Strength Based Wizard

Chapter 14

No Place Like Home; Human Nature

The road stretches ahead, dark and empty, save for the rhythmic glow of the highway lamps. Each one flashes overhead in a streaking, yellow blur, smearing across the windshield like paint on wet canvas.

The car is silent.

I didn’t think to put on Spotify. Didn’t even plug in my phone.

My hands grip the wheel too tight, knuckles pale against the leather. My whole body buzzes, nerves still thrumming with aftershocks of adrenaline. It’s the kind of feeling you get after almost getting T-boned by a semi—that jittery, heart-thudding, high-on-life sensation where everything feels too real. Too sharp. You’ve slammed on the brakes just in time, and avoided death by inches.

I should be exhausted. Instead, I feel like I could run a goddamn marathon.

The moment I stepped out of that Gate—back into the real world and the downtown back alley—I was hit with another notification:

QUEST COMPLETE: Gate Initiation.

You have successfully completed this Quest.

You have successfully avoided Elimination.

You are still a Participant in the God Games.

I’d let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding while reading the notifications. The timer in the bottom corner of my interface vanished, and I felt—

I don’t know. Relief? Satisfaction?

Like I’d just barely slipped through a closing door before it slammed shut? The feeling of no longer having the Quest Timer hanging over my head was hard to describe.

The System’s message continued:

Reward: Additional menu options have been unlocked.

Reward: Gate Ticket (Rank E Quality) (x2).

You now have access to the following Menu options in your interface: Party; Social Lists; Discussion Channels.

Weird, I thought, having forgotten about the laundry list of Menu options that had been locked. I didn’t even want to wonder what the Gate Tickets were for.

But what really threw me off were the next notifications.

SYSTEM-WIDE QUEST ASSESSMENT COMPLETE (Gate Initiation)!

Quest Description: Participant must locate and enter a Gate, successfully clearing the Dungeon within.

Time limit assigned to Participant: 23 hours, 14 minutes.

Timestamp Upon Entering Gate: 14 hours, 41 minutes (36.8% of allotted time expended locating Gate).

Grade: E-9 (Poor).

Final Dungeon Reached Prior to Return Trigger: Level 1.

Timestamp Upon Clearing Final Dungeon: 11 hours, 56 minutes (11.8% of allotted time expended clearing Dungeons. Highest Level Cleared: 0.).

Grade: E-5 (Poor).

Timestamp Upon Return: 11 hours, 51 minutes.

Overall Efficiency and Performance Rating: E-7 (Poor).

No additional rewards or boons awarded. No penalties assessed.

“E-7…?” I had said, confused at what I had just read.

Jesus. It was like getting a report card from Hell. I mean, yeah, I survived. I entered the Gate, cleared a Dungeon, and gotten back out in one piece, which I had understood to be the objective.

But apparently, I sucked at it.

I flex my fingers against the steering wheel. A car passes by in the opposite lane, headlights flaring white, then disappearing.

I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror.

Nothing but empty road.

For the first time since stepping back into this world, I allow myself to wonder: How is everything going to change with the arrival of the System? For me? For the world? . . . The thoughts hit me like a tidal wave.

It comes out of nowhere—one second, I’m gripping the steering wheel, locked into the road ahead, white-knuckling my way home like I always do after the gym. The next, I’m spiraling. My breath catches, then stutters, then won’t come at all. My chest locks up like a vice is squeezing my lungs.

I almost died. No. I should have died. I should be a smear on a factory floor in some weird other-world, or digested by a flesh-balloon nightmare with the fucking name Bob. Or worse, I could have been culled by the System after failing to meet some arbitrary timeline. A timeline I had burned through by going to the god damned gym! The System was even kind enough to remind me of how idiotic a decision that had been.

My vision blurs as hot tears sting my eyes. My hands tremble on the wheel.

I suck in a breath. Then another. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Jesus Chris, what the hell is happening? I finally think.

I press the heel of my palm against my eyes. A wet sob escapes before I can stop it.

I keep driving.

I keep going, because if I stop—if I let myself actually think—I don’t know if I’ll be able to start again.

By the time I pull into my parents’ driveway, I’ve mostly collected myself. Mostly.

The engine ticks as I cut it off. I exhale—long, slow, trying to push all the panic out of my body. It doesn’t work, but I pretend it does.

I step out of the car. The crisp night air bites at the skin of my face. It’s a painful sensation I gladly welcome. The porch light flickers, like it always does, like it’s been doing since I was sixteen. I grab my gym bag from the passenger seat and head inside.

