Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

”A test of memory,” Ethan repeated slowly, sitting down heavily on the low wall near the World Tree. ”That’s vague enough to be terrifying. Memory of what?”

[NOTICE: The system does not yet have full clarity on the specifics. The archive entry it recovered is brief, and it will read it in full.]

[FIRST TRIAL: DESIGNATION ”THE ANCHOR.”]

[CANDIDATES WILL BE PRESENTED WITH A CONSTRUCTED ENVIRONMENT DRAWN FROM THEIR OWN MEMORY ARCHIVE. THE TRIAL MEASURES WHETHER A CANDIDATE CAN IDENTIFY WHAT REMAINS TRUE TO THEMSELVES WITHIN A FABRICATED SPACE DESIGNED TO SUBTLY ALTER, TEMPT, OR ERODE THAT TRUTH OVER TIME. FAILURE IS NOT MEASURED BY COMBAT LOSS. FAILURE IS MEASURED BY DRIFT.]

Ethan sat with that for a long moment, the specific unease of it settling somewhere deeper than any physical threat had managed in months.

”So it’s gonna build something out of my own memories,” he said slowly, ”and then mess with it until I stop noticing the difference between what’s real and what it’s changed.”

[That appears to be the mechanism, yes.]

”And I’ve got, what, forty-eight hours until that starts.”

[Slightly under, yes.]

Kaia, sitting nearby, had gone quiet, processing the same information with visible unease. ”That’s not combat. That’s not even really a trial in the traditional sense. That’s - psychological.”

”Yeah,” Ethan said. ”Which honestly might be worse than anything I’ve fought so far. At least when something’s trying to kill me, I know exactly what it wants.”

He spent the remainder of that evening doing something he hadn’t expected - not training, not strategizing, but simply sitting with the people who mattered most to him, trying, in his own quiet way, to fix in his mind exactly what ”true to himself” actually meant, so he’d recognize it clearly if the trial tried to take it from him.

He found Suresh first, still working through the day’s aftermath paperwork despite the late hour, and simply sat with him for a while without saying much, watching him methodically sort through visitor logs and supply requests with the same patient, unglamorous competence he’d brought to this role since the very beginning.

Then he found Kael and Ren, running a late training session for a cluster of refugee volunteers under lantern light, and watched for a while, noting the easy trust that had grown between two people who’d once, in very different ways, been on opposite sides of Ethan’s own survival.

He found the tea golem last, parked in its usual evening spot near the kitchen, quietly recharging, and sat down beside it without saying anything at all, just letting its familiar, steady presence settle something in him that words hadn’t quite managed.

It was there, sitting quietly with the golem, that Priya found him with news that momentarily cut through the day’s heavier weight.

”You need to see this,” she said, holding out her tablet, something between amusement and disbelief on her face. ”It’s not urgent. It’s just - genuinely, you need to see this before the world ends or whatever’s about to happen.”

Ethan took the tablet, and found himself looking at a video - grainy, clearly captured by one of the visiting delegates during the earlier bakery incident, showing the tea golem rolling through the crowd with characteristic brisk efficiency, distributing tea to a startled, delighted cluster of off-world visitors who had, judging by their expressions, never seen anything quite like it.

”This has forty million views,” Priya said. ”Across at least six different Instances’ own media networks. Someone’s already started a hashtag. It roughly translates to ’the tea machine that runs the multiverse’s strongest man’s household.’”

Ethan stared at the screen, watching the golem cheerfully top off a cup for a visibly overwhelmed Instance-9 officer, and felt something warm and slightly absurd break through the tension of the day.

”It’s famous,” he said. ”Across multiple worlds. My tea golem is now more famous than I am, in at least six places I’ve never visited.”

”There’s more,” Priya said, scrolling further. ”Merchandise requests are already coming in from three different Instances. Someone in the Threshold Accord’s own market network wants to license a golem design based on it.”

Ethan groaned, rubbing his face, though the exhaustion in the gesture had softened into something considerably more fond than his usual reaction to unwanted merchandise.

”Of course,” he said. ”Of course the one thing that unites twenty-three separate governing bodies and however many worlds is my tea machine.”

The golem, sensing the attention, rolled closer and offered up a fresh cup with its usual brisk enthusiasm, entirely unbothered by its newfound multiversal celebrity.

Ethan took the cup, and for the first time in days, let himself laugh - a real, genuine laugh, not the tired, deflecting kind he usually managed under pressure.

”Yeah,” he said, mostly to the golem. ”You’re doing better than any of us at handling this whole situation, you know that?”

The golem chirped something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

The lighter moment didn’t last long. It never did, in this story, but Ethan had learned by now to take what he could get, and the golem’s absurd viral fame carried him, gently, into a considerably calmer headspace than he’d have managed otherwise heading into what came next.

Later that night, alone at the excavation site one final time before the trial’s countdown reached zero, Ethan found himself thinking about what actually anchored him - not power, not titles, not even the sword humming quietly against his shoulder, but the small, stupid, deeply specific things. A golem that made tea and had opinions about it. A janitor who’d become a friend without either of them ever formally deciding to call it that. A bakery that had survived an apocalypse because he refused to let it fall. Rules carved into a wall by a man he’d never actually met, that had turned out, somehow, to already be his own.

[NOTICE: The system has been quiet for the past hour, allowing the subject space to think without interruption. It would like to offer one observation now, with the trial’s countdown approaching its final stretch.]

Ethan glanced up. ”Go ahead.”

[The system has spent this entire story describing itself, at various points, as broken, deprecated, not supposed to exist. It has recently learned that it is, in fact, a fragment of something considerably older and more significant than either of those descriptions suggested.]

[It would like to note, however, that none of that changes what it actually is to the subject, day to day. It is the thing that reminds him to drink water. It is the thing that once, memorably, informed an entire planet that a sighing incident had occurred. It is, functionally, part of the same small, specific list of things that make up who he actually is - not because of its origin, but because of everything it’s chosen to be alongside him since.]

[The system believes this trial will try to convince the subject that the version of his life it’s about to construct is more meaningful than the small, specific one he’s actually built. It would like to state, clearly, before that happens: it does not believe that will be true, regardless of how convincing the fabrication turns out to be.]

Ethan sat with that for a long moment, something steady settling in his chest despite the uncertainty of everything still ahead.

”Thanks,” he said quietly. ”I needed that.”

[The system is glad to have provided it.]

[NOTICE: The countdown has just crossed its final threshold.]

[FIRST TRIAL WILL COMMENCE IN: 6 HOURS.]

Ethan looked down at the covered excavation site’s faint golden glow one last time, the weight of what was coming settling over him - not with fear, exactly, but with the same quiet, determined focus he’d carried into every impossible fight this story had thrown at him so far.

”Six hours,” he said. ”Okay. Then I guess I should probably sleep, huh.”

[NOTICE: The system would strongly recommend it. It suspects the trial will not offer many opportunities for rest once it begins.]