Chapter 1

Let's get one thing straight: being 30, single, and working in a warehouse isn't exactly the dream. Add in the fact that my diet consists of frozen pizza and Mountain Dew, and you've got what I like to call the Lucas Special. You know, that elite combo of mediocrity and missed opportunities.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid. Actually, I'm pretty damn smart. Top of my class in math, killed it in physics, and even had an English teacher tell me I could write for a living. The problem? None of that helps when the girl you've been crushing on for months hits you with: "You're so sweet, Lucas… like a brother!"

Yeah. A brother. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one, I wouldn't be slinging boxes for a living.

And honestly? That's my fault.

See, my dad died when I was a kid, so my mom raised me on her own. Great woman—don't get me wrong—but she was one of those moms who wanted me to be the perfect gentleman. The kind of guy who says "please" and "thank you," holds doors open, and listens to a girl's problems like some sort of emotional sponge.

"Lucas, women love men who respect them," she'd say when I was 15 and shoveling pizza into my face during a Star Wars marathon.

"Lucas, be the nice guy. Girls want someone who treats them right."

Spoiler alert: girls like nice guys, but they don't wanna sleep with them. They're not staying up at night fantasizing about the guy who helped them move furniture or remembered their Starbucks order. Nope. Guys like me? We're the emotional support animals of dating.

And that's how I got here: Lucas, the "nice guy." Thirty years old, zero romantic prospects, and a Steam library so big it could probably crush me in real life if it ever fell over.

That Friday night started like any other. I got home from the warehouse, kicked off my steel-toed boots, and collapsed on my couch. Dinner? A large pepperoni pizza. Entertainment? Booting up League of Legends to play with my buddy Eric while I let the existential dread of my life quietly marinate in the background.

Eric's one of those guys who always has something new going on. Like, his brain's constantly buzzing with ideas, most of which are either half-baked or borderline insane. But every now and then, he stumbles onto something that actually makes sense.

"Yo, Lucas," Eric said, his voice crackling through my headset. "You hear about this new MMO?"

"Eric, I don't even have time to finish my backlog of single-player games, and you want me to commit to an MMO? What's so special about it?"

"It assigns your class based on your personality."

I groaned, pressing my forehead into my palm as my top-lane player pinged for the hundredth time. "Cool, sounds fun, but push the wave, Eric! Push the goddamn wave! Why do junglers never shove the minion wave to the tower when I recall? Are you allergic to common sense or what?"

"I'm not here to do your dirty work, man. That's your lane. I gank, I dip." His tone was so casual it made my blood boil.

"That's not how it works! You're leaving me with a freeze under my turret and their mid just went back with 500 gold up on me because you didn't touch the wave!"

Eric cackled, the kind of obnoxious laugh that made you want to break your own keyboard. "Relax, dude. You'll outplay them. You're good enough."

"Yeah, I would be good enough if my jungler wasn't sabotaging me every goddamn game," I muttered, clicking frantically to try and unfuck the mess he left. "Seriously, Eric, this is why junglers are universally hated. It's science. Someone's probably published a paper on it by now."

"Speaking of science," he said, completely ignoring me, "this MMO is supposed to have next-level AI. Like, the NPCs adapt to your playstyle. You have to check it out."

I groaned and leaned back in my chair, dragging my mid-lane ass back to tower. "Class based on personality? Awesome. Can't wait to get 'Overthinking Nerdlord.' My starter weapon's probably a calculator, and my special ability is debating meaningless stats."

Eric snorted. "Right, and my class is definitely 'AFK Jungler.' Passive skill: Leaving Baron at 1 HP."

"Oh, that's generous," I shot back. "Yours would be 'Ping Ignorer.' Starter weapon: a disconnected leash. Ultimate: Vanishing the second you're needed."

"Okay, fine," Eric said, wheezing into his mic. "But let's be real. They're gonna scan you, see all the sarcasm and pizza grease, and slap you with 'Couch Paladin.' Passive buff: Extra comfort. Zero mobility."

I snorted. "At least I wouldn't get 'Jungle Janitor.' Passive buff: you smell loot but never touch it."

We both laughed, and I clicked to dodge a skill shot, zoning the enemy mid under turret.

"Alright, enough of your tragic jungle energy," I said. "How much is this game, anyway?"

"One hundred bucks. Beta access. " Eric said, smug as hell.

"A hundred? Damn. They better throw in a DLC girlfriend for that price."

"Maybe this'll be the game where you finally lose your XP penalty."

"Ha-ha. Very funny," I deadpanned. "You done? Or are you gonna keep spamming cringe while I carry this game again?"

After logging off for the night (and reminding Eric for the hundredth time that junglers need to push the damn wave), I found myself still thinking about the game. Dungeon Realms Online. Or DRO, as it was apparently going to get called by the cool kids who made it past the paywall.