The house smells like home. Warm. Familiar. Safe. There really is no place like home…

I drop my bag by the door and walk through the dimly lit kitchen. Dinner’s on the stove—pretzel-crusted chicken, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables. Mom always leaves food for me after workouts. She never says she will, never asks if I want it, just . . . does it. She was always like that whenever my sister or I were in town. Always has, always will. The thought hurts.

“Mom? Dad?” I call out, my voice scratchy, uneven.

Footsteps. Then—

“Joseph!”

My mom rushes in.

Her eyes dart over me, scanning, assessing—like she’s making sure I still have all my limbs. “You didn’t answer my texts! At the gym for so long with all this madness happening. What’s gotten into you?”

I open my mouth.

I don’t know what I was planning to say, but whatever it was dies in my throat. Because Dad steps in behind her. And he knows. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me. And that’s enough. The laugh lines around his mouth—lines I’ve known my whole life, carved deep into an older, thinner reflection of myself—are pulled tight, dark with worry.

That’s what breaks me.

“I…” My voice cracks. My hands clench into fists. Tears burn behind my eyes.

I almost died. And I’m still in this God Game.

The world isn’t the same.

I’m not the same.

And I can’t do this alone.

“I need to tell you guys something,” I choke out.

My dad moves first.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t demand an explanation. He just pulls me in.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I collapse into him.

A second later, Mom joins us.

And for the first time since I stepped through that Gate—since my entire life changed forever—I let myself lean in.

I tell them everything. About the first System notification and the Gate. When I try to mention the God Games specifically, its like there’s an iron hand clamped around my mouth. I try again, to no avail.

What the fuck? I can’t mention it directly, no matter how hard I try. There’s a similar physical reaction when I attempt to talk about Snake Guy and the assimilation room. My parents both look at me with concern, which breaks my heart. I decide to just skip over those details. Surprisingly, the conversation isn’t as hard as I’d imagined it would be. There is already news spreading about the introduction of the System to Earth. It’s all so foreign, but news is spreading quickly.

They hug me, and say they’re there to support me, no matter what happens. It’s like I’ve been diagnosed with something terminal and just broke the news. After a while, I tell my parents that I’m tired and am going to grab some dinner and take it in my room.

I slink into the kitchen, making a plate and grabbing a little extra of everything. With the plate in my left hand, I snatch my gym bag and make my way to my basement lair. My gym bag vibrates excitedly and I tell it to shush until we’re downstairs.

Four months later…

I’m sitting in an uncomfortably stiff chair, across from an uncomfortably stiff man, in the uncomfortably stiff environment of Midwest Investment Partners’ Cleveland office.

The guy interviewing me—some old white dude in a navy suit that probably cost more than my car—adjusts his tie and skims my résumé. “So, Summit Lake Capital,” he says, nodding like he’s impressed. “That’s a solid firm. What made you leave New York?”

Ah. Here we go.

I flash a well-practiced, corporate-friendly smile. “New York was a great experience,” I say, keeping my voice even, professional. “But my long-term plan was always to come back home to Cleveland and re-lay my roots.”

A bold-faced lie.

But it’s the truth now. Because there’s no way in hell I’m going back to New York.

Not after everything that’s happened.

The old man nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Good to hear,” he says. Then, after a beat, he pushes back his chair and stands, extending a hand.

I stand, too, taking care not to crush his frail-ass bones as I shake his hand. I’ve grown accustomed to the newfound strength of my improved body.

“Let me walk you out,” he says. “But we’ll certainly be in touch. We’re looking for someone with your exact qualifications and think you’d be a good fit here at Midwest Investment Partners.”

I turn on the charm.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, flashing my best salesman grin.

I step out of the office and onto the sidewalk outside the nondescript office building, unbuttoning the top of my dress shirt and loosening my tie. Christ. The damn thing was strangling me.

And the suit? Barely fits. I probably looked ridiculous, walking into the interview looking like Bruce Banner seconds away from hulking out.

But I hadn’t had time to get a new one before the interview—and those had been hard to come by—and I had severely underestimated just how much gains I had made in the past four months.

Screw gear. Screw all the overpriced garbage bodybuilder influences inject into their veins. The System was head and shoulders above all of it. I roll my shoulders, feeling the stretch of fabric across my back. Yeah. I’d gotten kind of ripped. Turns out, when you put an 11 Strength score to good use, a lot of things happen.

It’s too damn warm for mid-April.

