Strength Based Wizard Chapter 02. Entering the Game

Chapter 2

Entering the Ga

The ssage vanishes from view, and for a mont, I’m alone again in the boiling hot, sweat-drenched weight room. I turn around, scanning the room. Still alone, and silent other than the sound of my breathing (which is uncomfortably loud in the aftermath of the ssage), and the old fan mounted in the far corner of the room near the stationary bicycles.

Then, the air in the center of the room wavers, like heat rising off asphalt in the middle of sumr. I instinctively take a step backwards, my back bumping against the racked barbell of the squat rack.

A sound follows—a bizarre, impossible noise. It’s like soone ripping fabric, but layered with the crisp snap of scissors slicing through wrapping paper and the deep, resonant chi of glass shattering in slow motion.

Right in front of , the air unzips. There’s no other word for it. A glowing doorway of bluish light appears, cutting through the space like it was always there, just waiting for the right mont to show itself.

And then, in my vision, etched in neat, faintly glowing numbers:

1:00

0:59

0:58

A tir, clear as day, counting down right in front of my eyes. I blink hard, twice, but the numbers don’t go away.

“What the hell is going on?” My voice echoes in the empty gym, but no one answers.

I take a cautious step forward, my sneakers squeaking on the rubber flooring. The doorway hums softly, emitting a faint, rhythmic whoosh as cool air pulls towards it. I can feel the draft tugging at my shirt, like an invisible hand beckoning closer. A faint, barely perceptible sound emits from the portal—like the buzzing hum of a neon light turning on.

I sidestep the portal, circling it. From the side, it’s almost gone, barely more than a shimr in the air. I keep moving, coming around to the other side, which looks just like the front—a glowing, blue-tinged doorway that shouldn’t exist.

I glance at the tir suspended in the corner of my vision. 0:40 . . . 0:39.

“Integration.” The word from the ssage bounces around in my head. Am I dying right now? Is this really a stroke? Did I collapse under the squat bar, and this is my brain’s ssed-up way of coping? Did that ssage really say ‘the END OF THE WORLD’?

The thought hits like a bar full of forty-five pound plates smacking in the back of the head. If the world really is ending, maybe this portal is a life raft. Would I be an idiot not to walk through it? ‘If you choose to accept, you will be one of the first inhabitants integrated into the Interdinsional Uniform System.’ That’s what the ssage had said. If I didn’t accept, was there a less likely chance that I would be integrated into whatever post-apocalyptic inter-galactic order had descended onto our humble planet? I can’t help but think of all those Sci-Fi movies I used to watch in high school—of being part of the cursed population left on a dying planet while the rest escaped into outer space. Was this an ‘early access’ ticket?

Then again, with my luck, it’s probably a black hole disguised as an escape hatch.

I look around the empty gym, searching for answers that aren’t there. Everything is still the sa—sa cracked mirrors, sa battered dumbbells scattered across the floor. Even the old TV in the corner, its screen dark and useless, hasn’t magically sprung to life with so kind of breaking news broadcast.

The tir continues ticks down: 0:22 . . . 0:21.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, but the signal bars are gone, replaced with a tiny “SOS” in the corner of the screen. No service.

“Dammit,” I mutter, shoving the phone back into the pocket of my gym shorts.

The sinking feeling in my gut grows heavier as the tir creeps closer to zero.

0:10 . . . 0:09.

I take a deep breath. My entire body is screaming at to stay put, to wait this out, to let the countdown hit zero and see what happens. But another part of , the part that dragged out of bed at 4 a.m. to lift heavy ass weights and push through the pain, has other ideas.

“Screw it.”

The words leave my mouth just as I step forward, through the glowing doorway.

The light swallows whole.

The light swallows , and for a mont, I’m floating in nothingness. The sensation is weightless, like sinking into one of those sensory deprivation chambers. Then, all at once, the brightness dissipates, and my feet land on solid ground with a muted thud.