I pulled up the link Eric sent me and stared at the glowing homepage. The tagline was front and center:

"The game where your personality becomes your power."

Right underneath it, there was a cinematic trailer on autoplay. It was flashy as hell—glowing swords, spellcasters summoning lightning, and some guy dual-wielding axes while jumping off a dragon's head. The kind of over-the-top action that screams, Buy me, you nerd.

I scrolled down, half out of boredom, half out of curiosity. The features were listed like bullet points on a fancy résumé:

Five unique islands, each filled with dungeons to explore.Advanced VR immersion—feel, hear, and even smell the world around you.An AI system that assigns your class based on your personality.

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed. "Personality-based classes, huh? Knowing my luck, the AI would scan me and go, 'Congratulations, your class is Spreadsheet Cleric.'"

The more I read, though, the more intrigued I got. Apparently, the NPCs weren't just background noise—they had their own goals, personalities, and even emotions. The game world adapted to the players, meaning that how you played could literally change the course of events.

It all sounded amazing. Almost too amazing.

"Alright," I said to no one in particular, "what's the catch?"

And then I saw it: the BUY NOW button at the bottom of the page, glowing like it was daring me to click it.

"Beta access," I muttered, reading the fine print. "Limited slots. A hundred bucks." I already knew the price thanks to Eric, but seeing it written out in bold made my wallet wince.

I tapped my fingers on the desk, staring at the button like it was the entrance to some epic dungeon. "Okay, let's break it down," I said, half-talking to myself, half-trying to justify it.

"Pros: insane VR immersion, personality-based classes, dragons." I held up three fingers as if I was keeping score. "Cons: It's a hundred bucks, and I'm probably going to end up with a class like 'Emotional Support Swordsman.'"

My mouse hovered over the button as I kept trying to talk myself out of it. "What if it sucks? Or what if it's one of those games where you have to grind for three days straight just to unlock basic armor?"

The trailer in the corner of the screen caught my eye again. This time, it zoomed in on a rogue character flipping through the air to dodge a fireball before stabbing a boss in the back. The boss exploded in a burst of loot. My inner gamer twitched.

"Damn it," I muttered, scratching the back of my neck. "Alright, fine. Worst case scenario, I'm out a hundred bucks, and Eric gets to roast me for the next six months. Best case?" I smirked. "I get to one-shot dragons and laugh about it."

With a deep breath, I clicked BUY NOW.

The screen shifted to a payment page. I typed in my card details, trying not to think too hard about the hit my bank account was taking. After a few tense seconds, the page reloaded, and big golden letters lit up the screen:

"Welcome to Dungeon Realms Online!"

The client downloaded faster than I expected, considering my Wi-Fi sometimes decides to cosplay as a potato. As soon as it finished, the DRO icon popped up on my desktop—a sleek little logo of a glowing dungeon door with wisps of magical energy swirling around it.

I clicked it, and my screen went black for a second before the game's startup sequence kicked in. Dramatic orchestral music blasted through my headset as the title Dungeon Realms Online appeared, glowing and pulsing like it was alive. Below it was a single option: "Begin Setup."

I grabbed my VR headset, a slightly battered but still functional rig I'd been using for years, and strapped it on. The screen inside lit up with that same glowing logo, and the music grew louder, almost like it was pulling me in.

"Alright, DRO," I muttered, gripping my controller. "Let's see what you've got."

As soon as I selected "Begin Setup," the screen faded to black, and a deep, booming voice filled my ears:

"Welcome, Player. Initializing personality assessment."

A faint hum surrounded me, and I swear I could feel vibrations through the headset. Suddenly, I was standing in a vast, empty void—just me, floating in nothingness, with little motes of light dancing in the air around me.

"Please remain still," the voice said. "Scanning core personality traits."

The lights swirling around me grew brighter, twisting into intricate shapes—symbols, spirals, and flashes of color that felt like they were peeling me apart layer by layer. I stayed perfectly still, just as the voice had instructed, even as the glowing motes circled closer.

A low hum vibrated through the void, building in intensity. The lights converged, forming a massive sphere in front of me, shifting and pulsing like it was alive. Colors flickered through it—gold, crimson, deep blue—each one radiating a different kind of energy.

The sphere spun faster, shards of light breaking off and reforming in an endless dance. It was beautiful in a way that felt… personal. Like the game was peeling back the layers of who I was and distilling me down to my very core.

"Analysis complete," the voice boomed.

The sphere shattered, sending fragments flying in every direction. I didn't flinch, even as the glowing shards dissolved into nothingness around me. A single word formed in the empty air before me, glowing brighter than the rest: "Assigning class…"

The hum stopped, replaced by a heavy silence. The motes of light began to rearrange themselves, coming together one last time.

Then the words appeared, floating in front of me in bold, glowing letters.

"Congratulations, your class is Virgin Destroyer."