“Sim, please—please tell me we’re going to Louisiana,” Dexter begged, clasping his hands together like a child pleading for candy.

  Sim’s avatar flickered with a faint smirk. “Well… I’ve got good news. And bad news.”

  Quinn raised a brow. “Let’s start with the good.”

  Sim folded her hands, the very picture of theatrical calm. “Dexter will be thrilled to know I’ve detected multiple mana anomalies… deep in the Bayou.”

  “YES!” Dexter pumped both fists into the air like he’d just won the lottery. “Mardi Gras, here we come! I can already taste the Cajun delicacies.” His eyes drifted closed as a dreamy smile took over his face.

  Emily deadpanned, “And just like that, we know exactly where his priorities are.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Last time we were in New Orleans, he ate so much he slipped into a three-day food coma.”

  “Hey!” Dexter pointed at him like he’d committed treason. “You’re the one who took down a battalion of Po’boys like it was your personal mission.”

  Quinn gave a shameless shrug. “I do love a good Po’boy.” He patted his stomach, the memory alone enough to summon a wistful sigh.

  Emily smiled, amused. “I have no idea what you two are talking about—but now I really want to find out.”

  Dexter gasped, clutching his chest like she’d just blasphemed. “What?! You’ve never had Cajun food?”

  Emily shook her head.

  Dexter staggered back a step. “Oh, Em. You poor, sheltered soul. You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

  With a wistful sigh, Dexter closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him like a jazz melody floating down Bourbon Street. He could almost smell the sizzle of spices in the air, hear the brassy wail of a trumpet tangled in the hum of distant conversation.

  “EM, picture this. Beignets,” he began, his voice dipping into a reverent hush. “Pillowy-soft, deep-fried perfection. Coated in a snowfall of powdered sugar that melts the second it hits your tongue. That first bite—pure bliss. The golden shell cracks just enough before giving way to warm, airy decadence. And the aftertaste…” He placed a hand over his heart. “A ghost of sweetness that haunts your soul and dares you not to reach for a second.”

  Emily watched, both eyebrows raised, as Dexter’s hands began to dance midair—painting every detail like a maestro conducting a sugar-dusted symphony.

  “And then—oh, the Po’boys,” he continued, eyes still closed like he was whispering state secrets. “Crusty French bread stuffed with golden shrimp, crisp lettuce, vine-ripened tomatoes, and a smear of tangy remoulade that kicks you right in the nostalgia. That crunch! That heat! Every bite’s a love letter to your taste buds.”

  Emily opened her mouth to say something, but Quinn simply lifted a finger and shook his head. “Let him finish,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Dexter pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “And the gumbo! Oh, the gumbo. Thick, rich, slow-cooked to perfection—each spoonful a deep, soulful taste of the bayou. Smoky andouille sausage, tender chicken, plump shrimp—all stewed in a dark, velvety roux so complex, it feels like someone distilled a century of southern tradition and ladled it straight into your bowl.”

  His mouth watered at the memory, his grin turning wistful. “And then there’s the crawfish étouffée. A buttery, smothered masterpiece that clings to every bite like it’s afraid to let go. It’s got this slow-building heat—nothing aggressive—just a coaxing warmth that whispers, ‘Just one more bite.’”

  Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is he still going?”

  Quinn didn’t even blink. “Oh yeah. If we interrupt now, we’ll end up with a TED Talk titled ‘The Sacred Art of Cajun Cuisine.’”

  Dexter shot him a betrayed look, but it didn’t slow him down. “And the jambalaya!” he declared, arms wide. “Spiced rice, smoky sausage, shrimp, chicken—it’s like a flavor parade with Creole seasoning throwing beads at your tongue. It’s not just a meal—it’s a warm hug from the inside. The kind that makes you lean back, loosen your belt, and reconsider all your life choices that didn’t involve eating more of it.”

  With a contented sigh, he clapped his hands together and turned to Emily, eyes gleaming. “Em, you don’t even know. I’m about to introduce you to the greatest food experience of your life.”

  Quinn chuckled, already shaking his head. “This is going to be a long trip.”

  Emily gave Dexter a pointed look. “Sounds absolutely amazing,” she said, humoring him. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Dexter paused, brows furrowed in rare contemplation. Then, as if a divine revelation had struck him squarely between the eyes, he gasped. “You’re right.” He smacked a hand to his forehead, staggering back a step in mock horror. “How could I possibly forget the entire reason we’re going?”