I blink hard, my eyes adjusting to the sudden change. I’m in a circular room. The floor beneath gleams like polished obsidian, smooth and dark, reflecting faint glimrs of light from sowhere above. It feels cold, even through the soles of my sneakers, and the air slls clean—sterile, like a hospital, with a faint tallic edge.

Around , shadows coil like living things. The room stretches into an indeterminate darkness, the edges lost in a black fog that presses against the limits of the white light streaming down from above.

I look up, shielding my eyes. The source of the light is impossibly high, like the beam from a lone spotlight aid straight at the ground. Its brilliance makes everything else feel hazy and unreal, as though the room itself exists in a dream or half-forgotten mory.

In the center of the room, under the focused beam, is a pedestal. It’s about waist-high and made of the sa black, glass-like material as the floor. Its surface is smooth, untouched, and utterly empty.

I take a cautious step toward it, my breath loud in the silence, when sothing else catches my eye.

To the right of the pedestal sits a throne. Calling it a chair would be an insult. The stone seat is massive, its back at least six feet tall as though made to support a giant. The stone it’s carved from isn’t like the obsidian of the floor—it’s pale, almost bone-colored, and etched with intricate designs. Spirals, runes, and shapes I don’t recognize from this distance cover every inch of its surface, weaving together in an impossible tapestry of artistry. The seat itself looks worn smooth, as though countless others have sat there before .

To the left of the pedestal is another chair. This one is also crafted from that strange, bleach white stone, but far simpler. Its lines are clean and utilitarian, devoid of any decoration. It looks functional, sturdy, and unassuming next to the grandeur of the throne across from it.

I take another step, my sneakers squeaking slightly against the glassy floor.

“What is this place?” I whisper, though I know no one’s around to answer.

My voice echoes faintly, the sound bouncing off unseen walls before fading into the oppressive silence.

The silence shatters with a sound like glass being scraped against stone. My head jerks toward the edge of the room, where the light bleeds into shadow. Sothing moves there, just outside the circle of illumination—a sleek, sinuous form gliding across the glassy floor.

Then another.

They slide into the light, their scales catching the sterile white glow. The first snake is pure white, its body smooth and seamless, like animated porcelain. Its eyes are two featureless orbs of black, devoid of any reflection. The second is its mirror opposite: deep crimson scales edged in gold shimr with every shift of its muscular coils. Its eyes glow faintly amber, almost like embers smoldering in the dark.

I take a step back, heart hamring in my chest. Snakes. Why does it have to be snakes? I was never a huge fan of the reptiles, and definitely never understood why so people enjoyed keeping so as pets. My ex was from Florida, and sotis spoke about the size of so of the pythons that would pop up from ti to ti. No. Fucking. Thank you.

The pair move as though they’re connected by so invisible thread, their sinuous bodies weaving side by side in perfect harmony. They glide toward the pedestal, their bodies making soft shhh sounds against the floor, and I take another step back, the primal part of my brain screaming, Get away!

Before I can retreat further, the faintest tap, tap, tap echoes from the darkness. Footsteps, unhurried but purposeful, follow in the wake of the snakes.

A figure erges, stepping into the circle of light as casually as soone walking into their own living room.

He’s . . . normal. At least, more normal than I expected for a guy trailing a pair of oversized, otherworldly snakes. I have to admit, I half expected a short, green-skinned alien to appear. Not so random dude. Average height, lean but not scrawny, with the kind of easy posture that cos from confidence. Yeah, I’m all too familiar with that walk. His skin is tanned, his features sharp and angular, like the classical statues scattered throughout Italy. Dark, curly hair falls just to his ears, and thick, expressive eyebrows sit above eyes that. . .

I freeze. His eyes. They’re yellow, faintly glowing, like a predator’s caught in a beam of light. I swear I notice a light after image trailing from the corners of his eyes. Definitely an unsettling effect. I blink and the trail of yellow light is gone.

