Chapter 2: The “Tutorial”
Michael kept walking toward the silhouette.
His vision darkened at the edges, like someone slowly turning down a dimmer switch. Muscles lagged half a second behind intention. Balance failed.
Internal assessment fired automatically.
Collapse in thirty seconds.
Enough time.
He forced air into his lungs and shouted toward the trees.
“WHERE’S CHRISTOPHER?!”
The silhouette didn’t move.
Silence stretched—thin, deliberate.
Then it spoke.
“??????'???? ???????? ?????? ????????...”
The voice was wrong.
Same cadence as Christopher. Same flat affect his brother used when he was being careful.
But colder.
Like a recording played through broken speakers.
Michael’s chest tightened.
“Chris—”
The ground vanished.
Michael hit the earth hard, air ripping from his lungs. Pain flared up his spine as he rolled onto his side, gasping.
Screaming.
Not his.
Dozens of voices—panicked, confused, alive.
Michael pushed himself up on shaking arms.
This time—
He wasn’t alone.
Thirty-some people, scattered across a field that smelled like scorched metal and dying grass.
He pushed up on his palms. His head throbbed. Vision swam, then sharpened.
Terrain scan:
Open field.
Burned forest west—exactly where the novel said.
Split mountain east.
Purple-red sky. No sun.
Check. Check. Check.
People:
Scattered clusters. Office clothes. Jeans. One guy in a bathrobe.
Panic level: critical.
Phone:
Dead signal.
Clock still ticking. 6:47 PM.
His apartment had read 6:28 when he clicked YES.
Internal calculations fired automatically.
Time dilation possible.
Spatial displacement confirmed.
Probability this matches The Unknown World’s opening: 98%.
Which meant—
Tutorial wave inbound.
Goblins. West treeline.
Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.
Survivors if left alone: 12 out of 30.
Survival odds for him specifically: 34%.
His stomach dropped.
Christopher.
He scanned faces fast—too fast. His brain cataloged features like a corrupted database dump.
Brown hair. Wrong build.
Blonde woman, crying.
Older man, fifties, hands shaking.
None of them were his brother.
But the silhouette’s words wouldn’t let go.
??????'???? ???????? ?????? ????????...
Here.
This world.
Somewhere.
Alive, or—
Focus.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Survival first. Answers later.
The thought stayed anyway.
He forced air through his teeth and stood. His legs wobbled, but they held.
Twenty minutes to teach these people they were in a death game.
No pressure.
He took three steps toward the nearest group—
Then stopped.
Metallic glint. Wrong angle for natural reflection.
His brain fired alerts.
The novel never mentioned vehicles.
Or structures.
Or—
Engines roared.
A SWAT truck burst over the ridge, tires chewing dirt. Matte black armor. Floodlights snapping on.
Doors slammed open.
Six officers poured out, rifles raised, scanning for threats.
Civilians screamed louder. Someone bolted.
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”
Michael’s internal monologue shattered into fragments.
Deviation #1: Modern military presence.
The novel had zero guns. Zero tactical support.
Just terrified civilians and a tutorial designed to kill half of them.
Which meant either—
He was misremembering.
Or the story was already off-script.
The lead officer—broad shoulders, crew cut, name patch reading BLUEFIELD—swept his rifle across the field, then lowered it slightly.
“What the hell happened here?” he demanded. “Who’s in charge?”
Silence. Ragged breathing.
Michael raised his hands slowly.
“No one. We all got teleported. Don’t know how.”
He paused. Calculated risk.
“But I know what’s coming next.”
Bluefield’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Monsters. About fifteen minutes. From the west.” Michael pointed at the treeline.
“Fast. Short. Attack in waves. You’ll need headshots.”
A younger officer stepped forward. Tall. Sharp eyes. Different energy.
Assessing, not reacting.
“Wait,” the officer said. His gaze locked onto Michael.
“Did you just say tutorial?”
Michael’s pulse spiked. “Yeah. Why?”
The officer’s expression shifted—calculation, not fear—then smoothed into focus.
“You’re talking about The Unknown World, aren’t you?”
Michael blinked. “You’ve read it?”
“Obsessed with it in college.”
He stepped closer and extended a hand.
“Reinhardt A. Morgan. And if you’re right, we don’t have much time.”
