Everyone Has A System But Me!

Welcome, dear readers, to Everyone Has a System but Me!

It all started on my third-to-last day of high school.

I consider myself a normal kid—living my life, not studying much, playing video games, and hanging out with friends. My grades were never terrible or overly impressive. Just Mr. Normal.

It was a normal day in our typical cafeteria for our typical high school. Am I sounding repetitive yet? Good, because that's exactly how it felt.

I was halfway through one of those cafeteria burgers—you know, the ones with a suspiciously gray patty tucked between damp bread. The kind you can eat four or five of without ever actually tasting anything. The chatter of students buzzed around me, trays clattered, and someone in the corner was filming some sort of video for some online platform.

Then the crack came.

It started with a faint vibration under my feet, like someone had dropped a bowling ball in the room below. But it grew stronger. Trays rattled. Someone shouted, "What the heck is that?!"

In the middle of the cafeteria floor, tiles split. Like some invisible force had drawn a jagged line through reality itself. The fissure glowed faintly from within—pulsing, shimmering, alive. It was too real, too there, to be a special effect.

For one horrible moment, the world went silent. My half-eaten burger hovered inches from my mouth.

Then everything exploded into blinding white light.

Next thing I knew, I was here. Alone.

The damp air clung to my skin, cold and heavy. A faint smell of mildew and smoke burned my nostrils, and somewhere in the distance, water dripped in slow, uneven intervals. Drip… drip… drip…

I sat up, my palms scraping against rough stone. My head throbbed, and every muscle in my body felt like it had been wrung out like a damp towel. When I glanced down at myself, my stomach twisted.

Scratchy brown rags clung to me—rough cloth that smelled faintly of sweat and dirt.

"Okay… cool. Totally normal," I muttered, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the cavernous silence.

The light here came from torches flickering in sconces along moss-covered stone walls. Shadows danced across uneven stone blocks, making the tunnel feel… alive.

Somewhere ahead, footsteps echoed—heavy boots striking against stone in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

I pushed myself to my feet, legs wobbling like overcooked spaghetti, and stumbled toward the light.

As I turned a corner, I came face-to-face with someone who definitely didn't belong in my high school cafeteria.

A soldier.

He stood there, armored from head to toe, the metal plates scuffed and faintly reflecting the flickering torchlight. His helmet obscured most of his face, but I could see his narrowed eyes glaring at me from beneath the shadow of the visor. In his hands, he clutched a halberd—its long blade smeared with dark, reddish stains I really hoped weren't what they looked like.

"Who are you?!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

"Peter?" I blurted out instinctively, my voice cracking on the syllable. Classic—always answering questions like they're pop quizzes. If he'd asked me what 2 + 2 was, I'd probably stammer out, "Four?" like I was worried it might be a trick question. Honestly, if survival depends on confidence, I'm already doomed.

The soldier's scowl deepened. "Peter, what are you doing out of formation? Do you think it's funny to skip out on morning training?"

His tone was pure drill sergeant—sharp, loud, and intimidating.

"I—I'm not in the army, sir. But thank you for your service!"

The words spilled out before I could stop them.

For a moment, the soldier just stared at me, his head tilting slightly to the side. Then, with an irritated grunt, he sighed.

"Th–thank you? Now fall back with the others in your status. I know it's your first day, but no more goofing off."

He turned and marched away, boots clanking against stone as he disappeared into the shadows.

I let out a long, shaky breath.

"Okay… I'm probably going crazy."

"Now, where do I actually go? Well… this way seems like a good start," I muttered, turning on my heel and heading down the dim hallway, deliberately walking away from where the armored officer had disappeared.

"Aw man, where the hell are my shoes?" I glanced down at my feet. The cold stone floor was paired with… let's call them sandals. Beautifully meager sandals, woven together from what I could only assume was grass or straw—or maybe some other plant.

My sneakers weren't some overpriced, limited-edition designer shoes signed by, I don't know, some famous basketball player or soccer star. But still—for the love of all things sacred—what is on my feet?!

No trainers, no tennis shoes, no walkers… Heck, I would've settled for wooden clogs at this point. But this? This was almost criminal.