He’s dressed in a simple white robe, the hem brushing the tops of his sandaled feet. The robe is tied at the waist with a thin golden cord, its ends swaying slightly with each step. Behind his left ear, three feathers are tucked—jet-black with a faint sheen, the kind you’d see in a rooster’s tail. They don’t belong there, yet they look as if they’ve always been part of him.

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He stops near the pedestal, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He scans the room casually, as though assessing it for cleanliness and orderliness. His mouth twists into a sowhat disappointed frown. The frown of soone who expected their hotel chain mbership upgrade to get them sothing a little better. The snakes curl around the base of the throne, their heads raised and swaying in tandem.

“You look . . . underwheld.” His voice is warm, almost conversational, with the faintest lilt of amusent.

I blink, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “I—uh…”

The man tilts his head, studying with those unnerving eyes. “Don’t worry. That’s a perfectly natural reaction. To be quite honest, I expected more too. But I don’t make the design choices . . . Not this year, at least.”

I clear my throat nervously. “A natural reaction to what, exactly?” I manage to ask, my voice cracking just slightly. I clear my throat again. “Where are we? . . . What’s going on?”

“All of this.” He gestures around the room with one hand, his fingers long and elegant. “The end of the world. Might not have the grandeur so may have expected but . . . I suppose in any case it’s a lot to take in.”

I swallow hard, every instinct screaming at to bolt, but my feet stay rooted in place. Where would you even run to? The portal I walked through was no where to be seen.

“Who are you?” I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

The man smiles, slow and deliberate. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. But for now, that’s not important.” He gestures toward the throne and the simple chair beside it. “Why don’t we have a little chat?”

The snakes hiss softly, their heads swiveling toward , and I realize with a sinking feeling that it was not an invitation. It was an order.

The man’s smile widens, and a strange ripple runs down my spine. It’s not a comforting smile—it’s sothing sharper, sothing that feels like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath you isn’t as solid as it seems.

I imagine this is what a hiker feels when they round a bend and co face-to-face with a bear. Every instinct screams to run, but there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do except keep still and hope you don’t provoke it.

“Co on now,” the man says, his voice lilting and smooth. He gestures toward the chair beside the pedestal. “Let’s get comfortable. We have things to discuss, and you’re only my first appointnt.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry, and nod. My legs feel leaden, but they move anyway, carrying toward the center of the room. The pedestal looms larger the closer I get, its polished surface catching and warping the sterile light above.

The man lowers himself into the throne with the kind of effortless grace you’d expect from royalty. He leans back, one leg crossing over the other, and waves a hand toward the simpler chair across from him. “Sit.”

The chair doesn’t look particularly inviting. It’s carved from the sa stone as the throne, its surface cold and unyielding. But refusing doesn’t feel like an option, so I lower myself into it.

“Good,” the man says, his voice thick with satisfaction.

As I settle into the chair, a long wand materializes in his hand. It doesn’t phase into existence so much as snap into place, like the universe decided it should be there and suddenly it was. The wood gleams, dark and polished, and the wand seems far too large for sothing ant to be held in one hand.

The two snakes hiss softly from their places at the base of the throne, and then they move.

My breath catches as the white snake coils up one side of the throne and the red up the other, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. They reach the man’s outstretched arm and continue up his arm, coiling around the length of the wand.

The snakes don’t stop at its handle. As they slither higher, their bodies change. Scales smooth out into polished wood, flesh hardening into grain. I notice the wooden rod of the wand growing, thickening and stretching. By the ti they reach the top of the wand, they’re no longer serpents but intricately carved pieces of the now-staff itself.

From the end of the staff, two dark wings unfurl, forming an ornate crosspiece. They shimr faintly, as though they’re alive, though the material looks carved from the sa gleaming wood as the rest.

The man rolls the staff lazily in his palm, the wings creating a faint hum as they slice through the air.

“Now,” he says, leaning forward, his glowing yellow eyes locking onto mine. “Let’s discuss your future, Joseph. It’s about to get . . . interesting.”

