"̸P̷s̴y̵c̷h̵o̶l̷o̷g̵i̸c̴a̸l̶l̴y̷,̴ ̸d̶r̸e̴a̴m̴̴̴̵̵̷̶̵̷̷̴̷̶̴̴̸̸̷̸̴̴̶̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅs̶ ̵a̶r̴e̵ ̴d̸e̶f̸i̵n̵e̷d̵ ̷a̷s̷ ̶"̴s̵u̶b̷j̶e̵c̸t̷i̶v̸e̵ ̷m̵̴̵̷̵̸̸̴̶̶̵̷̷̵̷̵̴̵̷̵̸̶̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅe̴m̷̴̷̷̵̵̷̶̷̷̷̸̸̴̸̷̴̸̸̶̶̸̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅo̶r̴i̶e̴s̸ ̵o̸f̶ ̶w̴h̵a̷t̷ ̷w̵e̷ ̴e̶x̴p̶e̷r̶i̴e̸n̷c̷e̷ ̴w̷h̴i̸l̷e̵ ̴s̸l̶e̸e̶p̴i̶n̴g̵"̵ ̶o̵r̵ ̷"̸v̶i̶v̵i̸d̴,̷ ̸v̶i̷s̵u̵a̷l̵ ̶s̸e̶q̶u̸e̷n̸c̵e̵s̶ ̸o̶f̸ ̸i̷m̶̴̴̴̷̸̴̶̸̶̵̷̵̸̸̶̸̴̷̵̴̵̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅa̸g̷e̶r̴y̵ ̵t̴h̸a̴t̴ ̴o̵c̷c̸u̷r̴ ̵a̶t̷ ̵r̶e̷g̶u̶l̸a̴r̵ ̵i̴n̸t̴e̸r̷v̵a̵l̶s̶ ̵d̶u̴r̵i̵n̵g̵ ̸s̵l̴e̷e̶p̷,̸"̶ ̷a̶s̴ ̷d̸e̷f̸i̷n̵e̵d̷ ̸i̴n̸ ̷s̴t̴u̵d̷i̴e̴s̶ ̶b̵y̴ ̶K̵i̶t̷h̵i̶n̴g̴ ̶e̸t̷ ̸a̴l̶.̶ ̷a̵n̵d̴ ̷R̵u̴s̸s̴e̴l̷ ̵e̶t̵ ̷a̵l̸.̷ ̶
W.k- .P
Ţ̴̅ḣ̶͜i̸͓̍s̶̳͘ ̸̩̀í̸̖ș̶͒ ̴̧͐t̷͔̃h̵̖̅ȩ̸͒ ̵̾ḓ̸̄e̴̪̒s̴̫͊c̵̤͠r̴̖̚i̴͇͐p̶̱̑t̶̻̆i̶̝͗ó̶̱ṋ̵̑ ̶̟͊ȯ̴̧f̶̾ͅ ̷̮͑d̶̘͌r̷̭͘ẹ̴̌ạ̸̀m̴̳͘s̷̫̽ ̴͓̎á̶͈s̶͓̈́ ̵͉̀f̴̖͛r̵̩̐ḁ̶͊g̷̢͠m̴̧͂é̶̢n̷̞̎ẗ̵̙́e̶̘̿d̴̨̄ ̷̺̉n̷̖͆á̷̲ṙ̶̜r̸͇̂ã̵͚t̵̩͘i̸͎͗v̶̢͌ḛ̶̆ṡ̷̨…̷͉͋ ̴̬͆s̷̢̾ẖ̵͑å̷͜p̶̭̕e̵̥̍d̵͖̑ ̸̨̑b̵̙̃y̸̦̑ ̶̜͝t̶͓̽h̵̢͘e̶̗̊ ̴̨͗b̵̨̈́r̵̝͝ḁ̶͂i̷͖͂n̸͚͗'̴̥͝s̸̩͊ ̴̡̃ā̶͕t̵̳͂ẗ̸̟e̵̻͝m̷̖̈́p̶̦̓t̸̺̎ ̸̹̿ṯ̴͊ó̸̬ ̸̟͊p̶̺͒r̶̀͜o̷̼̚c̴̢̍è̸̢ș̶͐ŝ̸̯ ̸͓̏ḛ̴̑m̶̩͆o̵̰͆t̴̗̊ȉ̶̼o̶͚͝n̶̪͊s̷̰̕,̶̩̋ ̶̡̊m̶̫̾e̶̗̅m̸͈̾ȯ̴̝r̶͇͒ï̵̭e̵͇̒s̷̮̉,̴̦̐ ̴̟̈a̷̠͋n̷̨̾d̵̘̚ ̵̧̓ŝ̵̼e̵̒ͅn̵͙̑s̶̨͐o̵̖̐r̴̹̎ỹ̴̜ ̵͙͑s̵̰̕t̶̛̟i̴̗̓m̴̹̍ų̵̍ḻ̵́ḯ̷͖ ̷̻͂d̴̝͆ṷ̵͗r̵̢̚ĭ̴͉n̶͓̂g̷̥̃ ̵̣̓R̷̲͠E̶̹̒M̵͍̈ ̴̖̉c̶̬̈́y̴̗͊c̶̤̊ļ̸͆é̸͕s̷̰͝.̷̩͗ ̵̩́Y̵̛͇e̶͙̿ṱ̴͗,̷̮̓ ̵͚̓f̵̠͒ő̸̝r̸̠̃ ̷̙͐a̴̼͒l̶̙̅l̴̟̓ ̵̘̏t̵̰̽h̸̩̚ė̷̝ ̷̘̔c̵̳̓l̴̎͜ỉ̸̝ṇ̸͑i̴̡͛c̸̩̆a̴͖͑l̵̮̕ ̵͉̄p̸͎̆ŕ̴̯ĕ̶̯c̴͆ͅi̶̱̒ṣ̷͝i̶̓ͅò̶̦n̶̂ͅ,̴̦͠ ̷̖͝s̸͈͝ư̴̺c̵͎̔ẖ̴̒ ̴͚͒d̶͙̔e̴̲͑f̶͖̀î̶̜n̷̞̄i̷̙͛t̴̹͠ḭ̴͂o̵̟͆n̶̲̏s̷͕̏ ̷̰̈ḟ̶̘a̵̰͐i̴̠͛l̷͉̈́ ̸̪̀t̸̰̄o̷̘͐ ̸̼̇c̷̮͂a̶͈͛p̸̢͂t̶̙̄ú̶̺ȑ̴̨e̵͈͌ ̷̦͒ẗ̸̞́h̸͚̀è̸͉ ̴̯̆v̷̝͘ȋ̸͈s̷̬̈́c̵̛̲è̶̖r̷͉̕ä̷̻́l̴͕̈́,̴̰̒ ̵͓̾a̸̦̾l̵͓̈́m̷͝ͅȍ̷̟s̶̞̓t̵̻̉ ̸͙̒m̶̱̆y̶̜̌s̵̜̋ṫ̸̜i̴͕͊c̷̳̊a̶͖̋l̶͔̀ ̵̼̄q̴̰̐u̶͕̍ã̸͎l̸̨͋ï̸̺t̷͚͊ỳ̸̟ ̴̫͠ó̵̳f̵̥͌ ̷̫̑ḓ̶̅r̴͘ͅe̴̹͊a̵̛͖m̶̻̋i̵̻͛ǹ̴̪g̵̟͗.̸̖͌ ̴̙̀Ţ̷̃h̷̗͒e̴͎͊ ̸̿ͅw̷͔͝a̵̼̚ỵ̵͛ ̵̠̄i̷̫̓t̸̂͜ ̷̛͖d̶̻́i̸̝̚s̸͉͒s̶̪̀o̵͕̎l̸̻̔v̴̻͒ȅ̵̞s̵̟̎ ̸͎̌t̷̮̆h̶̺̕e̸͉͑ ̷̫̍r̶̛̰i̵̺̎g̴̻͂i̶̅ͅd̷̯̀ ̴̹̑b̶̰̎o̸̡͝u̷̖͝n̷̪̓d̶̰̈́ä̶̪́ȓ̸̰i̴̠͋è̴̹s̴̮̈́ ̵̬̆ǒ̸̲f̵̡̀ ̶̲̃ṭ̸͋i̴̟͝m̶̨̈́è̸̥,̷͈̾ ̸̙͝s̸̝̍p̶̰̅a̴̦̓c̵̬̉ẹ̶̚,̵̣̔ ̷͚͊á̴̦n̴̤͋d̷̛ͅ ̸̪̓ị̴̍d̶̡̑ȅ̵̻n̶͍͐t̶͖́i̷͓̓t̷̪̍ÿ̶̝.