Balance's golden iris reflected the myriad lights on the pool's surface.

Chloe bunched her eyebrows together, thinking. She pondered life in her previous world, and searched for clues as to what would suit her best. What had come easily to her? Where had she found joy and fulfillment? Well, not really anywhere. She had been more concerned with hiding from life than living it.

What a waste.

Chloe's fingers grazed the rough stone. She traced the word 'Fighter' etched into its surface. A spectral version of herself moved through attack routines with a Sword and Shield, then picked up a massive two-handed Mace and slammed it into the ground. The stone cracked around it.

As Chloe's fingertips traced each magically illuminated class option, Chloe's ghostly self enacted each role.

The raw strength and unyielding resilience of a Fighter?

Eh, nope.

The agility and cunning of a Rogue?

Pffft, nope. I have two left feet.

The compassionate and nurturing nature of a Lifeguard?

Nope, I'd have to talk to too many people. Although maybe that would be good for me . . .

The wisdom and power of a Wizard?

Maybe.

Chloe turned to look at the weird angel-lady, or whatever she was. She realized, for the first time, that half of Balance's body was always angled away from her.

"How long do I have to choose?"

"We have time, Chloe," Balance said gently. "This is an important decision. Feel free to ask questions."

She was weird, but she also seemed to radiate comfort and peace.

I should be totally flipping out right now.

"Okay," Chloe said. She took a deep breath. "I think I can eliminate the Fighter and Rogue classes. They don't really fit me. Same for Monk, Bard, Conjurer, Ranger, Tamer, Druid and . . . Lifeguard."

"Very well. That leaves you with Wizard, Sorcerer, Psychic, and Witch."

A low, baritone voice had spoken from behind Chloe.

She jumped, spun around, and let out a small squeak.

The beautiful woman was gone. Now, there was a handsome mustached man in a tuxedo. His skin was darker, and he faced the opposite direction to the woman.

"I apologize for startling you, Chloe." His voice was deep and calm. "It is still me, Caretaker Balance."

"Uh . . . all right."

What the fu—

"Let us continue," he said.

The eliminated classes faded away from the stone; so too did their corresponding shades. Four ghostly examples remained, swirling around the pool's edge.

"Can you tell me more about the differences between them?" Chloe asked, her eyes scrutinizing the four options.

"Of course. Wizards are masters of the arcane arts, able to wield elemental forces with precision and control. They delve deep into ancient tomes and mystical lore to unlock the secrets of magic, and thus master spells and incantations of immense power. They excel at versatility and damage, and they have some crowd control—depending on their chosen specialization. Wizards harness magic through rigorous study, careful preparation, and precise execution."

Ugh, studying.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Sorcerers derive their power from innate magical abilities. Unlike Wizards—who learn through study and practice—Sorcerers are born with their magic, which flows through them like a current. They possess raw, untamed power that can be both unpredictable and formidable. Their spells tend to be more potent—when things go right—but the class offers much less utility compared to the other three classes."

Chloe was a gamer, and she hated the idea of anything unpredictable.

"What about Witches and Psychics?"

"Witches draw their magic from the natural world and from ancient traditions. They have a deep connection to spirits and the essences of items, often practicing rituals and spells rooted in folklore and mysticism. Their magic has a wide range and can be focused on manipulating the energies of the world around them; whether for protection, for healing, or for even darker purposes—depending on the specialization chosen."

Pass on the rituals.

"Psychics, on the other hand, are very different from the other three, and are a lot more . . . invasive. They possess a unique ability to manipulate reality by harnessing the power of mana and melding it within their own minds. They can force a mind connection with the target: the connection allows them to create intricate illusions; to induce confusion; and even to enact physical changes within the target's body—for better or worse. Additionally, they wield damaging spells in battle; although, of the four classes you are contemplating, a Psychic's damage is generally the lowest. Psychics excel in crowd control, and in producing potent and long-lasting effects. A drawback of the Psychic is—depending on the specialization chosen and on the Psychic's willpower—the mind connection often opens the door for spell backlash. Over time, the Psychic can build up resistance to this backlash, but it is a slow and painful process."

Chloe frowned. "Can you give me an example?"

Balance paused. "Imagine you are a Psychic specializing in bewildering your enemies. You establish a mental connection with the enemy and cast the spell [Confusion]. While the connection is maintained, there is a possibility that you will also experience [Confusion] yourself, depending on various factors such as your level, skill, practice, mental stamina, and the level of your target. Psychic crowd control is risky, but the tradeoff is that your crowd control is much more potent than any of the other classes because of the mind connection."

Chloe pondered in silence. "You said that once I leave here I'll be reunited with my family, and together we'll have to fight to survive?"

"Yes, you will be reunited, and—sadly—yes, you will be fighting to survive."

"Has my family picked their classes? Do they have any crowd control?"

"Your mother has chosen Druid. You are the second to go through the selection process."

"Mom picked Druid? She was never into 'nature' or hikes or anything like that."

"Her specialization allows her to become an angry Mother Bear."

"Oh. Makes sense."

Chloe went silent again.