I shook my head and kept walking, sandals scraping against the uneven stone floor with every step.

"Don't panic. Don't panic," I chanted internally, like a mantra. I've read light novels, I've watched anime, and I'm familiar with the concept I seem to have fallen into.

But still… wandering through a strange medieval stone compound, completely alone, no friends, no family, no clue where I'm going? Yeah, that's a recipe for an anxiety attack.

Suddenly—Boom!

An explosion echoed from somewhere above. My head snapped up, and before I could think, my feet carried me toward a narrow spiral staircase carved into the stone.

Jogging upward, I emerged at an archway to my left, catching my breath as I peeked through.

Inside was a large open hall filled with teenagers—people my age. At the front stood a massive man, practically radiating authority, with one arm extended toward a charred, bristly straw target still smoldering from some kind of attack.

"This is what you can hope to accomplish in the future!" the man bellowed, his voice reverberating off the stone walls like a thunderclap. "You have now all reached the age of conscription and will be taught how to wield the blessing of your System!"

I froze, half-hidden behind the archway. The guy radiated authority, like a mountain made of muscle and barked orders. This was clearly someone in charge, and whatever was happening here… I definitely didn't belong.

My brain scrambled for a plan. Do I sneak away? Do I just… stand here and hope no one notices?

Then—clank clank clank.

Heavy footsteps echoed from behind me, drawing closer with the sound of metal scraping stone.

Panic surged through me, and my brain made the executive decision to just… wing it.

"Screw it," I muttered under my breath and strolled casually past the room, eyes glued to the floor in what I hoped was a "nothing-to-see-here" kind of way. Just act natural. Totally normal. Yep, just another random teen in grass sandals, nothing out of place at all.

"Recruit, you!" a deep voice barked.

Nope. Definitely not talking to me. I kept walking, my feet shuffling across the uneven stone floor.

But before I could make it three more steps, a rough, iron-grip hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"I just called out to you. What are you doing out here? Get inside, now!"

His voice practically rattled my spine, and a shiver surged from the top of my head to the soles of my sad little straw sandals.

Resistance felt… unwise. 

I shuffled awkwardly into the hall, eyes darting around as I scanned the group of teens already assembled. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, a direction. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to hyperventilate.

From my left came a sharp sigh.

"I swear, these recruits get worse every year."

The man addressing me wasn't wearing heavy armor like the soldier from earlier. Instead, he had on fitted training clothes—clean, sharp, and professional, the kind of uniform that looked comfortable yet screamed "Don't mess with me." His expression was carved from equal parts irritation and exhaustion.

"Your parents teach you nothing these days, do they? Stand over there."

He jabbed a finger toward the back row, at the end of four uneven lines of teenagers.

"Yes, sir." I nodded stiffly and shuffled over, sliding into place and trying very hard to look like I belonged.

The sergeant turned back to the front and clapped his hands together sharply.

"Alright! Now that everyone is here,"—his eyes flickered over me with a pointed stare—"we can begin recording everyone's blessings and scores."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orb.

The thing looked otherworldly—a swirling sphere with a deep, unending black point at its center, like someone had bottled up a tiny black hole. Its edges shimmered faintly, pulling light inward like it was swallowing it whole.

"This will confirm your status. Since most of you are all at least eighteen this year, all you need to do is pull up your status and touch the orb. I will then take it back and record the information."

Before I could process what that meant, a resounding chorus of "Status!" erupted around me. Voices overlapped, echoing off the stone walls as glowing screens of text popped up in front of every single recruit.

All except… me.

My stomach plummeted. My skin felt cold.

Okay, okay, no big deal. Just… say it. Maybe I just need to say it too.

Clearing my throat, I muttered under my breath, "Status."

Nothing.

Alright, louder. Confidence is key!

I puffed out my chest slightly, cleared my throat again, and shouted, "Status!"

Still. Absolutely. Nothing.

And now… now everyone was staring at me. Their glowing screens floated in front of them, casting pale light on their confused, curious faces. A few whispered. Others just stared.

