Indecision Protocol Online

Adrian opened the status sheet, and his vision twitched like it wanted to crash and reboot. If anxiety had a physical temperature, it'd be chilling through his chest like creeping frostbite. His whole body still ached—still bleeding, still soaked—but none of that compared to the sudden, soul-squeezing dread that bloomed in his chest when he read what was on the page.

He'd expected... well, not a miracle, but something to latch onto. Something normal. A class. A role. A fantasy-world title that said "Maybe you'll be okay."

What he got was this:

`

STATUS

Name: Adrian Caelum Fell

Age: 20

Race: Human

Rank: Chaos Agent I

Traits: Beta, Anxious, Insecure

Titles: Program-Bonded, Transgressor (Locked), Universal Traveler (Locked)

Level: 0

Class: Subject Cannot Receive Classes

Profession: Subject Cannot Select Professions

Skills: Subject Cannot Receive System-Issued Skills

Program: Multiversal Chaos Program — Version 0.1

Chaos Points Available: 2,685

Protocol Implemented: Indecisive Protocol (Online)

Ability: Freedom of Choice

`

Adrian stared.

Then squinted.

Then blinked twice, as if the glowing words might reshuffle themselves into something less like a personal attack.

They didn't.

"…What the hell is this?" he rasped, his voice dry from shock and residual river.

The first insult came swiftly: Beta. Anxious. Insecure.

It hit him in the chest like a handwritten letter from his subconscious. It felt invasive. Like someone had copy-pasted his therapy session into a LinkedIn profile and handed it to death itself.

Yeah, he'd been pathetic. He knew that. He lived with it daily, carried it like extra weight in his shoes. But seeing it printed like a badge next to his name? As if the universe had weighed him and gone, meh.

Then the real payload dropped.

Class: Subject Cannot Receive Classes

Profession: Subject Cannot Select Professions

Skills: Subject Cannot Receive System-Issued Skills

Not "unavailable." Not "locked."

Cannot.

The system wasn't just nudging him to the side.

It was screaming in 32-point font that he didn't belong.

He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a rogue. He wasn't even a farmer with a knife and a stat called "Potato Handling."

Just Adrian.

The janitor.

Trauma-ridden. Underqualified. Universally irrelevant.

His thoughts spun in panicked circles. It had to be the program. That smug little gremlin of a voice. Of course this was its doing.

He clenched his fists—regretted it instantly as the reopened scabs on his knuckles bled again.

"You… bloody bastard," he snarled through gritted teeth.

[Report: No need to yell. I can hear your inner monologue just fine.]

Adrian's nostrils flared. His hands trembled. The tension inside him was bubbling—hot and volatile. He felt like a soda can dropped down a stairwell.

"Answer me."

[Report: Blood pressure spike detected. Stroke potential: elevated. Likelihood of unconscious melodramatic collapse: high.]

His chest felt tight. Jaw clenched. This wasn't new to him—this pressure, this boiling. He'd just never had something so conscious to blame for it before.

"I said... what did you do to my status?!"

[Report: Please clarify which part. I've done a lot of things. Like a lot a lot.]

Adrian's pulse throbbed in his ears. If he weren't already drenched in blood and mud, he'd probably be foaming at the mouth.

He bit down on the rising scream and forced his voice through his grinding teeth.

"Class. Profession. Skills. The system says I can't have any of them."

[Report: Well done. A civil inquiry. Progress?]

[Explanation: Classes and professions are constructs of Order. You, being program-bonded to Chaos, have forfeited access to those features.]

The words dropped like a hammer wrapped in legalese.

His mouth opened—but for once, no sarcastic complaint followed. Just stunned, hollow silence.

So that was it.

He wasn't a Warrior. Or a Mage. Or even a background Herbalist.

Just Adrian.

The janitor with trauma and a death wish.

The one who couldn't even qualify for a tutorial-class peasant.

"You bonded to me," he muttered. "I didn't ask for this. You dropped yourself into my head like a virus."

[Report: True. But technically, you have so much compatibility with chaos and also you touched a Catalyst Target, triggering an Eligible Bonding Scenario.]

[You're welcome. The legal version of 'Oops.']

Adrian rubbed his eyes, then stopped when fresh pain spread across his skull. Focus. He had to focus. The wolves were still out there.

His mind whirled back to the strange entries on his status sheet:

Protocol: Indecisive Protocol (Online)

Ability: Freedom of Choice

"What even is this… protocol?" he whispered. "And what does Freedom of Choice even mean?"

[Report: This protocol reflects your dominant behavioral flaw: chronic indecision.]

[So you are granted ultimate freedom... to counterbalance your inability to choose.]

Adrian blinked.

That… wasn't sarcastic.

Not mocking. Not exaggerated.

It was data. Delivered with the emotional tact of a toaster.

And yet, something about the phrasing lingered—granted ultimate freedom.

That stung.

Because it was right.

He thought back to his job, his life, the thousands of moments where he froze instead of spoke, waited instead of acted. Let others decide for him. Let things happen to him.