̴̳̌ ̵̲̚T̸̲͆ö̵͓́ ̵͓͗a̵͔̍n̶̳̍ ̷͍͛o̸̹͛ŗ̶̀d̷̪̓i̵̩̋ń̸̩ą̷̊r̸͚̅ý̵̟ ̷̙͋p̵̨̄e̶̞̓r̷̩͘s̴͖̀ö̶̭n̸͉͗,̷̪͊ ̶͕̚d̵̘͂r̴̟͝e̷̺̾a̸̺̒ḿ̷͈ś̸̮ ̶͚͝ã̸̯r̴͍̒e̴̼͌ ̵̹̔l̸̪̃e̶̫̒s̷̿ͅs̶̻̈́ ̵͚̀a̵̩͆ ̶̯́n̸͍̉e̸̘͑ũ̶̹r̵̤̈́o̵͇͂l̶̞̔õ̷̪g̶̻͗i̴̬̐c̸̤͋ą̵̀l̵̻̉ ̶͉̎p̷̬̿ĥ̸̝e̶̠̔ṅ̵̮o̸̭͑m̴̺͘e̶̞̅n̶̲͂ọ̸͛n̵͕͒ ̷̅ͅä̵̰́n̸͇̔d̸̘̈́ ̷̝͘m̵͙̍o̴̯̎r̸̭̓ḙ̸̀ ̵͍̂ä̵̗ ̷̒͜d̵͈̀e̵̜̍s̴͚̕c̴̜͐ë̴̘́n̷̗̓t̶̟̃ ̴̲̚í̷̳n̸̨͒ẗ̴̗́ǫ̸̋ ̴̐͜a̷̩͌ ̷̭̈́ȓ̸̬e̶̳͠a̵̮̿l̶̙͘ḿ̵̻ ̸̺͊w̵͓̑ḩ̸̽e̴͇̋r̵̰͋e̵̺̅ ̸͇̔r̵̈́͜e̴͎͆a̶͈̅l̵͕͘ì̵̙t̴̰͒y̴̬̾ ̸̖̂ū̴͓n̴̛̹ṙ̵͕à̴̹v̵̜̋ė̵̤l̶̤̆s̴̖̀ ̶̬́i̷͉͆ń̴̨ ̷̝̄f̸̻̿a̷̢̕v̴͕̒o̸͔̕ũ̴͜r̸̪̉ ̶̼͐o̷̠̽f̵̺̀ ̶͖̈â̴̬ ̵̲͒r̶͍̿ę̶̚à̴̗l̵̘̋i̷̞̾t̷̘̽ỹ̶̢ ̵͉̀o̴̫̎f̴̯̏ ̷̜̒t̶̹̑h̷̖̑é̵͔i̷͑ͅr̴̹̓ ̷̗̎o̸͔̔w̷̨̔n̷̰̕.̴͍̈́
Wake Up!
.
.
.
.
.
The air rushed back into my lungs with a gasp that felt like drowning.
Fuck!
What…
Everything is as it was before.
One moment, I was there, deleted by a book with my vision dissolving into… static? And the next, I was here, standing in the same dense forest that stretches endlessly— the same village with the same hands trembling against the frailness.
You're an amazing guy, Isaac Wong, ahh, death.
HUH?!
I'd leaned on this log minutes before. The metallic tang of blood was still fresh in my mouth, but my body was whole again, every injury sustained was erased as if death had been nothing but a nightmare.