My fingers dig into the cool stone armrests of the chair, the weight of his gaze pressing down on . The staff in his left hand hums softly, almost like it’s alive, and the wings at the top of the staff gently move, flapping up and down.

“You’ve been chosen,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Chosen to participate in the God Ga.”

“The what now?” I blurt, my voice cracking slightly again. God damn these nerves!

“The God Ga,” he repeats, enunciating each word like it should be obvious. “Ragnarok . . . The Last Judgnt . . . Titanomachy. I suppose there are a number of things you could call it.” The man sighs, leaning back into the throne while casually scratching at his cheek with his free hand. “A contest held every seven millennia to determine which god will rule the connected multiverse. You see, even beings as magnificent as us—” he gestures to himself with a flourish, “—are terrible at peaceful transitions of power. Chaos tends to ensue when gods clash. Planets crumble. Stars die. I’m sure you know how it goes.” He flitted his hand around, shooing away so monotonous details that weren’t worth hashing over in detail.

I shift in my seat, my heart pounding. The God Ga? A way of deciding which god will rule? “So . . . you’re saying you make us do your dirty work instead?”

His lips curl into a faint smile. “Precisely. Mortals serve as our champions. You fight in our stead, and in doing so, you spare your planet from becoming collateral damage in our disputes. It’s quite efficient, don’t you think? A small portion of your population participates and, once the Ga is over and a victor has been decided, the remaining population join the fold of the multiverse. The next step in the species’ evolution.”

I stare at him, trying to process the insanity of it all. “Okay, but . . . why ?” I’m not exactly a Navy SEAL or anything.

He waves his hand again, as if brushing away a trivial concern. “The System chose you. A grand algorithm far beyond your understanding selects participants based on a multitude of factors—though, I think it’s largely random.”

Random. So it was so kind of lottery, and the winners got a portal dropped on them. Fantastic! I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Think, Joe. Ignore the fact that you’re speaking to so god-like otherworldly being right now. At least he looks like so dude, and isn’t Cthulu or sothing. I center myself and focus, trying to be as rational as possible. “What do I get out of this? If I’m going to participate in this Ga, I need to know what’s in it for .”

His laugh catches off guard, rich and resonant, echoing off the unseen walls. “Ah, such spirit! I do enjoy that in a mortal.” He leans forward, resting the staff across his lap. “Early access to the System. While the rest of your species stumbles into the new realm like infants, you’ll already be ahead. You’ll be integrated, a demigod among ants if you play your cards right.”

I blink, trying to piece together what that ans. “The System?” He had said it a couple of tis already.

“It is the foundation of the civilized multiverse,” he explains, his tone growing more reverent. “It governs trade, power, knowledge—everything. Through the System, you gain abilities mortals only dream of, wealth, and influence beyond your wildest dreams. And if that isn’t enough to entice you. . .” He lets the sentence hang, a gleam in his eye.

I lean forward, despite myself. “What?”

“The winner of the God Ga—the human champion left standing at the end,” he says, his voice soft but brimming with power, “receives one wish. Any wish, within the power of the System. Wealth, immortality, vengeance, peace—practically anything you desire.”

I sit back, my mind spinning. A wish?

“What’s the catch?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

He chuckles, and there’s sothing almost kind in the sound. Almost. “No catch, aside from the obvious: to win, you must survive and beat those who also choose to participate. Every participant is fighting for the sa prize. It will not be easy.”

“How many participants are we talking?”

“Approximately eight hundred million of your fellow Earthlings accepted the summons,” he says, his smile widening. “I imagine most will enter the Ga.”

The number slams into like a freight train. Eight hundred million. Those are worse odds than hitting the jackpot in the ga Millions lottery. My chest tightens, but there’s sothing else there too, a flicker of defiance. What would my life be like if I could have everything I could ever want? And if the world was really ending, wouldn’t it be better to enter the new, intergalactic age as a demigod?

