The simulation pod hissed open, and I blinked against the fluorescent lights of Facility 7's training hall. Twenty years old today. Twenty years since the Merger tore reality apart and reassembled it into something that made gods out of gamblers and battlefields out of breathing worlds.
"Kade Torren, exit the pod." Director Halford's voice crackled through the overhead speakers, sharp as always. "Final evaluation complete."
I pulled myself out, muscles aching from the twelve-hour combat scenario they'd run me through. Around me, other pods were opening—forty-three of us in total, all born in 2030, all wards of the Commonwealth Adaptive Program. Orphans, though they never used that word. "Strategic assets" sounds better in the budget reports.
Imani caught my eye from three pods over, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She flashed me a tired grin. We'd been in the Program together since we were six, back when they were still pretending it was a school instead of a military pipeline.
"All candidates, proceed to Conference Hall Delta for your final briefing," Halford continued. "Entry to the Tutorial begins at 1800 hours. You have two hours to prepare."
The Tutorial. Capital T, like it was something sacred instead of a meat grinder that humanity had been feeding its young into for two decades.
I grabbed my towel and followed the others through the sterile corridors. Facility 7 was built into what used to be a mountain in Colorado—before the Merger, before the Game carved up the universe and scattered the pieces across segmented realities. Now it was one of twelve facilities worldwide dedicated to preparing humanity's candidates. Making sure we didn't embarrass ourselves against races that had evolved with combat magic or skin like armor plating.
We'd been taught the statistics until they were carved into our skulls. Seventy-three sentient species confirmed in the Game. Humans ranked forty-eighth in natural advantages. No innate magic. No enhanced physicality. No telepathy or environmental adaptations. Just tool use and a stubborn refusal to go extinct quietly.
The Tutorial was our equalizer—supposedly. Reach level 50, and you'd earn a class, skills, and enough power to compete on the Main Continent where resources actually mattered. Where territories shifted daily and alliances lasted until someone found a better deal.
Most people who entered came back broken or didn't come back at all. The ones who succeeded? They became humanity's edge. The Ascended, we called them. The ones who kept Earth from being carved up and distributed to species with better starting stats.
Conference Hall Delta was already half-full when I arrived. I found a seat near the back, Imani sliding in beside me. She smelled like the recycled air of the simulation pods—metallic and faintly chemical.
"Think they'll give us the speech about glory and duty?" she whispered.
"Halford? Absolutely. Probably throw in something about the honor of service."
"You're going in, aren't you?"
I looked at her. Imani's eyes were brown, almost black in the harsh lighting, and far too knowing. She'd always been able to read me.
"You have a choice," I said instead of answering. "You don't have to enter."
"Neither do you."
True enough. At midnight tonight, every twenty-year-old on Earth would feel the pull—the option to step through into the Tutorial reality. You could refuse. Live a normal life. The Program couldn't force us, no matter how many years they'd invested in training us.
But we both knew the math. Someone had to go. Humanity needed bodies in the Game, needed people willing to grind through the levels and bring back power, resources, information. The Ascended who'd already made it through were stretched thin, holding territories on the Main Continent against species with twice our numbers and three times our natural advantages.
And the ones who succeeded in the Tutorial? They came back changed. Stronger. Fast enough to dodge bullets, tough enough to shrug off wounds that would kill normal humans. Rich enough to never worry about anything again.
I wanted that. Not the glory, not the duty—the power. Enough power that I'd never be helpless again. Enough that I could carve out something peaceful in a world that seemed determined to devour itself.
"Yeah," I finally said. "I'm going in."
Imani nodded slowly. "Me too."
Director Halford entered then, cutting off any further conversation. She was tall, rail-thin, with iron-gray hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. Behind her came three figures in the dark uniforms of the Ascended—veterans who'd survived the Tutorial and climbed high enough in the Main Continent to earn respect.
The room fell silent.
"You've trained for this day since you were children," Halford began, her voice carrying across the hall without need for amplification. "You know what the Tutorial entails. You know the risks. What you may not fully understand is the necessity."
She gestured to the three Ascended. "Captain Brennick, Lieutenant Osei, and Specialist Talin have agreed to share their insights. Listen carefully. Your lives may depend on it."
Captain Brennick stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, pale skin weathered like old leather. When he spoke, his voice was rough, like gravel grinding together.
"The Tutorial drops you in alone," he said. "No teams, no backup. You'll face monsters calibrated to your starting level—which means beatable, but not easy. The system will offer you quests. Take them. Every quest completed means experience, and experience means levels. Get to ten fast. That's when you can start choosing specializations."