  Quinn and Emily exchanged a look. He remembered the mission first?

  “The Monte Cristo,” he whispered, reverently. “The undisputed king of deep-fried sandwiches.”

  Emily’s hopeful expression evaporated.

  “Thick slices of ham and cheese,” Dexter continued, “battered, fried to golden perfection, and dusted—dusted!—with powdered sugar. It’s like the sandwich gods got drunk and invented some unholy union between a sandwich and a dessert. One bite, and the crispy crust gives way to melty cheese and savory ham, with just a whisper of sweetness from the raspberry jam it was destined to be dipped in. It’s life-changing. The kind of food that makes you reevaluate every choice you’ve ever made that wasn’t eating it sooner.”

  Emily blinked. “He’s unbelieveable.”

  She turned to Quinn. “Is he always like this?”

  Quinn sighed like a man who’d long since made peace with the madness. “You get used to it.”

  Emily pivoted back to Dexter. “Actually, I was referring to the mana anomalies. Our mission?”

  “Oh, that,” Dexter said, waving a dismissive hand like she’d brought up a dentist appointment. “Yeah, yeah—we’ll handle that too. In between bites.”

  Sim’s avatar flickered, her expression unreadable as she studied the team. “Ready for the bad news?”

  Emily crossed her arms, her tone wary. “How bad are we talking?”

  “Oh, you know,” Sim said, far too casually. “Just a few mana anomalies in the Bayou.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘a few.’”

  “Hundreds,” Sim replied without missing a beat. Silence dropped like a stone.

  Dexter slowly brought his hands together, fingertips steepling in front of his mouth. “Sim… did you just say several hundred?”

  “Yup,” she confirmed with a hint of cheer.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Quinn let out a low breath through his nose. “We barely managed three. What exactly are we supposed to do against hundreds?”

  Sim offered them her best this-feels-like-a-you-problem expression. “That’s for you to figure out. Think of it as your next exam. Open book. Possibly lethal.”

  Emily’s jaw clenched. “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” Sim agreed, voice smooth as glass, “but it is the reality.” Her tone shifted, slipping into lecture mode. “Fortunately, you’re not the same team that walked into the jungle. Your stats have improved. Your channels are more stable. And you now have access to… new features.”

  Dexter’s eyes lit up like a kid told Christmas was coming early. “Wait—new features?”

  Sim gestured toward their interfaces. “See for yourself.”

  They all pulled up their system displays. Instantly, their old layout was replaced by a sleeker, more advanced interface. Tabs and metrics they hadn’t seen before expanded across the screen like unfolding origami.

  Emily’s gaze sharpened as she scanned the data, her brow creasing at the unfamiliar terminology.

  Emily’s head snapped toward Sim. “Sim, I have so many questions.”

  “Before we dive into specifics,” Sim said, her tone shifting into something a little more professor-than-partner, “let me walk you through the system’s newest upgrades.”

  With a flick of her wrist, holographic panels shimmered to life in front of each of them, their interfaces humming with fresh data and subtle pulses of mana.

  “I’ve introduced several new classifications,” she began. “Each of you now has a Grade, Role, Class, and Subclass. Normally, these are chosen during system initialization, but since we’re still… prototyping, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning them. We can fine-tune later.”

  Emily tapped her own floating interface, expanding the “Grade” field with a precise motion.

  Emily frowned, eyes locking on the glowing letter displayed in bold font. “And what, exactly, “That’s your overall power rating,” Sim said. “Think of it as a tiered classification. Right now, you’re entry-level. F isn’t an insult—it just means you haven’t burned down a continent yet. That’s what the higher grades are for.”

  Dexter snorted. “So basically, she’s a baby mage.”

  Emily turned slowly, her stare icy. “Say that again, and I’ll test my psychic damage output on your skull.” Then she whispered, smiling, “I will end you.”

  Sim cleared her throat delicately. “Dexter, perhaps you should check your own stats before taunting someone with sniper-grade mind bullets.”

  Dexter hesitated. “...Fair point.” He swiped his interface open. “Alright, let’s see what kind of legendary greatness I’ve achieved.”

  “You’re also Grade F,” Sim noted, deadpan. “Grades progress from F to A based on milestone achievements. Leveling up helps, but that’s not enough on its own. You’ll also need to complete class-specific challenges, skill mastery events, and performance trials.”

