Chapter 2: No Class, No Mercy

The first scream came from the nave.

It rose beneath the shattered ribs of the cathedral, thin at first, then splitting into three voices, then thirty. Not the clean, rehearsed panic Rowan had heard in trailers and controlled beta stress tests, where hired actors gasped through polished microphones while focus groups measured emotional response. This was ugly. Wet. Human. A sound dragged out of people who had just watched their lives become math.

Rowan lay on his back in a bed of pulverized marble and old ash, staring up through the cathedral’s broken roof.

The sky was wrong.

It had health bars.

They hung above drifting clouds in translucent strips of red and silver, some too far away to read, others stacked over winged silhouettes that passed behind the sun like distant aircraft. A flock of pigeons wheeled overhead, except half of them had little green nameplates: Cathedral Rock Dove – Lv. 1. One landed on a cracked gargoyle, blinked with beady black eyes, and pecked at something that looked suspiciously like a human finger.

Rowan tried to sit up.

Pain detonated through him, bright and honest.

He gritted his teeth until his jaw popped. His body remembered dying. The impact. The boss’s sword. The impossible command string in the sky. His nerves had no respect for virtual continuity; every muscle trembled like it had been wrung dry.

Status Condition: Godless

Divine Patron: None

Class: Unassigned

Blessings: Denied

System Access: Restricted

The message hovered at the edge of his vision, stubborn as a dead pixel.

“Yeah,” Rowan rasped. His throat tasted like copper and smoke. “I got it the first time.”

A tone chimed through the cathedral, pure and beautiful, the kind of sound that made the skull feel hollow. Dust shivered off collapsed pews. Every survivor in the ruin fell silent as light descended in spears through the broken roof.

Dozens of people stood scattered among the wreckage: office workers in torn suits, college kids in half-rendered starter tunics, an old woman clutching a handbag like a shield, two delivery drivers still wearing neon jackets, a man with a streaming rig melted into the collar of his hoodie. Some had blood on them. Some had pieces missing. All of them stared upward as the light chose them.

Golden symbols bloomed above heads like halos.

A woman near the altar gasped as a sunburst brand etched itself over her brow. She lifted her hands, and warmth rolled out from her palms in visible waves. A boy no older than sixteen shouted when a crimson wolf sigil snapped into existence behind him, his scrawny arms swelling with corded muscle. A bald accountant in cracked glasses began laughing uncontrollably as translucent armor layered over his shirt and tie.

Welcome, Survivors.

The Pantheon has taken notice.

Your lives have been weighed. Your affinities have been judged. Your patrons have been assigned.

Rowan dragged himself against the base of a broken pillar and forced his breathing under control. He knew the interface cadence. Grandiose, divine, algorithmically tuned for awe. In closed beta they had called this the Patron Assignment Sequence. It had lasted twelve seconds and produced a survey satisfaction spike of 43%.

Now it branded people alive.

The light lanced down again.

Lena Ortiz has been chosen by Seraphel, God of Mercy.

Starter Class: Acolyte

Blessing: Gentle Hands I

Divine Quest: Heal 5 injured survivors. Reward: 100 XP, Minor Faith Token.

The woman by the altar sobbed as white light pooled in her palms. People stumbled toward her at once, drawn by pain and hope. She looked terrified, but when a man with a broken forearm thrust the limb at her, she pressed her glowing fingers against his skin. Bone snapped back into place with a sound like cracking ice. The man screamed, then laughed, then fell to his knees thanking a god he had not known existed five minutes ago.

“That’s not possible,” someone whispered.

“It’s real,” said someone else. “Oh my God, it’s real.”

“Which one?” Rowan muttered.

No one heard him.

More names rolled across the air, each accompanied by a flare of power. The cathedral became a lottery of miracles.

Marcus Dain has been chosen by Vulkarr, God of the Forge.

Starter Class: Hammerbound

Blessing: Iron Sinew I

Divine Quest: Craft or repair 1 weapon. Reward: 100 XP, Ember Shard.

A broad-shouldered man in a soot-stained work shirt stared at his hands as they darkened like heated iron. He had the flattened knuckles and thick forearms of someone who had spent a lifetime arguing with metal and winning. His eyes were red-rimmed, his beard singed, and his face carried fresh grief like a wound under skin.

