Strength Based Wizard Chapter 38. Class Sessions, Part III (Open Enrollment)

Chapter 38

Class Sessions, Part III (Open Enrollnt)

POV: Clyde Richmond

The dreams always start the sa.

Soft orange light barely bleeding through a dusty, gri-covered window, slanting across stained wallpaper and the silhouette of my old futon mattress, a crumpled blanket cocooned around a younger version of . Then the sll hits—sour malt liquor, weed, sothing faint and feral lingering under it all. That’s how I know I’m back.

Back in that busted-up governnt subsidized apartnt off W. 25th in Ohio City, where the floors were soft from water damage and the air always held a tension you could pluck like a guitar string. No one in that damned building was happy. We were all just trying to get by.

I was eight. Maybe nine. Skinny as hell. Elbows like knife points and eyes that didn’t blink when they should’ve. I’d wake up with the sun, because sleep didn’t do much but make ti go faster—and back then, I didn’t want it to. Even though ti ant hunger.

Ti, as one of the old head’s had told at so point, was money. And even eight-year-old knew that shit was a scare resource at ho.

So, I’d grab my sidekick—a snapped-off golf club shaft I’d pulled out of a dumpster behind a thrift store. The handle was cracked (I fixed that with duct tape). The end? Fractured tal, wicked and jagged.

I’d slip out of the apartnt barefoot, navigating the chipped tile and creaky wood like a ninja. Past the drugged-out silence of apartnt doors that never quite latched. Had to be careful not to wake mom… If she was ho. Down the stairs, across the parking lot, over to Morningstar’s—the bar on the corner that turned into a sand volleyball haven in the sumr.

That’s where the gold was.

Not real gold. No. I couldn’t be so lucky. I had to settle for aluminum.

Empty beer cans. Crushed and discarded like fallen soldiers on the field of battle. Aluminum relics of other people’s good tis and likely regrets that morning. Saturday mornings were best—after Friday night leagues, when drunk thirtysothings ca to Morningstar’s in droves. They’d leave cans by the hundreds stuffed into overflowing garbage bins, and scattered across the patchy grass by the fence.

I’d collect them with my busted club—stabbing each can like I was spear-fishing. Shove them into a big, black garbage bag until the plastic stretched and moaned.

Ten bucks on a good haul. Ten bucks could get a sleeve of bologna, so powdered donuts, a bottle of pop, and still leave plenty more to ration out over a week. That wasn’t just sustenance—that was strategy. That was survival turned into art. Sumr ant no school. No school ant no free school lunches. No school lunches ant I was going to sleep hungry or knocking on my cousin’s door to see if he could whip up a bologna sandwich on wonder bread.

And on Sundays? I had church.

Say what you want about God, but the adults at church gave out free coffee and stale donuts after every service, and to little Clyde, they tasted like Michelin-star cuisine.

Sothing about the way the sugar turned to syrup in your mouth, how the edges were hard but the inside still kinda doughy. They were always a bit stale and painfully sweet. Even now—grown and that apartnt now far, far behind —I can’t bite into a fresh one without wishing it was just a little staler. I’d go as far to say I prefer stale donuts.

People think it’s funny. The stale donut thing.

I let them laugh. I don’t explain it. I don’t say that every bite tastes like nostalgic, familiar safety. Like a morning when I knew I wouldn’t be hungry. Or hurt.

The dreams always end before the church part, though.

Usually, they fade just as I’m dragging that full bag to the recycling center, sweat crusting my forehead, sandals flopping on asphalt still cool from the night. Just a kid and a bag of cans, trying to get by.

I wake up with the echo of aluminum clinking in my ears and the tallic sting of hope in my throat. The clock on my bedside table reads 12:02 P.M. I let myself sleep in. It’s the big day after all… My Bronze Gate. Another opportunity to try and scrounge up a little sothing for myself. Just like those empty cans back at Morningstar’s.

POV: Veronica Sampietro

“...and I told him, ‘Bro, if your DPS can’t handle a few Level 4 goblins in under 30 seconds, you’re dead weight.’ Can you believe the gall of on so of these chumps? The Exploration Team said if it wasn’t for helping clear the path, they wouldn’t have completed that extra dungeon level. Yeeaahh, it was pretty bad ass…!”

The words tumble out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea, each syllable just a little louder, a little more nasal than the last. I’m ninety percent sure the table next to us is contemplating homicide. Or maybe I’m projecting. You’re probably projecting, Veronica.

