It’s understandable considering that no one among us had used quill before. Well no, not exactly. My eyes met my brothers.
“It’s like being back in engineering drafting 101.”
“Yeah, that subject is shit. It never allowed me to fix my handwriting,” I replied lazily.
Captain Aldric stepped forward and handed me mine. I barely glanced at it before waving him off.
“It’s fine, Captain,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a pen. “I came prepared.”
There was a pause.
Then silence.
The kind of silence where everyone very deliberately looks at the thing you’re holding and then back at your face, as if trying to determine whether reality had quietly broken while they weren’t paying attention.
“Son,” my father said slowly, his voice tight in that very familiar way that meant patience was running on fumes. “Just where are you getting all of those?”
I looked up.
“You have two solar chargers, a 3DS, a phone, a headset,” he continued, counting them off with his fingers, “and now you’re telling me you also have a pen? All of that. In your pocket. Where are you pulling this stuff from?”
<
I resisted the urge.
“I am simply prepared,” I replied, casually twirling the pen between my fingers. “You never know when civilization is going to collapse around you.”
“That. Does not. Answer. My question,” my father growled.
Arthur leaned over, eyes suspicious. “Did you pull those from a another dimension or something?”
“No.”
“Or you have a cheat from a god?”
“Also no. And don’t accuse me of cheating.”
“Black market?”
“Nice try but no.”
The captains exchanged looks. Captain Godwin looked amused. Gendry and Rondry were outright grinning. Captain Aldric, to his credit, merely raised an eyebrow.
The queen, of course, said nothing—just watched. That same calm, unreadable observation.
“I pulled them out of my pockets,” I said at last.
<
I know that.
That’s exactly what I’d been doing all along. Half-truths. Misdirection. Keeping people guessing. Keeping sane, if you count that as sanity.
My father pinched the bridge of his nose. Again.
“That’s one fancy pen, though,” Trayn remarked, holding it up carefully. The polished golden body gleamed under the sunlight, silver trim catching every eye in the room, decorated with intricate filigree.
“Yep,” I said, casually spinning one between my fingers. “Titanium Alloy Inkless Pen. And before you ask, I have six. Three in each pocket.”
I produced the other five without ceremony.
Pandemonium ensued.
Shizuku and Reika swooped in instantly, each claiming one without even asking. Retort-o-max had distracted me earlier—I hadn’t even noticed them.
I handed two more to Arthur. He and Trayn immediately shared them, passing them back and forth with exaggerated care. Same with my brother and Taka, and even my parents each received one.
“I expect you all to return these. They are dear to me,” I warned, though my tone suggested I didn’t fully expect compliance.
“Son of mine, where did you get these?” my mother asked, eyes wide as she examined the pen, fingertips grazing the filigree. “They look expensive.”
“They were gifts for my eighteenth birthday,” I said honestly. “One from Nana baa-san, one from Uncle Konrad, Uncle Diocletian, Teacher Oluwaseun. One from grandfather Yaroslav. And… one from the ninja daughters’ mother’s mother.”
My father froze, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t know half of those people,” he muttered as Shizuku glared at me.
I shrugged, perfectly unconcerned.
The ninja daughters’ mother, Tsukiyo, apparently not content to remain silent, leaned slightly forward. “You got a present from my mother?” she asked carefully, voice calm but sharp. “We shall discuss this later, Vi-kun.”
“No, we shan’t,” I replied flatly. Honestly, I did not have the energy to deal with her.
<
I leaned back in my chair, pen spinning lazily between my fingers, and glanced toward the front of the room. Hopefully things will be a bit more interesting.
Celestia was thorough in her lectures. Painfully so, if one lacked patience.
She spoke at a brisk pace—fast enough to keep things efficient, but slow enough that most people could keep up despite their ongoing war with quills and ink. The scratching sounds alone were enough to make me nostalgic for keyboards.
The early portions were… expected.
Levels were self-explanatory. Experience too. Kill things, do things, survive things, cook things—numbers go up.
We moved past most of that fairly quickly and arrived at attributes.
Health was health. Reach zero, and you were dead. Permanently. No resurrection magic. No second chances. Despite the system dressing itself up like a game, death here was still very much real.
MP governed spellcasting. Straightforward.
Stamina, however, was slightly different from what most of them expected. While some abilities consumed it directly, its primary function was determining how long someone could maintain intense physical activity—fighting, sprinting, labor, useful when under pressure.
All of it felt familiar. RPG logic with a veneer of realism.
Games could’ve told you this, I thought privately as the lecture continued.
Then Celestia reached Strength—and that’s when things started to change a bit.
“Strength governs physical attacks,” she said calmly. “Anything from swords to bows.”
“Even ranged attacks? From bows?” Taka asked, frowning.
“Yes,” Celestia replied, gesturing toward Captain Gendry.
“In archery,” Gendry explained, “we have something called draw weight—the force required to pull the bowstring. The power of the shot is stored not in the string, but in the arms of the bow itself.”
“For bows,” Celestia continued, “A warbow requires significantly more strength to draw than a training bow. Hence more strength, better power on bows.”
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A few people shifted in their seats. Games had lied to them. In real life, physics had opinions.