Lieutenant Osei, a stocky woman with tired eyes and scars on her knuckles, continued. "Trust nothing and no one at first. The Tutorial allows limited interaction with other candidates after level 5, but remember—only thirty percent make it to level 50. Some of your peers will decide their best odds involve eliminating competition."
Specialist Talin, youngest of the three, maybe late twenties with angular features and restless hands, added, "The Tutorial adapts to you. It finds your weaknesses and exploits them. Mental, physical, emotional—everything's fair game. The ones who survive aren't the strongest or the smartest. They're the ones who can adapt and keep going when everything tells them to quit."
They spoke for another hour, detailing the mechanics we'd need to know. The system interface that would appear in our vision, translating the Game's reality into something our human brains could process. The way levels worked, experience curves, the importance of choosing skills that synergized instead of just grabbing whatever looked powerful.
Imani took notes on the tablet they'd issued us. I just listened, filing everything away. I'd already memorized most of this from years of preparation, but hearing it from people who'd survived made it real in a way the textbooks never had.
When the briefing ended, we had an hour left. Most people headed to the cafeteria or the chapel. I went to the armory.
Weapons weren't allowed into the Tutorial—something about dimensional instability and the Game's rules. But I wanted to hold a blade one more time, remember the weight and balance. They'd let us take clothes, basic supplies, nothing more.
The armory was empty except for Staff Sergeant Yurick, who'd taught me knife-fighting for the past six years. He looked up when I entered, his weathered face creasing into something that might have been a smile.
"Figured you'd come by," he said, pulling out my practice blade—a balanced combat knife, dulled for training but weighted perfectly.
I took it, felt the familiar grip settle into my palm. Moved through a basic sequence, muscle memory guiding each strike and parry. Yurick had drilled into me that knives were intimate weapons—you had to commit, get close, accept the risk. No hiding behind range or firepower.
"You're ready," Yurick said after I'd finished. "Been ready for years, really. Just remember—the Tutorial doesn't care about ready. It cares about survival."
"Any advice that wasn't in the briefing?"
He considered, scratching at the gray stubble on his jaw. "Yeah. One thing. When you get strong enough that you think you've figured it out, that you've got the Game beat? That's when it'll kill you. Stay humble. Stay hungry. And for God's sake, don't trust the system when it tells you something's safe."
I nodded, returned the knife. "Thanks, Sergeant."
"Don't thank me yet. Come back Ascended, then we'll talk."
The final hour passed quickly. I showered, changed into the clothes they'd provided—durable synthetics designed to last through the Tutorial's early stages. Grabbed the pack with basic supplies: water purification tablets, fire starter, first aid kit. Stripped of all the technology I'd grown used to. No tablet, no communicator. Just me and whatever the Game decided to throw at me.
Imani found me in the staging area, ten minutes before entry time. She'd braided her hair back, face set with determination that didn't quite hide the fear underneath.
"See you on the other side?" she asked.
"Level 50," I agreed. "We'll meet on the Main Continent."
"Kade?" She hesitated. "Don't die doing something stupid."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"Plans don't mean much in the Tutorial."
She was right, but I didn't say so. Instead, I pulled her into a brief hug, felt her squeeze back hard enough to hurt. Twenty years of training together, of competing and cooperating and surviving the Program's conditioning. Whatever happened next, at least I wasn't going in completely alone—she'd be out there somewhere, fighting her own battles.
Then Halford's voice cut through the staging area: "Candidates, prepare for entry. The threshold opens in sixty seconds."
I moved to my designated position—a white circle painted on the floor, one of forty-three spread across the massive room. Around me, my fellow candidates did the same. Some looked terrified. Others excited. A few wore expressions of grim determination.
I felt calm. Centered. This was what twenty years had been building toward.
"Thirty seconds."
The air began to shimmer above each circle, reality bending as the Game reached across dimensional barriers. I could feel it now—a pulling sensation, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the draw of the drop.
"Fifteen seconds."
My heartbeat steadied. I took a breath, held it, released it slowly. Yurick's lessons ran through my head. Brennick's warnings. The statistics and survival rates and all the cold mathematics of humanity's struggle to stay relevant in a universe that had become a competition.
I thought about power. About peace. About never being helpless again.
"Entry begins. Good luck, candidates. Make humanity proud."
The pull became irresistible. Reality twisted, folded, and I fell through the space between worlds into a place where survival wasn't guaranteed and power was the only currency that mattered.
The Tutorial had begun.