pointy, very persuasive prompt.
Okay, System. You want an actor? Fine.
I had to get inside the head of this Kaelen guy. Tyrant King. Despised. Facing a rebellion. What would a guy like that do? Bluster? Beg? My stats were crap, but my improvisation score was my highest, for what little that was worth. I had to use it.
I needed to buy time. To think.
I let my shoulders slump, just a fraction. I let the arrogant posture I'd adopted falter, replaced by a weariness that wasn't entirely feigned. I lowered my gaze from her fiery eyes to the dagger in her hand.
"That blade..." I began, my voice raspy. I pitched it lower than my normal speaking voice, adding a gravelly edge. "... It bears the crest of the Greycliff miners. A gift, for services rendered to the crown. Are they the ones who sent you?"
It was a complete shot in the dark, a line pulled from thin air. For all I knew, Greycliff was a brand of jam.
But Taria's advance stopped. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. It seemed I'd hit a nerve.
[Improvisation check: Success!]
[Dialogue is partially in-character. The role of 'King Kaelen' is known for his sharp memory of his subjects.]
[Audience Approval has slightly increased!]
A tiny sliver of relief washed over me. No pain penalty. A good sign.
Taria recovered quickly, her expression hardening once more. "The men of Greycliff are dead. They choked on the dust in your mines while you feasted. This dagger is all that remains of their loyalty... a loyalty you squandered."
Okay, so I squandered their loyalty. Good to know. I was building a character profile on the fly. This was insane. It was like trying to build a plane while it was falling out of the sky.
I took a slow, deliberate step back and sank onto the iron throne. It wasn't a retreat; I tried to make it look like a collapse, the act of a man whose strength had finally failed him. The heavy cloak pooled around me.
"Squandered..." I repeated, letting the word hang in the air. I looked up at her, trying to inject my expression with something other than sheer terror. What did repentance look like? Regret? Sorrow? I had no idea. I just thought about the throbbing pain in my temple and channeled that. "You speak of my feasts... my decrees. You see a tyrant. And perhaps... you are right."
[Emotional Resonance check: Low Success!]
[Your performance lacks conviction, but the dialogue aligns with the objective.]
[Audience Approval has increased.]
Yes! The needle was moving. I wasn't getting stabbed. This might actually work.
Taria seemed taken aback by the sudden confession. It clearly wasn't the response she was scripted to receive. She hesitated, the tip of her dagger wavering for a second.
"Words are wind, Kaelen," she spat, but her voice lacked its earlier conviction. "Your regret comes ten years too late."
"Then let my actions speak," I said, leaning forward. My mind was racing, improvising, throwing lines at the wall to see what would stick. "You are the leader of this rebellion, are you not? You hold the fate of the kingdom in your hand. Strike me down, and you will have your vengeance. But you will also have chaos. A civil war that will burn what little is left of this kingdom to ash."
I held her gaze, pouring every ounce of focus I had into the moment. "But if you spare me... if you give me one chance to prove my repentance is real... I will give you justice. Not with words. But with deeds."
Silence.
The only sound was the crackling of torches that I just now realized were lining the walls. The system windows remained blissfully quiet. Taria stood frozen, her face a mask of conflict. The scene hung in a delicate balance, resting entirely on her next move.
She stared at me, her violet eyes searching my face for any hint of deception.
Then she lowered the dagger, just an inch.
A new window popped up in my vision, glowing a triumphant green.
[Objective Updated!]
[Survive the confrontation. Proceed to the next scene: The People's Court.]
I almost slumped in relief. I did it. I actually did it. I had survived my first scene by bullshitting my way through it. Maybe I could do this after all.
But as Taria Voss looked at me, her expression shifted from a rebel's fury back to that familiar, chilling blankness of the Drama Club president. A new, terrifying thought hit me.
She wasn't just an NPC. She was a player, just like me. And from the looks of it, she had been doing this for a very, very long time.
"A passable improvisation," she said, her voice once again the cool, clinical tone of a high school senior. The dagger in her hand dissolved into shimmering blue particles. "But your emotional resonance is abysmal. Your presence is nonexistent. As the Main Character, that level of performance is... unacceptable."
She turned away from me, looking out into the grand, imaginary throne room. "The System chose you for a reason, Evan Cross. Don't make it regret its casting choice."
The great stone doors at the far end of the hall began to groan open, revealing a roaring, torch-wielding mob of NPCs. Their angry shouts were a physical force, washing over me.
My first scene was over. But the performance had only just begun.
***