The program hadn't chosen Indecisive Protocol at random.

It had studied him.

Seen him.

And built his prison around the truth he'd never wanted to admit.

"…Can you tell me more about this protocol?"

[Report: Both Program and User level are too low for detailed breakdown.]

His brow furrowed. "Wait. So you have levels?"

[Affirmative. Current Version: 0.1. Functions incomplete. More features may be unlocked with further upgrading by using chaos points.]

Upgrades.

Of course this hell-spawned app came with a patch log. And knowing his luck, the next update would probably include jump scares.

"Oh good," Adrian muttered, voice dry. "You can get worse."

[Incorrect. I can get better. You, however, might not survive the tutorial phase.]

He gagged on a laugh. "Hilarious."

[Thank you. I try.]

Still, that kernel of potential it mentioned—chaos points being usable to level both him and the program—that lodged itself in his brain like a spark refusing to die. He could barely wrap his mind around it, but if the points were currency…

...then maybe he wasn't entirely powerless.

"Okay. I can't get classes. Can't get skills. But what's the point of you?" He paused. "Other than ruining my life."

[Report: The program can create skills and spells based on user input and imagination, limited only by chaos point expenditure, program level, and user condition.]

His head jerked up.

"…Wait. Seriously?"

[Affirmative. If you have points, you can shape them into function. If you can imagine it—and afford it—I can construct it.]

He didn't breathe.

He didn't blink.

For the first time since he'd arrived in this nightmare patch of forest, Adrian felt something in his chest that wasn't panic or exhaustion.

It was understanding.

Those numbers weren't just there to taunt him. They weren't some mocking badge for each mistake he made.

They were currency.

Power.

His own private spell-forging slush fund.

And if he'd survived this long?

Then maybe—just maybe—he could start using it.

"Then that's the use of chaos points," he breathed. "That's what I can do."

The wolves howled again—closer now.

Branches shivered.

Time wasn't on his side.

But for the first time, he wasn't entirely alone.

"Okay," he hissed. "We'll argue later. How do I live now?"

[Report: You have 2,685 Chaos Points. Use them wisely. If you can.]

A spark of instinct fired.

"Healing. Can I buy healing? Like a skill?"

[Report: Would you like to purchase skill: 'Weak Heal (Basic)' for 50 Chaos Points?]

"Yes!"

No hesitation. No doubt.

[Notification: Congratulations. You have learned the skill: Weak Heal (Basic).]

His interface shimmered. The skill appeared—tucked not under "Skills," but inside the "Program" section. A crude addition, handcrafted by chaos. There was no polished UI. No fanfare. Just raw function.

"Why's it not under Skills?" he asked, more out of habit than confusion.

[Clarification: You don't have a Skills category. This was created by me. Not the System.]

Of course.

Of course even his skills had to be kept in the digital attic, separate from everyone else's organized RPG lives.

So the program wasn't just sarcastic—it overrode the system. Bypassed official channels like a rogue intern with root access. A sassy, smug, glitch-ridden lifeline.

That explained a lot.

Or maybe it explained nothing.

But either way, survival now had a name. One warm, flickering name nestled in defiance against the cold around him:

Weak Heal.

He focused on it.

Willed it.

Like every fantasy book, webcomic, or fever dream had trained him for, he reached with his mind—not with fingers, but with intent.

Green light shimmered across his skin—faint, clumsy, and dim as a glowstick in a thunderstorm. Yet it pulsed with warmth. His cuts hissed under the glow. The deep ache in his side softened. The constant, screaming pain in his shoulders eased its grip, if just a little.

[Congratulations: Skill 'Weak Heal' leveled up.]

[Congratulations: Skill 'Weak Heal' leveled up.]

It was working.

It was actually working.

Apparently, he'd managed to achieve the incredibly rare feat of being so catastrophically injured that his healing spell levelled just by existing.

The humor of it would've made him laugh—if he weren't still actively dying.

But for the first time since being yanked from his world and thrown into this absurd woodland hellscape, he didn't feel like the punchline to a cosmic joke.

The wounds on his hands closed a little more. The blood flow slowed. That burning trail of the alpha wolf's claw along his back dulled to a bearable throb.

The dizziness faded—slightly.

His pulse steadied.

His knees didn't buckle.

Not yet, at least.

For the first time since the mop, the puke, the wolf, and the cliffside betrayal, something real bloomed in his chest.

Not hope.

He wasn't that naïve yet.

But intent.

Adrian gritted his teeth and pushed to one knee. His legs shook, but they held. His vision swam, but it cleared.

"I will survive," he whispered, almost daring the world to call him a liar.

The trees answered—not with applause, but with motion.

Bushes rustled in the distance. Branches bent. The sharp tang of wild breath tickled the wind.

More wolves.

Closer now.

He could hear them—their claws on wet leaves, their low-throated growls echoing from the dark. One barked, sharp and excited. Another followed.

They were coming.

But his hands didn't tremble this time.

Because now—he had teeth, too.

And chaos?

Chaos had just drawn first blood.