(WORM APOCALYPSE) CHAPTER ONE

Blood wasn’t new to Greg. He’d seen more than enough of it in games, movies, comics, and the occasional cape fight on the news, but none of them had prepared him for what death smelled like up close.

It sat heavy in the back of his throat, hot and metallic, mixed with the stench of urine and shit and something even fouler that made his stomach twist every time he drew another breath. He tried not to think about it, but every inhale only made it harder to ignore.

Somewhere behind him, somebody retched again while others cried and someone screamed until their voice cracked. Greg envied every one of them. They were reacting, while he couldn’t seem to do anything except stare at the place where Mr. Gladly had been, his eyes returning to it again and again as though looking long enough would somehow undo what had happened.

There had to be a trick. A cape power. A teleport. Anything.

Every glance proved him wrong, because the blood still stained Emma’s blazer, streaked across Taylor’s face, and soaked into the floor where Mr. Gladly had been standing only moments before.

Greg swallowed hard. Stories always skipped this part. The old swordsman died with a smile, the wise wizard left behind one final lesson, and the veteran commander made a heroic last stand while the music swelled in the background.

They never talked about the smell. They never mentioned blood soaking into people’s clothes or the girl in the corner crying so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. They certainly never lingered on what came after, the silence that washed over everyone who didn’t know what they were supposed to do next.

Maybe if they had, he wouldn’t have spent so many nights wondering what it would be like.

He had always liked stories where ordinary people stumbled into fantastical worlds, even though Earth Bet had never lacked strange and wonderful things of its own. It had Endbringers, villains who could level city blocks, and heroes people argued about on PHO for weeks after every fight.

None of that changed the fact that Greg Veder was ordinary.

Those stories promised that someone ordinary could become somebody worth remembering, that strength could be earned, knowledge mattered, and being the weird kid who knew too much about games and monsters wasn’t something people rolled their eyes at because, for once, it was useful.

He’d wanted that. God, he’d wanted it more than he’d ever admitted to himself.

The thought made his stomach churn harder than the smell ever could.

The familiar chime rang out, jerking Greg so hard his shoulders hurt, and the translucent window hovering in front of him changed.

Selection period expired.

No confirmed Class selections.

Penalty executed.

One participant eliminated.

New selection period initiated.

Time Remaining:

10:00

The timer immediately began counting down.

09:58.

Greg read the message once, then twice, his eyes eventually settling on two words.

Penalty executed.

He swallowed hard, willing himself not to throw up alongside the others.

The image refused to leave him. One moment Mr. Gladly had been standing there trying his best to hold the class together, and the next…

Greg squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Every time he blinked, he saw it again.

Mr. Gladly had never been Greg’s favorite teacher because he handed out easy grades or let students get away with anything. He was just… easy to talk to. Bring up the PRT, the latest ABB robbery, or whether Legend could beat Alexandria in a fight, and Gladly would throw in his own opinion before somehow steering the conversation back toward the lesson. He treated students like people, and Greg had always liked that.

He’d liked him.

Now there wasn’t enough of him left to bury.

Greg’s chest tightened. Greg had imagined Systems before: helpful voices explaining quests, friendly guides handing out rewards, companions that wanted the player to succeed. This… whatever it was… had done this. It had to have, because no cape could have killed someone without moving, and no bomb could have left nothing but blood where a person had been standing. Whatever had brought them here didn’t operate by any rules Greg understood.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to wake up in his room, boot up his PC, complain online about whatever balance patch people were arguing about that week, then drag himself into school on Monday and hear Mr. Gladly ask why he’d nearly failed another quiz because he’d stayed up gaming instead of studying. He wanted all of it back.

The timer continued its silent march.

08:31.

Someone screamed that they didn’t care what the Class did anymore before lunging toward their screen. Another announced her choice out loud, her own window disappearing the instant she confirmed it, and more followed, the translucent windows vanishing one after another with the same indifferent efficiency as the message that had announced Mr. Gladly’s death.

Nobody had waited this time, and Greg understood why as he looked down at the display hovering in front of him.

Five options floated before him.

Warrior

Mage

Rogue

Crafter

Scribe

Only minutes ago he would’ve spent hours trying to work out what separated a Rogue from a Warrior, or why the System thought he qualified for a Scribe. Was it because he read so much? Because he remembered useless trivia? Did Scribes copy things? Record them? Cast spells with words? 

His mind kept reaching for answers, and he hated it. The timer dropped again.

07:12.

This wasn’t what he’d meant when he’d blown out birthday candles, wished on shooting stars, or lain awake asking himself “what if?” 

Yes, he’d spent years hoping something impossible would happen to him. But he’d never wished for this.

He hadn’t wanted people to die.

He hadn’t wanted blood.

He hadn’t wanted the smell.

He’d just wanted to matter.

06:49.

He reached toward the floating screen, his hand stopping a few inches short.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie as fresh tears replaced the ones he’d managed to clear away.

Whether he was speaking to Mr. Gladly, to the class, or to the boy who had spent years dreaming about fictional worlds, Greg couldn’t have said.

The timer kept counting.

He pressed his hand against the screen.