Agility came next. It governed speed, reflexes, and evasive ability.
“Provided you can see the attack, of course,” Celestia added dryly.
That earned a few uneasy chuckles.
Endurance was just that—how long you could keep going. Pain tolerance. Resistance to exhaustion. Some classes, like my brother’s Bulwark, directly benefited from high Endurance, turning it into both a defensive and functional stat.
Then came Intelligence. And this one caused the most confusion.
“Intelligence does not directly correlate to how smart a person is,” Celestia explained. “Nor does it mean one is wiser or more knowledgeable.”
It governed how quickly a person could think under pressure. How fast they processed information. How many spells they could maintain, and at what tier. It also affected spell complexity, casting speed, and—crucially—memory recall.
Another function was perception. Not sight. Awareness. You were simply intelligent in the sense that you are a quick-thinker, enough to notice things others missed.
As the lecture continued, Taka muttered just loud enough for our row to hear, “This system isn’t a game.”
Arthur nodded immediately. “Yeah. It’s just wearing the skin of one.”
I resisted the urge to sigh.
Maybe I should’ve raised Intelligence higher, I thought idly. From my understanding, clever and intelligent people enjoyed using their brains to be even more creative with sarcasm.
Then again, if the heroes are this worried, going by my parameters, would that make me low key screwed?
<
I ignored her and kept listening.
“Will or willpower,” Celestia continued, “determines how much a person can push themselves in the face of grievous injuries.”
She pointed toward Kazuki. “In your case, Lord Kazuki, as a Reaver, having both high Endurance and Will would make you nearly unstoppable.”
“You memorized all of our classes?” Kazuki asked, a rare note of surprise in the otherwise stoic guy.
Celestia replied with a fearless grin. “Of course. It is my job to do so.”
A few people exchanged looks. That was… unsettlingly competent.
“Last but not least,” she said, “we have Arcana. This stat determines not only how powerful your spells will be, but also how much MP you possess.”
“Of course, each stat also boosts some of the attributes, much like how intelligence also boosts how much MP reserves one has. We shall cover how distribution of stats affects a person later. But as heroes, you need not worry about stat distribution. As for why you all will find out in a bit.”
After that explanation, Celestia paused long enough to reach beneath the podium and retrieve a pitcher of water. She drank deeply, smacked her lips once, then set it aside. Despite the pace she’d been keeping, she didn’t look tired in the slightest. If anything, she looked even more enthusiastic.
Buffs and debuffs came next and they were also straightforward.
Some buffs stacked. Some debuffs did too. If an effect was severe enough to noticeably hamper a person, it manifested as a debuff. The opposite was also true.
“Emotions,” Celestia explained, “are one such example. Extreme happiness can enhance creative or rapid thinking, thus manifesting as a temporary Intelligence buff. Conversely, sadness may become a debuff, slowing reaction and thought.”
“Excuse me, Miss Mage,” my father asked, raising a hand. “Why didn’t those appear when we were summoned? Most of us were either angry or afraid at the time.”
Celestia paused, fingers tapping lightly against the podium as she considered the question.
“The arcane evaluator displays the emotional state of a person at the moment their plate is inserted,” she explained after a moment. “If I recall correctly, once the plates were revealed, your focus shifted entirely to them. That change was likely enough to disrupt negative emotions, but not sufficient to form a buff born of curiosity.”
My father nodded slowly, accepting the explanation.
“There were also Lord Vi’s shenanigans,” Celestia added thoughtfully, “but those are perhaps secondary.”
“Oi!”
“Now then,” she continued brightly, sidestepping my protest with ease, “the easy part is done. Our next topic will be classes.”
Enthusiasm rippled through the room, mostly from the younger generation.
“And after lunch,” Celestia finished, “we shall conclude with a discussion on skills and titles.”
“For classes,” Celestia continued, “let us break down how a person’s role functions within this system using a layered approach. Every individual is defined by three components: Master Class, Job class, and Subclass. Each serves a distinct purpose.”
She paused, considering her example.
“For instance,” she said at last, “let’s take… a farmer.”
A few people nodded. It was a simple enough profession. I do not think that there is a person here who doesn’t know what a farmer is.
“First, the Master Class. Think of this as the foundation—it reflects a person’s core nature. Their innate tendencies, natural strengths, and predispositions.”
“For our farmer, this might manifest as physical strength, stamina, and endurance. Perhaps they are naturally hardy, capable of working long hours in the fields without rest. That is the Master Class at work. It does not define what they do, but what they are capable of becoming.”
She let that sink in before continuing.
“Some people are born with a Master Class already set. Most are not. In those cases, the Master Class is granted by the Church during an event known as the Rite of Baptism. It is around the time when a person is seven cycles, or how everyone calls it, years old.”
She folded her hands. “According to Church doctrine, this is the moment when god, also known as the lady, bestows a boon upon the individual.”
“Of course,” Captain Aldric interjected dryly, “the Church prefers to claim it is solely their god’s will.”
Celestia inclined her head. “But their explanation remains the one most widely accepted as truth. In reality, no one knows what really is happening or how the Master Class is bestowed.”