This is what I get for trying to date in the System Era. It’s my first date using the System Match app—a new dating app exclusive to registered System-enhanced persons. And here I thought having access to the System might make n a little less insufferable. Turns out, it’s the opposite actually!... Who would have guessed?

The little bistro in Little Italy is cute, honestly. String lights twinkling above, candlelight flickering and filling the small dining room with a cozy ambiance. The air slls like warm garlic knots, fried calamari and my grandma’s red sauce. There’s a violinist in the corner playing so gentle Paganini piece. It’s a really nice spot for a first date. All wasted on a man whose idea of charisma is reciting his base stats like it’s a birthright.

He’s smiling. At himself. Again.

I don’t even rember his na. Gavin?... Wait, no, it’s Grayson. Definitely Grayson.

I sip my wine—a pleasant enough Pinot Noir—and smile with my mouth but not my eyes. I’ve been told I have a great fake smile. Corporate-honed. Razor-edged. It’s a skill, really. A skill I was planning on using during on campus interviews to land a high-paying law firm job. But law school was a thing of the past at this point thanks to one exploding Con Law professor and not-yet-enough therapy sessions.

He’s saying sothing now about his Guild application. Apparently, Ohio’s finally handed out all its private Guild licenses and now the Great and Powerful Gavin—er, Grayson—is awaiting his invitation to participate in the official Guild assessnt. He says this with a straight face, like he’s being knighted.

My phone buzzes. I glance down. 7:42 p.m. Ugh. Still a couple of hours until I et the others at the junkyard.

He snaps for the waiter. Like literally, snaps.

“Yeah, I’ll take a pistachio gelato and an espresso,” he tells the waiter, then turns to with that smirk I’ve grown to hate over the course of the past hour or so dinner. “Just the espresso for her… She doesn’t need the sweets.”

Oh. Oh hell no.

That’s the line. The mont. The crystallized, diamond-cut epiphany that I’m done here.

I stand. Smooth. Graceful. Like a queen exiting a peasant’s hut.

Fake smile engaged. “Heading to the ladies’ room,” I purr. “Be right back.”

He winks at . Winks. Like we’re sharing a secret. The only secret we’re sharing is that he’s about to be ghosted so hard his dignity is about to end up on a Missing Person billboard.

I walk past the waiter. He raises an eyebrow. I jerk my chin toward the table.

“Respect,” he says quietly, flashing a thumbs up.

Out into the Cleveland night I go. The air slls like oil and cigars. It’s getting a bit chilly out, but my blood is running hot, like it always does after a clean getaway.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

God, that felt good.

I check the ti again. Guess I’ll go actually enjoy the evening.

Maybe grab a real dessert… Change into different clothes. Maybe just sit sowhere and let the city breathe around .

One thing’s for sure: Tonight, I’m choosing .

POV: Joseph Sullivan

I arrived to the junkyard early, not wanting the others to be the first ones there.

I sit behind the wheel, engine off. Jelly Boy is in the passenger seat, vibrating in sync with the bassline of the radio. No real shape to him right now—just an excited pile of blue goo with two vaguely spherical eyes floating in the mix. Every ti the beat drops, he does this thing where he bubbles upward, then splashes back into himself. Like a sentient lava lamp on cocaine. It’s pretty amusing.

A pair of headlights slices across my rearview, and I glance up.

Veronica.

She pulls in smooth, controlled. I look through my passenger-side window at her. Hair pulled up, leather jacket zipped, windows rolled up against the chill. She cuts the engine, waves through the windshield, then glances down into her lap, the pale light of her phone illuminating her face. A second later, mine buzzes.

>Veronica: A bit nippy out. Going to wait for Clyde to pull up.

I tap the little heart icon next to the ssage. I don’t trust myself to text at the mont. I’m too wired. Muscles thrumming. Blood hot. Tonight’s the night we crack open our Bronze Gate.

Tonight’s the night I get my official Class.

Jelly Boy slurps up the last of a discarded energy drink can he pulled from the car floor and burps through his mbrane. His version of a war cry… I think.

Another set of headlights appears. Clyde.

He steps out before the engine of his car even stops rumbling. Hoodie, jeans, worn boots. Eyes scanning the place with a clear amount of skepticism. Like he’s outlining all of the potential issues the location might present to us. I like that about him. He’s a problem-solver.