Not that I’m complaining. After months of gray skies, freezing winds, and snow that refused to melt, Cleveland had finally decided to stop being a miserable icebox. I slide into my car, shrug off my suit jacket, and toss it onto the passenger seat.

I loosen my tie a little more, then a little more, until I finally give up and rip the damn thing off. Screw it. I’m not about to suffocate in my own car.

The engine purrs to life. Windows down. Cool air whips through the cabin, carrying the distant scent of freshly thawed lake water and lingering car exhaust. It’s almost pleasant.

Diesel Athletic Club. That’s where I’m headed. The interview is making me a little late for the workout routine I’ve fallen into, but I should get used to it. I’ll need to build my workout routine around the long work days soon.

I pull onto the highway, my fingers tapping the wheel to the rhythm of a song I don’t remember playing. It’s muscle memory at this point—driving, thinking, existing in a world that no longer makes any damn sense.

The System has been here for four months.

Four months of madness, of governments scrambling, of people either trying to survive or cash in.

It only took a few televised memorial services before the people in charge got their act together. When monsters—actual, honest-to-God, straight-out-of-a-Tolkien-book monsters—started slipping out of Gates and tearing through city streets, it’s amazing how fast governments can suddenly get things done.

Laws flew through Congress at record-breaking speed.

The military? They had a System-wielding division up-and-running within weeks.

The government? They had a brand-new agency to oversee System users before most people even understood what the hell was happening. The Agency for Empowered Affairs—the AEA.

Guns? Good luck getting any semblance of regulation.

The System? Heavily monitored, highly controlled, and—of course—insanely profitable as a result.

Because once people realized you could make money off this? That was it.

Suddenly, every major country was rolling out a ‘Guild’ system. In the U.S., there were a limited number of Guild Licenses. With a Guild License, corporations employing forces of System-empowered individuals (who also had to be individually licensed) could apply, bid, and fight tooth and nail for the right to contract with the government, handling rogue Gates, securing resources, and—more importantly—raking in billions in commercialized rights. Because the general population had gone System-crazy with their interest.

Some groups had dropped nine figures just for a chance at one of those licenses.

And if you thought those billions weren’t lining the pockets of some very powerful people? Then you’re an idiot.

I pull into the lot at Diesel Athletic Club, kill the engine, and step out into the unseasonably warm air. The gym is the same as it always is—no frills, no gimmicks, just cold iron and sweat. Exactly what I need.

Inside, the scent of rubber mats, chalk, and barely masked BO greets me like an old friend. I nod to a few regulars as I head toward the lockers, shedding my shirt and swapping it for a tank. My arms look bigger in the mirror. I’ve filled out in ways I never expected. I also have six visible abs for the first time in my life—the stubborn amount of fat around my midsection from being a former chunky lad having been burnt away. The System has done more for me in four months than years of lifting with a somewhat consistent diet ever could.

As I lace up my shoes, I glance at the TV in the corner of the weight room. It’s supposed to be playing some old rerun of SportsCenter, but Steve—the owner, janitor, and repair guy all rolled into one—is currently elbow-deep in the wiring, cursing at it.

“Need a hand?” I ask, rolling my shoulders.

Steve grunts. “Nah, just need to get this piece of shit working. I wanna throw on Silver’s press conference.”

I blink. “On ESPN?”

Steve snorts, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Yeah. Welcome to 2024, buddy. The world's a circus, and this guy’s the goddamn ringmaster. ESPN bought the broadcast rights for Silver’s Guild for like… a gazillion dollars or some shit!”

He’s not wrong.

Geraint Silver. Billionaire, tech mogul, and the single most powerful man in the world right now.

Before the System, he was just another megalomaniac with an obsession for space. Claimed he was gonna be the one to take humanity to the stars. But then the Gates started popping up all over the place. And the moment he realized there was more profit and power in them than in any rocket ship, he pivoted so hard he damn near broke his own neck.

Not only did he get access to the System, but his company, Bellerophon, snagged one of the first Guild Licenses. The Pegasus Guild. Then they turned around and sold their television and streaming rights for a record-breaking contract. Maybe not a ‘gazillion’ dollars, like Steve had said, but I think the contract was north of one trillion dollars over the course of its life.

Now? The whole world’s tuning in. Today’s the big rollout of his Guild’s teams—those System-empowered individuals who would be handling Gate Requisition and Response.

Privatized dungeon runners. Professional Gate hunters.

And they’re about to become the biggest stars on the planet.