As she spoke, an old memory stirred in the back of my mind—one of professor Rami’s lectures. Gods were meant to manage the system. That much was true. They could even distribute boons, if they so chose.
But people lining up to receive classes like flu shots? That was not how it was supposed to work.
The idea that some being—any being—had centralized control over the system itself was unsettling. Worrying even.
Looks like it really is going to be: Main quest: go home. Side quest: kill god.
I sighed—quietly at first. Then, unfortunately, out loud.
<
Yeah. I had a feeling I was going to need it.
“Next,” Celestia said, tapping the desk lightly, “we have the Job Class. This is akin to a person’s chosen profession or role in society.”
“It determines how a person’s vital statistics grow over time and what kinds of skills they naturally develop. If our farmer takes the Job Class of Crop Specialist, then as they gain levels, they will steadily improve at planting, cultivation, soil management, and harvesting efficiency. They will also unlock abilities directly related to that Job Class.”
She gestured broadly, as if layering something invisible in the air. “That is to say, they can’t gain any skills from different classes, it is possible, but gaining skills in their chosen Job Class is easier.”
“The natural aptitude provided by the Master Class combines well with the focused growth of the Job Class. In other words, one provides the raw material while the other shapes it.”
Before continuing, Celestia stepped away from the podium and dragged out what appeared to be a chalkboard from the back of the room. The wheels scraped softly against the stone floor. She picked up a piece of chalk and began writing with practiced speed.
“Let us compare the effects. Let’s see, an example,” she said, glancing back at us, “someone more familiar to you. A knight.”
A few people straightened in their seats.
“Suppose our knight has the Job Class of Soldier,” she continued, chalk scratching steadily. “And suppose our farmer—purely hypothetically—has the Job Class of Hero.”
There was a ripple of laughter at that.
Celestia smiled, unfazed.
“At level one,” she said, underlining the words, “the knight would possess superior Strength, Agility, and Endurance compared to the farmer. The farmer, meanwhile, might have modest Strength, reasonable Endurance, and perhaps slightly higher Will.”
She listed the values side by side on the board.
“At level ten,” she said, pausing for effect, “the knight and the farmer would possess roughly equivalent statistics.”
The room grew quiet.
“And at level twenty,” she continued, turning back to us with a knowing smile, “the farmer would surpass the knight in output.”
A wave of murmurs spread across the room. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the board.
“This is because,” Celestia explained, tapping the chalk against the word Soldier, “the Soldier subclass grants a fixed bonus—typically +2 Strength and +2 Endurance per level. Only to strength and endurance.”
She then circled the word, Hero.
“The Hero Job Class, however, is unique. According to every source I have studied, it functions as a stat corrector. In simple terms, regardless of Master Class or Subclass, the Hero Job Class ensures that its bearer receives +3 to all attributes per level.”
Silence.
Both awe-filled silence and the other kind. The kind where people started to mentally recalculate everything, they thought they knew.
What she meant was clear to me, in this world’s system, heroes didn’t start stronger. They just scaled harder.
<
“…Watch me,” I muttered under my breath.
“To receive a Job Class,” Celestia explained, her voice steady but edged with significance, “one must first walk a path aligned with their Master Class—or with the Job Class they aspire to claim.” She folded her hands, as though measuring time itself. “It is not immediate. For most, it takes five to ten years of consistent action. Three, if fate is unusually kind. Progress is slow because it must be earned.”
She paused before continuing, letting the weight of that truth settle. “There is, however, a minimum threshold to receive a Job Class and that is when a person reaches level five. Most people gain a Job Class usually around the age of twelve—but some are early of course, once system recognizes them as ready, but level five is the minimum requirement.
Celestia took a drink of water, before she continued. “At that moment, the option to choose a Job Class is granted automatically. You won’t need to search for it. A notification will appear when the choice becomes available.”
Her gaze sharpened slightly. “You will be given five options to choose from. Only five. And once that choice is made, it is final.” She did not soften the words. “A Master Class cannot be changed. Neither can a Job Class. Once set, they define the shape of your growth, the limits of your potential, and the direction of your future.”
“A Master Class cannot be chosen. It is not offered, or earned. Whether it is woven into a person from the moment they exist or given by God, it is simply there, no matter the effort or regret, it cannot be changed.”
Then Celestia smiled, a soft, encouraging smile that seemed to lighten the weight of the words she had just spoken. “A Job Class,” she continued, her voice gentle but firm, “is different. It is not something you are born into. It is a choice—a path you carve for yourself.”
Her eyes lingered on them, full of quiet understanding. “It is something you work toward, step by deliberate step, through intention, through repetition, through the persistence to rise even when you fail. Every effort matters. Every setback shapes you. And when you finally claim it, it speaks not of what you were given, but of who you chose to become.”
“That is the reality of the people of this world,” she said, her tone measured and solemn. Then, a wry smile tugged at her lips. “However, since almost every one of you have a job class of hero—”
Her gaze flicked toward everyone, sharp yet teasing. “—it is easy to assume it was chosen for you. But make no mistake—it is still your choice to take it, your effort to make it yours. Fate may guide the path, but only you can walk it.”