My cheeks burned. I wanted to melt into the floor.

The sergeant paused mid-step, glanced up at me, then shook his head with a sigh.

"Another one," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples.

Then, like nothing had happened, he kept walking and continued recording stats.

I stood there, motionless, my heart hammering against my ribs. My mind raced. What happens when they realize I'm different? What happens when they figure out I don't have a status at all?

But then—salvation. A lifeline tossed from the heavens themselves.

"Another late bloomer," the sergeant grumbled as he stopped in front of a girl a few spots ahead of me. "That's already two of you. Go stand over there to the side."

The girl, clearly embarrassed, shuffled away from the group, her head hung low.

An out.

Without overthinking, I raised my hand. Like an actual student. Like I was back in algebra class and somehow knew the answer to x = y + z.

The sergeant's eyes locked onto me, his brow furrowing deeply. "What do you think you're doing?"

I flinched. "Uh… I just wanted to ask a question?"

"Then ask!"

Okay, mental note: Raising your hand is not how you ask a question in medieval boot camp.

"Well… if I'm a late bloomer, can I stand over there with them?" I gestured vaguely toward the other recruits who'd been singled out.

"You don't have your status yet?"

"No, sir."

"Wait until I get to you. You'll still need to confirm it with this." He held up the swirling black orb again.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly bone dry.

I watched, tense, as the sergeant made his way down the line. Time stretched out endlessly, like I was waiting for a bomb to detonate.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he stood in front of me, orb in hand. His gruff face stared down at me, unimpressed.

"Just touch it if you have no status."

My hand trembled slightly as I extended my index finger and pressed it lightly against the orb's cold, smooth surface.

And…

Nothing.

No glow. No hum. No flicker of light or magic.

The sergeant sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if fighting off a migraine.

"This is… not a great generation."

"So… can I go stand with the others now?" I asked hesitantly, my voice small.

He gestured vaguely toward the side group with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Yeah, yeah. Go on."

I shuffled over, shoulders tense and heart still racing, joining the small group of so-called late bloomers. The girl beside me glanced up briefly before dropping her gaze back to her feet. The boy just scratched the back of his head awkwardly, his eyes darting around like he was trying to figure out how he ended up here.

Before I could think too hard about what had just happened, the sergeant clapped his hands sharply, the sound slicing through the nervous silence.

"Alright, come in please. We're done."

From the hallway, four figures stepped into the room. They moved with a weight of authority that made the air feel heavier. Two of them leaned heavily on canes, their steps deliberate but steady. The others, though aged, stood tall, their presence commanding attention.

"These will be your class instructors," the sergeant barked, pointing at each in turn.

The first was an ancient woman, hunched over and wrapped in flowing red robes. Her eyes glimmered faintly with magic, and her gnarled cane seemed almost fused to her skeletal hand. "This is the instructor for magic blessings. Leave with her if you are in the mage-class."

The next instructor was a sturdy older woman, her back straight and her sharp gaze scanning us like she could see into our souls. Her face carried a strange mix of motherly warmth and stern authority, like she could either bake you cookies or scold you into tears. "This is the instructor for healer-class."

The third was an old man with sharp eyes and a crooked cane. His wiry frame seemed frail, but his gaze held an edge of steel—a sharpness that made him feel unbreakable despite his aged appearance. "This is the instructor for warrior-class."

And finally, a massive man stepped forward. His shoulders were so broad they seemed to block out the flickering torchlight behind him. Even under his loose robes, the outline of decades of rigorous training was evident. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "And this," the sergeant said with a grunt, "is the instructor for tank-class."

The four instructors stood in silence for a moment, their gazes sweeping across us recruits with the sharp efficiency of hawks assessing their prey.

I shifted uncomfortably under their collective scrutiny, already dreading what came next.

Late bloomer. Right. That was me now. But even as I stood there, staring at these intimidating figures, one thought gnawed at the back of my mind:

What happens when they realize I'm not just a late bloomer—but someone completely outside their System?

"Now, everyone, follow your instructors. And you three," the sergeant said, pointing at our awkward trio, "follow the Tanks. You'll train to harden your bodies until your status appears."