We all get out of our cars, and for a second, we just stand there. Three humans and one slimy ball of chaos, all staring at the rust-bitten gate like it’s going to sprout fangs and eat us.

“Yo,” Clyde says.

“Hey,” Veronica replies, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face. She doesn’t look nervous. She looks ready. Still, I can’t help but sense all of our nerves are firing to the max right now.

I nod. Jelly Boy bounces next to , vibrating, almost humming, so tune only he knows. He’s practically glowing.

With a click and a groan, I unlock the gate and swing it open.

The junkyard yawns in front of us like the open mouth of a beast.

I feel like sothing’s watching us.

I don’t say it. But I feel it. It’s a prickle along the back of my neck, a weight just behind my eyes. Like there’s a presence out here in the dark, breathing slow and silent, waiting for us to turn our backs.

The wind kicks up, rustling the skeletal trees along the yard’s periter. A low, bone-dry hiss. The clatter of dead leaves scraping across hoodless car fras. A bird takes off s, its wings loud in the silence, like a wet slap to the face.

I turn a slow circle, scanning the yard.

If Steve did finally install caras, they’re well hidden. But I know this feeling. It’s the sa one I had the night I exited the Graveyard Castle Gate. The sa goddamn hair-raising, limb-tightening sense that sothing was watching .

Still, I see nothing. Just rust and shadows.

“Let’s go,” I say, more to myself than the others.

We move.

I lead us past the various pieces of broken-down, rust-covered junk. Finally, we reach the covered pavilion I used for covering my last Gate. “Here,” I say. Pointing to the empty wall.

Clyde’s already pulling out his ticket. Veronica too. Jelly Boy wiggles excitedly, then spits out his own like it’s a cough drop. I reach down and pick it up. It’s warm and slick with sli, like it’s been hugged by a jellyfish all day. Jelly Boy extends a pseudopod and I hand him his ticket. I also withdraw my own ticket.

We stand in a rough circle. Four tickets. Four losers. One, eerily quiet junkyard.

Clyde glances around. “Ready?”

Veronica exhales hard through her nose. “As I’ll ever be.”

I nod, heart hamring so loud it might crack a rib. “Now or never.”

“On the count of three,” Clyde says. “One…”

Veronica joins in. “Two…”

“Three,” we all say at once. I ntally activate my ticket.

[Bronze Gate Ticket]

[This Bronze Gate Ticket has been enhanced with the ‘Combine’ attribute.]

Activate ‘Combine’ Enhancent?

I ntally slam ‘yes.’

The parchnt in each of our hands ignites with pure magically energy. Glowing golden dust peels off the surface like sun-flaked paint, drifting up, curling, congealing in midair. The particles dance in lazy spirals, gathering into a rough circular shape. Then the outline sharpens—bronze-colored lines etched by lightning.

Before we know it, the Gate has fully ford. Ten feet high, shaped like a cathedral window, rimd in bronze light, crackling and humming like a power line in the rain. The space inside the fra is filled with swirling bronze energy—liquid light shot through with sparks.

We look at each other.

Jelly Boy wobbles and makes a noise like a dial-up modem having a religious experience.

I step forward.

The air near the portal hums. It’s thick and charged and tastes like static and pennies. My fingers tingle. My toes too. My heart drops into my guts and keeps falling.

“Let’s go,” Veronica says. She steps forward, taking the place at my side. Our shoulders brush for just a mont before she vanishes into the Gate.

I take a slow breath. Then, I walk forward, into the bronze light. The mont I cross the threshold, sothing grabs —not physically, but deep within my core. Like a hook behind my sternum yanking upward.

Then the world goes white.

The light dies. It just snaps off, like the bulb of existence burned out mid-thought.

I try to scream, but I have no mouth. No lungs. No goddamn body.

There’s nothing. Just a floating, disembodied , adrift in the kind of pure black that feels thick. Like I’m suspended in warm oil, suffocating in the absence of everything. My brain reaches for sensation—sight, sound, touch—but all I get is the heavy stillness of a sensory deprivation tank.

And then—ping.

A soft, pulsing sensation cuts through the void like a blade made of chill.

A blue-tinted screen floats into my field of view. Like it’s always been there. Like I’m rembering it instead of seeing it for the first ti.

Welco, Participant, to the God Ga’s Class Assignnt and Selection Process.

Processing Data Collected...

Analyzing Performance trics...

Compiling Participant Profile and Base Statistics...

Preparing Class Selection Interface...