He bent, picked up a twisted length of rebar from the rubble, and squeezed. The metal glowed. Bent. Straightened under his grip.

“Mara?” he called, voice breaking. “Mara! If you hear me, shout!”

No answer came.

His jaw clenched hard enough that Rowan heard the teeth grind from ten yards away.

Another flare, violet this time.

Jun Park has been chosen by Nyxara, Goddess of Secrets.

Starter Class: Cutpurse

Blessing: Shadowstep I

Divine Quest: Steal one item unnoticed. Reward: 100 XP, Whisper Coin.

A wiry teenager wearing a convenience store apron vanished with a startled yelp and reappeared behind a toppled statue, clutching his own chest.

“I didn’t steal anything!” he shouted at the ceiling. “That was one time! And it was gum!”

The cathedral, despite everything, produced a burst of hysterical laughter.

It died when the next light turned black.

The beam speared down onto a tall man standing near the central aisle. He had slicked hair, a bloodied business blazer, and the kind of smile that came pre-installed on predators. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist. His nameplate flickered into being over his head.

Garrick Voss – Lv. 1

Garrick Voss has been chosen by Mordrath, God of Conquest.

Starter Class: Initiate Warlord

Blessing: Commanding Presence I

Divine Quest: Establish dominance over 10 survivors. Reward: 150 XP, Conqueror’s Mark.

The black light sank into Garrick’s skin. For one second his pupils became tiny crowns.

Then he laughed.

It was a rich, practiced sound, full of boardrooms and golf courses and men who called cruelty strategy.

“Well,” Garrick said, straightening his ruined lapel. “That seems straightforward.”

People shifted away from him without quite knowing why. Rowan felt it too—a pressure in the air, subtle as a hand at the back of the neck. Commanding Presence. Low-level aura. Radius maybe eight meters at rank one, scaling with Charisma and Divine Favor. In test environments it had nudged NPC morale by 3%.

Now it made terrified humans look for someone to obey.

Great.

The assignment continued. A grandmother became a Thornspeaker. A gym bro became a Spear Disciple and immediately posed, despite having vomit on his sneakers. A nurse received a plague god’s blessing and burst into panicked tears. A police officer in a torn uniform gained a class called Shieldbearer and started organizing the injured by reflex, shouting for people to clear space near the altar.

Rowan watched the miracle economy unfold around him and waited.

His turn did not come.

The light passed over him once.

Paused.

The cathedral held its breath.

Rowan looked up into the descending brightness. It struck his face like cold sunlight. A thousand invisible lenses focused, searching through him. His skin crawled as if data hooks were sliding under it.

Analyzing Survivor: Rowan Vale

Prior Credentials Detected: Dungeon Systems QA Lead, Elysium Online Final Stress Cohort

Death Event: Confirmed

Respawn Event: Unauthorized

Patron Match: Error

Class Eligibility: Error

Divine Quest Thread: Error

The words burned red.

Everyone near him saw them.

Rowan knew because all the faces turned.

The old woman with the handbag crossed herself. The cutpurse kid’s mouth fell open. The healed man near the altar took three stumbling steps back. Garrick Voss stopped laughing.

The light above Rowan flickered.

Designation Confirmed: Godless

Warning: This entity exists outside the protection of the Pantheon.

Warning: No divine penalty applies for harm inflicted upon this entity.

Warning: Godless entities may yield unstable rewards upon defeat.

Silence hit like a dropped curtain.

Rowan closed his eyes.

“Of course,” he said softly. “Of course you’d phrase it like loot.”

A murmur spread through the cathedral, feverish and hungry.

“Unstable rewards?”

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe he’s a monster.”

“He looks human.”

“It said entity.”

“It said no penalty.”

Rowan pushed himself to his feet. His knees almost folded. He caught the pillar with one hand, fingers sliding through dust and old rainwater, and forced his face into something bored.

Fear was blood in the water. He had tested enough PvP onboarding systems to know exactly what happened when frightened players were given permission, incentive, and a target.

Garrick Voss took one slow step toward him.

The crowd parted.

“Rowan Vale,” Garrick said, savoring the name displayed above Rowan’s head. “That was quite a special announcement.”