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over . “Does only the winner survive? Are these so kind of death gas?” I ask.

The man chuckles. “There are always casualties. I would be lying if I said there wouldn’t be a lot of casualties. But that is a fair question. No, there are usually many survivors. But there is only ever one winner.”

“I’m assuming there’s no waiver and release form that your civilized multiverse has prepared for to review and sign?” If not, these god-like fuckers could really learn a thing or two from all of Earth’s corporations.

This elicits a small chuckle from the man. “By participating in the Ga, you risk being severely injured or, yes, death. And by willingly proceeding with the steps necessary to enter the Ga, you accept all risks. But trust when I say this: life as a mortal itself is a hazard to your wellness, and the power the System grants in many ways offers a comfort and protection from many of the risks you face every waking mont on the gigantic heated rock of a planet you call ho.”

I almost move my hand over my chest. Shots fired! You wound , Throne Guy!

“Well,” I say, forcing a tight smile, “I’ve always liked a challenge.”

The man leans back in his throne, his yellow eyes gleaming with sothing that looks suspiciously like amusent. “Good,” he says, he straightens and taps the bottom of his staff against the obsidian-like floor. The snakes’ carved bodies coil and gleam as if they’re alive, catching the sterile light streaming from above. “Now, to finalize your acceptance as a participant in the Ga, there’s just one more step. You must create your Participant Profile.”

I blink, trying to decide if this is terrifying or ridiculous. Probably both. “How do I do that?”

“Place your hand on the pedestal.” He gestures to the empty slab of stone between us, his smile curling upward.

“Just . . . put my hand on it?”

“Precisely.”

I reach forward before freezing halfway. I look up at the man. “It isn’t going to hurt, is it?”

I glance at the pedestal like it might bite . Knowing my luck, it might. But the man’s unwavering stare is like a spotlight, and I know I don’t have much of a choice. Swallowing down my nerves, I stand and step toward the pedestal. Without another thought, I place my hand against the top of the pedestal.

As soon as my palm presses against the smooth, cold surface, sothing happens. A jolt—like touching a doorknob after shuffling across carpet—shoots through my body. Except it doesn’t stop at my hand. It courses through my veins, filling every inch of with electric, tingling heat. I gasp, my fingers reflexively curling against the stone.

Ding.

The sound rings out in my head, clear and bright, and I flinch, half-expecting the man to comnt. But he just watches , unbothered.

Assimilation complete. A voice says—vaguely feminine, though hard to pin down. It’s the sa voice that announced the end of the world before the portal appeared in the middle of Diesel Athletic Club. It’s calm and chanical, like an automated phone line that sohow got a personality upgrade. You have been successfully assimilated into the System. Congratulations on becoming a Participant in the God Ga! It is with great enthusiasm that I welco you to the Interdinsional Uniform System.

Assimilated? The System? God Ga? My brain feels like it’s buffering.

Another notification pops into my vision, hovering in the air like a hologram I can’t swat away. Assimilation Complete. Participant Status: Active.

Before I can process that, a new ssage appears, the words crisp and glowing:

Basic Participant Profile Generated. Please complete the Profile Creation Process. Please note all decisions made in the Profile Creation Process will be semi-permanent and will not be capable of being changed until later stages in the God Ga.

Continue?

The static-like energy fades, leaving feeling light-headed—but sharper, sohow. More aware. I pull my hand back, staring at the pedestal like it’s so ancient relic.

“Well done,” the man says, clapping his hands slowly, like he’s at a one-man opera. “The first step is always the most difficult, isn’t it? But you handled that like a champion!”

I stagger back toward the chair, my pulse hamring in my ears. “What the hell just happened?”

“You’ve taken your first step into the greater universe, my friend,” he replies, his voice almost smug. “Now cos the fun part: defining who you will be in the Ga. Go on, Joseph. Complete your Profile.”

The glowing notification lingers in my vision, waiting for to act. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my hands are already shaking.

Whatever this is, there’s no turning back now.