Ping!

The black is swallowed by soft cerulean light. A UI slides in like it’s on rails, clean and humming with low-frequency power. Three rectangular windows unfurl across my vision—each glowing with gold borders, pulsing slightly, almost like they’re breathing.

At the top, a new ssage appears:

Please Proceed with Class Selection.

I take in the options presented to . I would be surprised, but luckily knew that I would have so level of choice, thanks to details shared on the Discussion Channels.

CLASS OPTION 1: Thousand-Palm Monk

[Description: You are a master of speed and violence, utilizing your arcane prowess to beco an embodint of destruction itself.]

Natural Stat Growth: 1 Strength, 3 Dexterity, 2 Constitution, 1 Spirit, 20 Health, 3 Mana, 10 Stamina.

Class Attribute 1: Awakening of the Asura.

[Description: You Wizard’s Hand Spell will be replaced with the Skill ‘Asura Arms.’ When you activate this Skill, you summon four Wizard’s Hands (Source: Strength and Dexterity). These arms will fight as an extension of your own self.]

Class Attribute 2: Avatar of Imbuent

[Description: You are capable of imbuing your Asura Arms with magical properties, including, without limitation, elental affinities. Upon Class Selection, you will have two imbuents. Imbuents can be equipped and unequipped using your User nus.]

This option seems like the System offering a clear chance to course correct. Pivot from a spellcaster discipline into a hand-to-hand based martial Class. I wonder if my decision to take up boxing and jiu jitsu impacted the System’s decision to offer this Class as one of my options. The natural stat growth is well-balanced on the Physical Stats, and I could still use my point allotnt to assign points to Strength and my other stats.

I’m curious how this will impact Lefty and Righty. The subtle personality and feel of the cantrip is sothing I’ve grown accustod to. Will this overwrite the fundantal nature of the spell, or simply add a second pair to join in combat?

It’s definitely tempting. But before I decide, I need to weigh my other options…

CLASS OPTION 2: nagerie Warlock

[Description: You gain power through your bonds with monsters, siphoning off so of their energy and, eventually, exerting your control over them.]

Natural Stat Growth: 3 Constitution, 1 Intelligence, 3 Willpower, 10 Health, 10 Mana, 10 Stamina.

Class Attribute 1: Link with Monster

[Description: You gain Skills that allow you to connect with various monsters. As you develop a stronger connection with these monsters, you will gain various Skills, Spells and Traits from the monsters. As you grow stronger, you will be able to connect with a both a larger number of monsters and stronger monsters.]

Class Attribute 2: Control Monster

[Description: You gain the Spell ‘Control Monster.’ Once your bond with a connected monster is sufficient in strength, you can exert control over the monster, having fully tad it.]

Sothing about this second option instantly makes feel dirty and gross. The only monster I would be able to currently bond with is Jelly Boy, and the thought of ‘controlling’ him is fucking disgusting. As much as I love Pokemon, I’m not sure how I feel about this Class.

Part of wants to consider it. I can forego using the ‘Control Monster’ Spell and focus instead of having an army of friendly creatures at my disposal, all while gaining a variety of Spells and Skills from those bonds. The versatility is seemingly limitless.

CLASS OPTION 3: Muscle Wizard

Description: Unlike other wizards, you mana channels have fused with you muscular-skeletal structure, and your magic is now powered by your very body.

Inherent Stat Growth: 3 Strength, 1 Dexterity, 2 Constitution, 1 Willpower, 10 Health, 30 Stamina (current Mana will be converted into Stamina).

Class Attribute 1: Body Focus

[Description: You are no longer able to use traditional Spell focuses. Instead, your body has beco your spell focus, allowing you to unfettered access to your Spellcasting abilities. You channel and expend Stamina in order to cast Spells. You gain the Trait ‘Body Focus.’]

Class Attribute 2: Channel Might

[Description: Your Spell Level Cap is set to Level 2. All Spells now have the ‘Strength’ Source. You gain the following Trait: ‘Flexible Casting.’ You gain the following Skill: ‘No Pain, No Gain.’ This Skill allows the spellcaster to ‘overclock’ Spells, expending additional Stamina and Health in order to increase a Spell’s raw power.]

I don’t laugh. I cackle. Sowhere in the void, the UI jitters like it's trying not to be offended.

I scan all three options one more ti and then, with a swift ntal command (no mis-clicks this ti, asshole), I make my selection.