I shake my head, laughing as I step up to an open barbell bench.

The world is a circus. And Silver? He’s making damn sure he owns the tent.

I drop onto the bench, planting my feet and rolling my shoulders back against the worn-out padding.

The barbell looms above me like a steel executioner, loaded up with three 25-kilo plates on each side. Steve had invested in proper metric plates ages ago, and I’m still grateful for it. My new System-enhanced body is appreciative of the heavier plates. 1,053 pounds. That’s the goal for today. I quickly push through a few warmup sets. Eventually, there are exactly enough plates loaded onto the bar and I’m ready to go for it.

I exhale slowly, centering myself. My HUD generates a small block of text that hovers in the corner of my vision, its neon-blue text crisp against the dim gym lighting.

Barbell Bench Press - One Rep Max (URM): 1,003 pounds.Current Load: 1,053 pounds.Rest Timer: 1:34 remaining.I chuckle at how I’ve been using the System. While others have been chasing down strange creatures that go bump in the night, I’ve been using it for gains. Priorities, right? The HUD had been a game-changer. The Discussion Channels—which were basically a System-exclusive forum—had been invaluable in figuring out how to customize my System interface. The forums were a wild mix of chaos and insight.

Some people were dedicated scientists, breaking down how the System worked, providing the insight they gained through rigorous trial and error. Others were dumbasses, trying to see if they could max out their stats by eating uranium or something.

One guy claimed that he absorbed a cursed weapon into his hotbar and now couldn’t unequip it. Eventually, his arm was transfigured permanently into the sword.

Good luck with that, bud.

Me? I’d mostly stuck to scrolling the channels at night, before bed—reading. Learning. Keeping my head down. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d gotten through my first Gate on skill. That was dumb luck. And I wasn’t about to push my luck again.

Most of the local chatter happened in the ‘United States: Great Lakes’ channel, which was as granular as the channels got and users had to be within that region to get access. Not too many heavy hitters, but enough to keep an eye on. The Global channels were absolute madness.

Many had unlocked their Classes already, and the way they described it? Tempting. The Classes were varied, with unique abilities.

But also? Dangerous as hell. Each thread on Classes had described the need to complete a higher-leveled Quest to earn the Class.

I shake the thought away. Focus on what you can control, and right now that’s moving this fucking weight.

I motion for a couple of the regulars—big guys, strong guys—to spot me.

“Going for a PR?” one of them asks, stepping into position.

“Yeah. Just a small jump.”

I grip the bar, wrapping my hands tight, chalk dusting my fingers. Deep breath in. Unrack.

The weight settles. Feels like a goddamn freight train sitting on my chest.

I lower it slowly, controlled.

Pause.

Then, I explode.

It moves. Slowly.

Halfway up. Arms shaking. My triceps feel like they’re about to mutiny.

I push. Harder.

My vision tunnels, my HUD flickering at the edges.

I barely lock it out before slamming the bar back onto the rack. Clang.

“Nice!” one of the spotters grins, giving my shoulder a slap.

I sit up, panting, wiping sweat off my forehead. My HUD blinks.

[One Rep Max (URM) increased from 1,003 pounds to 1,053 pounds.]

I grin. Nice.

Steve finally smacks the side of the TV like he’s some kind of technical savant, and the screen flickers to life. A few of the gym regulars—Big Mike, Noah, and some guy whose name I don’t know but everyone calls “Chains” because of his questionable jewelry choices—gather around, watching between sets. I finish wiping down my bench and wander over, curiosity getting the best of me.

The screen cuts away from Geraint Silver, who’s standing at a massive press conference stage, a sea of people roaring at his every word. He’s got that whole "billionaire who never loses a night of sleep" look—tall, well-dressed, dark hair graying at the temples, a cool, unreadable stare. A man who knows the world belongs to him, and, worse, isn’t wrong about it.

“—and so, with that,” he says, his voice smooth, controlled, oozing PR perfection, “I present to you the Captains of the Pegasus Guild. The finest warriors of the System. The future of security. The first step toward human mastery of the unknown and the Realms beyond the Gates!”

The screen cuts to five people standing on stage alongside Silver.

My jaw fucking drops.

I lean in, heart slamming against my ribs. My brain refuses to believe what my goddamn eyes are showing me.

Because standing there, center frame, wearing the emblem of the goddamn Pegasus Guild sewn into the breast pocket of her designer jacket, like some kind of elitist superhero?

It’s Sarah.

My ex-fiancée.