Balance shifted back into her female form. Her golden eye was narrowed and—somehow—dimmer. She glanced at Chloe.

"What is it?" Chloe prompted.

"Chloe, I hate to even suggest this, but this truly is life or death. I feel I would be doing you an injustice to hold back my advice, even though it may be harmful to you." She looked troubled, but she continued. "Frankly, the mental isolation, stress, and anxiety you have experienced in your former life may have actually prepared you for being a Psychic. I am hesitant to suggest it because, while you may have had a breakthrough here in the Soul Chamber regarding your previous isolation . . . Out there, in the New World, you will not have had this epiphany, and you will still struggle with these issues. To lump the struggles of a Psychic on top of it . . . " She sighed. "I am not sure if it is a good idea, but it could be a very powerful choice for you."

Chloe—never one to make a rash decision—stood beside her stone. She was 99 percent sure she wanted the Psychic class. Despite the warnings, she wanted to be able to protect her family. In gaming, crowd control was essential. That might not mean anything in this New World, but what else did she have to go on?

To make sure, Chloe ran through the list again, giving each role another fair consideration.

In the end, however, she still felt that Psychic was the correct class.

"I choose Psychic."

Balance sighed. "Very well. Now, let us choose a specialization."

"Specializations that deal heavily with crowd control, please. Nothing else."

"All right."

The word 'specialization' lit up on the stone, and a list began to form underneath it: Illusionist; Sensory Deprivationist; Hypnotist; Memory Manipulator; Echo; Seductress; Dream Walker; Seer; Brain Leech; Tormentor . . .

"What is Tormen . . . wait, Seductress?" Chloe laughed. "Dad would have an aneurysm. Okay, sorry, what is Tormentor?"

Balance conjured a glowing panel in the air.

[The Psychic Tormentor is a harbinger of psychological anguish. Through your mastery of Psychic manipulation, you twist and amplify the innermost fears of your foes, and turn their own dread against them with ruthless efficiency. On the battlefield, the Tormentor becomes a specter of dread, relentlessly haunting the minds of enemies. Your spells are not merely crowd control attacks; they are capable of inflicting both physical and psychological damage upon those who dare to oppose you. As the battlefield descends into chaos, the Psychic Tormentor stands as a grim reminder of the power of fear; a force that can bend even the mightiest warriors to its will.]

Chloe swallowed hard. The class sounded pretty dark and terrifying, but she could handle it. She would learn to control it. Her anxiety would not define her anymore; instead, it would become her weapon.

"I don't want to live my life scared anymore, and at some point I'll figure that out in my New World. I need to be strong for my family, and this feels right. I choose Tormentor."

"Chloe . . . I must say, of all the classes and specializations you could have picked, this could be your strongest choice." Balance held Chloe's hand again. "But it is also one that could break you, sweetheart. Are you sure?"

Chloe stared defiantly into Balance's golden eye. "I'm sure."

*****

The screen flickered and went blank, leaving Old Man Tom in the darkened room.

Deep pride and paralyzing anxiety fought each other for control.

At least he now understood his daughter's choice, although it came with dangerous drawbacks.

"Are you well, Mr. Damascus?" The room's AI broke the silence.

"Yeah," Tom whispered, his mind still locked in a mental tug-of-war. "I knew she struggled, just not how much." He sagged into his chair. "I should have done better."

The room, apparently, had nothing to add. The lights gradually brightened.

Tom pushed himself onto his aching feet, and shuffled toward the kitchenette. He waved his hand, and a holographic menu appeared. He selected some type of potato soup, complete with a generous portion of protein that the AI insisted on for the upcoming simulation week.

Tom returned to his chair, and his thoughts drifted back to Chloe. They had talked about her feelings back then, but he regretted not being aware of the extent of her pain and loneliness.

This second chance was everything to him. He would do everything in his power to get his family through this.

He wished he could let his simulation-self know how badly Chloe was hurting.

An AI robot appeared and dropped off his meal and more medications.

Tom wolfed down his food, then washed the pills down with a glass of water.

The screen flickered back to life, and illuminated Tom. The chatter from the live broadcast filled his ears.

"Good evening, everyone." Mick nodded on the screen. "It's time. I hope you used your time to stretch and to eat some solid food."

The camera followed Mick as he walked to his bed, brushed down his pale gray scrubs, and lay on his bed.

"It's nearly time for week two of the simulation to begin. Please attach your headset, lay down in your bed, and get comfortable."

Mick picked up his own circular neural device and pushed it onto his head.

"I will see everyone again in a week. I wish you all the best of luck in the simulation."

The screen went black.

After a deep breath—and one final wheezing chuckle at their highlight video—Old Man Tom arranged himself in his bed. He allowed the AI robot to attach the sensors, although it fussed over his covers more than necessary.

Tom calmed after the cold insertion of an IV needle, and sleep began to claim him. His thoughts were of his family and friends. He was eager to be with them, and to face whatever trials awaited them in the week ahead. United, they could stay safe.

A moment before he fully lost consciousness, the AI robot patted his shoulder. "Good luck, Lord Damascus."

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