The crowd shuffled into roughly organized lines, each group trailing behind their respective instructor. The warriors marched off with sharp discipline, the mages followed in a haze of whispered excitement, and the healers walked with measured, careful steps.

Our group—the Tanks—lingered a little longer as we waited for our instructor's cue. I ended up at the back of the line, standing just behind the nervous-looking girl from earlier.

For the first time since arriving here, my heart wasn't racing quite so hard. Maybe it was the dull repetition of following orders or the fact that nobody was actively yelling at me anymore, but I felt… almost okay.

Trying to distract myself from the swirling anxiety, I tapped the girl lightly on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm Peter. Do you have any idea what we're supposed to be doing?"

She turned her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Following the instructors." She shook her head with a faint sigh. "Didn't you hear the knight?"

Noted: Drill sergeant equals knight.

"Obviously," I whispered back, trying to keep my voice steady despite the irritation creeping in. "But what are we following them to?"

She turned slightly, giving me a sidelong glance that mixed confusion and mild disbelief. "We're going to learn how to use our systems from them. How do you not know this?"

Before I could defend myself from her very condescending question, a sharp bark from the instructor cut through the air.

"You two in the back—quiet down!"

Both of us flinched and clammed up immediately.

We followed the instructor down a series of dimly lit corridors, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked stone walls. At various points, smaller groups splintered off with their instructors—mages disappeared behind a heavy wooden door, healers into a softly glowing chamber, warriors down a hallway lined with weapon racks.

Eventually, our group—the Tanks—arrived at what I could only describe as a medieval gym.

There were no machines, obviously, but the place had a certain rugged charm. Wooden benches sat scattered throughout the space, weights forged from rough iron and stone were piled in corners, and heavy wooden shields lined racks against the walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and faint sweat.

The Tank instructor turned to face us, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber.

"Alright. You'll train here. Those of you with status should already have your first missions. Everything in this room is enough for you to progress through the beginning stages and increase your stats. Work hard and train. After some hours, I'll return to lead you to the dorms."

With that, he turned and strode out, his heavy steps echoing as he left us standing in awkward silence.

The other recruits wasted no time splitting into small groups, pairing off with people they clearly already knew. Even the other late bloomer boy drifted away, leaving only me and the girl standing awkwardly in the middle of the room like two mismatched puzzle pieces.

I shifted on my feet before trying again. "So—you never said your name."

For once, she answered without snark or irritation, her voice soft but steady.

"Thea."

I smiled faintly. "I'm guessing you don't know anyone here either?"

She shook her head lightly in response.

"Well, we can stick together then. Uh, can you explain what the teacher meant by 'quests'?"

Her brows furrowed slightly, and she looked at me as if trying to decide whether I was joking. "What do you mean? Quests are quests. Stop being so strange. Let's grab some materials first."

She turned and walked toward a large chest in the corner of the room. I followed behind her, feeling oddly like an oversized duckling trailing its mother.

Inside the chest, to my surprise, were stacks of books. Actual books.

"What are those?" I asked, leaning closer.

She rolled her eyes but gave a faint chuckle. "What do they look like? Books, obviously."

She plucked one up and skimmed the cover before pausing. After a moment, her voice softened.

"They'll tell us about the possible quests in each class, ways to use techniques more efficiently. Just normal books with information."

Then, with a faint glimmer of excitement, she held up one specific book.

I squinted at the cover and Thea read the faded title aloud:

"Fundamentals of Cultivation: Inner Strength and Breathing."

__

Thank you for reading the first chapter of Everyone Has a System but Me! 🎉

If you've made it this far, I hope you're enjoying Peter's chaotic introduction to a world where everyone seems to have it all figured out… except him. Writing this has been a fun (and slightly nerve-wracking) experience, but I'm thrilled to have you along for the ride.

This story is my little experiment—a blend of humor, heart, and good old-fashioned struggle-against-the-odds vibes. If you're curious about where Peter's journey will take him (spoiler: sandals and stone floors are just the beginning), stick around!