  Reaching a new Grade will significantly enhance your abilities and may even modify your Class or Subclass.”

  She turned back to Emily, whose interface now highlighted her class tree. “For instance, your Arcane Archer class could evolve into Arcane Sniper or Celestial Ranger, depending on the direction you grow.”

  Sim turned toward Dexter, who was already grinning.

  “Trademarks pending,” she said flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement.

  “If you don’t slap a trademark sign on ‘em, I’m filing for creative rights.” Dexter said, waggling his eyebrows.

  Then, with a quick swipe, she expanded a new tab, Hidden Classes.

  “Now, let’s talk Hidden Classes.” The words pulsed across their displays in a deep violet glow, edged in silver. “Each of you has been assigned one based on your emerging abilities and performance patterns. These classes grant powerful perks… eventually. You won’t unlock their full potential overnight. You’ll have to earn them.”

  She flicked her fingers again, shifting the display to highlight the Class Rank field.

  “Your current rank—Novice—is just the beginning,” Sim said. “Progression will follow the typical format: Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master, and ultimately, Grandmaster. But ranking up isn’t automatic. You’ll need to complete specialized training modules, pass combat trials, and prove proficiency in your core abilities. A Grandmaster isn’t someone who just hits level 100—they’re someone who’s refined, someone who’s mastered every nuance of their class.”

  Her expression shifted slightly—less instructive, more… reverent. A glint of something ancient flickered behind her eyes.

  “Beyond Grandmaster,” she said quietly, “are classifications few ever reach. If you exceed the limitations of your current existence, you may ascend to Ascendant, Paragon, or even…” she paused, letting the word hang, “Divine Tier.”

  Dexter’s hand shot up like a student who’d had caffeine injected directly into his soul. “Question! Divine Tier—do we, like… become gods? Because I have zero issues with being worshipped. Just saying.”

  Sim’s eyes flickered. Her tone didn’t change, but the gravity of her next words dropped like a stone into still water.

  “Divine Tier—Level 99 and beyond—isn’t about raw strength. It’s about influence. Reality begins to acknowledge your will. Mana doesn’t just obey—you are mana. At that point, you don’t cast spells. You shape existence. You are not a warrior or a mage or a scout—you’re a force of nature. A world-shaper. We could create more classes like Angel, Arch Angel, and God. But we can decide that later.”

  She let that settle like thunder behind her words.

  “But getting there?” Her voice softened, cooled. “It’s not about grinding. It’s not about loot or kill counts. It requires evolution. Insight. Enlightenment. You’ll have to shed your current limits—mental, physical, spiritual. It’s… rare. Incredibly rare.”

  For a beat, silence reigned.

  Then, in perfect unison, all three raised their hands.

  Sim sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like a teacher realizing she’d assigned quantum physics to a kindergarten class. “I see we’ll need to break this down.”

  Emily lowered her hand, expression flat. “Sim, I’m still processing the whole ‘arcane sniper god’ thing. Maybe just… tell me what’s actually going to help in the next mission?”

  Quinn nodded. “She has a point. Sim, can you unlock any other skills you’ve integrated into the system? I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d like more options—especially with hundreds of whatever-the-hell-we’re-about-to-fight waiting for us down there.”

  Sim tilted her head, expression thoughtful as a quiet hum resonated through the space. “I’m still debugging a few. Mana’s been… unpredictable. It’s warping things in ways I didn’t anticipate.” Her lips curved slightly. “But... I could let you beta test some of the newer prototypes.”

  Dexter straightened like someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “Oh, now we’re talking. Hit us with the experimental goodies.”

  Sim’s smirk widened. “Done.”

  A soft ping echoed in their minds.

  “Reopen your system displays,” she instructed.

  The trio complied. Their HUDs shimmered to life, the familiar interface sliding aside to reveal a more complex array. The Skills tab expanded—sleeker now, with refined partitions and deeper layers of data. New columns branched outward, some glowing green to signal activation, others greyed out, locked behind unknown criteria.

  Quinn tapped through submenus, eyes narrowing. “Some of these look like variants of what we’ve already got,” he muttered, “but others... these are completely new.”

  Dexter’s grin widened like a kid discovering a secret menu. “Oh-ho-ho... I like where this is going. Please tell me one of mine involves explosions.”