Michael shook it. Firm grip. Held half a second too long.
Reinhardt turned to his team.
“Defensive perimeter. West-facing. Truck as hard cover. Civilians inside the vehicle.”
“Sir, what kind of—”
“Goblins,” Reinhardt said flatly.
“Small. Fast. Pack tactics. Headshots only. Move.”
The team moved immediately.
Professional. No hesitation.
Michael helped coordinate—explaining attack patterns, weak points, timing.
His brain felt split.
Relief at competent backup.
Unease at how fast Reinhardt adapted.
Story deviations meant his knowledge could fail.
And if the story changed here—
Reinhardt checked an old analog watch on his wrist.
“Eighteen minutes, you said?”
“About that.”
Michael scanned the SWAT team again.
Six officers. Tactical gear.
None of them were Christopher.
Of course not.
Focus. Survival first.
The forest line was too quiet.
Like it was holding its breath.
Defensive positions locked in. Weapons ready.
Civilians crammed into the truck, whimpering.
Michael crouched behind the front quarter panel, a borrowed Glock 19 heavy in his grip.
He’d handled guns in VR shooters—thousands of hours.
But this weight was wrong.
Too real.
His thumb checked the safety.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Wind died.
Temperature dropped.
A foul smell crept in—rot mixed with copper.
Someone whispered a prayer.
Reinhardt’s voice was low.
“You said twenty minutes?”
“About that.”
The forest moved.
The treeline erupted.
Goblins burst from the shadows—gray flesh stretched over corded muscle, jagged teeth bared, glowing green eyes like infected code.
Bone weapons. Claws dripping black ichor.
Shrieks like metal scraping metal.
“CONTACT FRONT!”
Gunfire tore through the twilight.
Michael’s world fractured into snapshots.
Muzzle flash.
A goblin’s chest exploded—kept running.
Headshot. Skull burst. Down.
More poured in.
Faster than he remembered.
He fired.
The handgun kicked hard. Ears rang.
Miss.
Adjust.
Fire.
Hit.
Down.
Next target.
Formation held. Overlapping fire. Training plus foresight.
A goblin broke through the right flank.
An officer went down screaming as three tore at his vest.
Another officer rushed in, point-blank shots. Black blood sprayed.
A goblin slammed into the truck window.
A woman inside shrieked—raw, breaking.
Reinhardt appeared, sidearm pressed to skull-bone.
Bang.
Glass painted black.
Michael’s slide locked back.
Empty.
Hands shook as he reloaded. Dropped the mag. Grabbed it. Slammed it home.
Fire. Don’t think. Fire.
Eight minutes of chaos.
Then—
Silence.
The last goblin twitched.
Died.
Black blood pooled into red.
Smoke drifted. Air tasted like sulfur and copper.
Michael’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He let the gun fall. It clattered against metal.
His knees buckled. He caught himself on the truck’s fender, gasping.
Survival odds recalculating.
Actual survivors: 29 out of 30.
Expected (novel): 10.
Something was very wrong.
Strange symbols burned into the air—rotating runes of light, geometric and wrong.
A voice thundered across the sky. Calm. Mechanical.
Everywhere.
“Tutorial complete.
Survivors detected: 29.
Rewards will be distributed based on contribution.”
Someone whispered, “What the fuck…”
Michael tensed.
Waiting.
Then—
Only he heard it.
“You have arrived.”
Pressure pressed against the back of his skull.
Watching.
He spun. Nothing.
“Did anyone—?” His voice shook. “Did any of you hear that?”
Blank stares.
Reinhardt frowned. “Hear what?”
Internal calculations spiraled.
Voice targeted: confirmed.
Others heard system only.
Hallucination probability: 15%.
Selection probability: 85%.
Why?
Reader knowledge?
Christopher?
Or something older.
Something that recognized him.
The sky twisted. Clouds curled back.
Something massive shifted behind them.
A whisper threaded his mind.
“You… are… the █████.”
Pain spiked.
A name he didn’t know—but felt true.
Like permissions unlocking he was never meant to access.
Cold flooded his veins.
This wasn’t random.
He wasn’t summoned.
He was expected.
And whatever left the door open had been whispering his name long before he clicked YES.
End of Chapter 2