Rowan glanced at him. “You always repeat UI text out loud, or is this your first day with subtitles?”

A few people laughed despite themselves.

Garrick’s smile thinned.

“Humor. Useful defense mechanism. But we should be practical. The System identified you as a threat outside divine protection.”

“It identified me as a bug.” Rowan wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “There’s a difference. Bugs usually break things.”

“And rewards,” said a man in a puffer jacket.

Rowan looked at him. The man had a bronze dagger in his hand. Where he had gotten it, Rowan did not know. Starter weapon. Class package. His nameplate read Tom Lask – Lv. 1. Under it: Knife Novice.

Tom swallowed, but he did not lower the blade.

Behind him, the gym bro Spear Disciple rolled his shoulders. The crimson wolf-blessed teenager flexed his new claws, eyes too wide and bright. Five others drifted closer, pulled by curiosity, terror, Garrick’s aura, or the promise that killing one unlucky bastard might make numbers go up.

Rowan’s pulse slowed.

Not because he was calm.

Because something in him had retreated into the cold little room where he used to solve raid wipes at three in the morning while producers screamed about launch windows. Observe. Identify variables. Exploit design intent. Survive the mechanic.

He checked his body.

No class skills. No starter weapon. No blessing. Bare hands. Bruised ribs. Possible concussion. Blood loss minor to moderate. Against six to ten level-one players with fresh divine buffs.

Bad matchup.

Behind them, the cathedral doors loomed open, thirty yards away beneath a cracked arch choked with ivy. Beyond lay a courtyard strewn with broken statues and rain-blackened tombs. Farther still, a city skyline that had been rewritten into towers, walls, and impossible trees.

Between Rowan and the exit stood people learning how easy violence felt when a god applauded.

The healer woman, Lena, stepped forward from the altar. “Stop. He’s injured.”

Garrick turned his smile on her. “And potentially dangerous.”

“We don’t know that.”

“The gods warned us.”

“The gods also gave me a quest to heal people.” Her hands trembled, light gathering around her fingers. “He’s a person.”

Garrick’s aura pressed harder. Several heads dipped toward him, listening.

“Mercy is admirable,” Garrick said. “Naivety kills communities.”

“Communities?” Rowan said. “We’ve been trapped in fantasy hell for maybe eight minutes and you’re already forming a homeowners association?”

The blacksmith, Marcus, barked a laugh that had no joy in it. He stood near a collapsed transept, still gripping the straightened rebar. “He’s got a mouth on him.”

“Mouths don’t drop loot,” Tom said.

Rowan angled his body toward the exit, weight on the balls of his feet. His vision snagged on the dagger in Tom’s hand.

A translucent box appeared beside it.

Rustbite Starter Dagger

Quality: Crude

Damage: 3-6 Piercing

Durability: 11/12

On Hit: 4% chance to inflict Minor Bleed.

Rowan blinked.

He hadn’t requested an inspect. Restricted System Access should have blocked item details. He focused on the dagger again.

The box jittered.

Then the text peeled open.

Not metaphorically. The interface split like skin under a scalpel, revealing smaller gray words beneath the official description.

[DEV NOTE – INTERNAL BUILD 0.9.9C]

Starter dagger template inherited from Goblin_Rustblade. Durability desync risk if parried against environmental objects tagged Consecrated Stone. Temporary fix: force weapon stagger on impact. TODO: patch before global release.

Rowan forgot to breathe.

The gray words hung invisible to everyone else, tucked behind the UI like a confession under paint.

Hidden patch notes.

Internal build notes.

He could see them.

Tom lunged.

The dagger came in wild, shoulder leading, exactly the way untrained men stabbed when fear had the steering wheel. Rowan moved on instinct and old muscle memory, pivoting around the pillar. The blade scraped the marble where his ribs had been.

Stone rang.

The dagger jerked in Tom’s hand as if yanked by an invisible leash.

Tom stumbled, wrist snapping sideways.

Weapon Stagger!

Rowan drove his elbow into Tom’s nose.

Cartilage crunched. Tom went down howling, dagger skittering across dust.

The cathedral exploded.

Some screamed for everyone to stop. Others surged forward. Garrick shouted something about order, but his voice braided with the System’s distant chimes and the thunder of feet over broken pews.

Rowan moved.