Time hiccupped?
My memories clawed at the edges of coherence: the Myconid, the Stygian Surge, the W̷͎̠͔̫̥͎̟͊̀͊͗͑͐̽̽̆̄́͆͑̚e̶̡̛̤̩͎̯̫̥̼̤̎̿̈́̓̈́̈́̔͝å̵̯̆̒̎̓̔̔̋̆̄̕̚͝v̶̥̹̫̍̇́̿͂̊̈́͂̔̀͘e̶͉̰̱̮͎̫̘̯̟̰͕̋̽͆́͂̆̊̍̄̿̎͒͑͜ͅr̸̡̥͌ ̵̨̲̣͕̞̮͓̇͛̀̈́̍̌̀̎́͋̂̏̐͆͜͠ö̴̡̢̼̫͎̦̦̪̜͇̟́ͅf̷̮͈̌́͊̇̈́͐͆̑̀̈́̓̌͝͠ ̸̹̦͌͛͂̋Ļ̷̙̫̦̮͇̯̾ȇ̸̡̡͕͈͎̞͈̜̹͖̩̯̻̽̎̊̿́͂͒̈́̽t̷̡̧̜̱̦͊͊̋h̴̢͔̫̼͉͉͓͎̫͚̼̪͒̂̒͌͊̚͠a̴̢̓̑̈́̿̋̓̊͌͐͒̈́̾́͘ř̶͇̪̙̗̳̈́g̵͎̈́́͂͆̂̿̅i̶̧̬͍͍̮̠̖̻̲͋́̽̋́̍̈̂̎͐̍̆̐͂ͅĉ̷̰̫̞̫̱̫͍̍͆͆̓̎ ̵͓̦̟̱̯̟̌̽̈͜L̶̈͌̍̍̂͂̆̈́̏̐́̈́͘͜͝i̸̫̝̪̞̞̖͎̅̎͠g̶̢̰͙͚̜͓̤̹̜̼̹̪̰̬̋̈́͗͜͠h̶̫͑̀̀̐̃̍t̷̹̖̓͂́͑̋ and the darkness.
But I'm back here, stitched back into a moment I'd already lived. The same shadows flickered at the corner of my vision, warped in the heat haze, as if spacetime itself had recoiled from the paradox of my return.
I pressed my palm to my chest, feeling the heartbeat that shouldn't exist. Was this a salvation from God or a flaw in the fabric of reality, a glitch that made death just another door?
"W-What the fuck, man?"
The dim blue interface appears to me:
Are y̸͖̜̍͛̈́̃o̵̢̥̤̜̪̟͕̗͍̹̐̽̔̒̇̐͝ư̸̮̱̲͈̙͔̳̟͈̫̦͉͂̂̃̓̈́͆̃̈́̀̋̒͠ alright? i̴͕̳̞͓̔̿͗͝ͅ don't have a̶̱̩̲̠͕̤̤̺̗̘͌n̶̥̝̳̲͌̒̀̄̓̽̊̈́y̵̝͙̙̼̲̱͉̥̟̩̿́͛̾ more ả̵̡̧̧͎̲̼̱̦̰̦͎̼̰̲̺͎̠̗͓̗̫͍̞͖̯͚͇̤̭̗̼̙̘̼̹̬̘̯̳͙̤̯̬̗̞̳̩̤̭̼̣̘̟̩̤̗̗̠̇͋̽͌͋͗͒͑̾͆͊͋̀̉͂́̀͛̑̓̈̃̆͋͗͆̀́̅̓̈́͗̈͘̚͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅu̴̢̧͉̰̹̪̹̲̜̦̪͙̝̩̣̮̫͖̬̬̥̭͚̜̹͙͇̼̳̩͕̪̓̂͋̂͋͒̄̍̀̀̋͊̀́̀͋͛̃͂̂͆̂͒̆̿̿͆̋͊̐͋̆͐̍͗̀͘͘̕̕͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅţ̶̲̳͈̗̜̪͌͛̏̔̔̃̿͋̄͆̄̇͘͠h̴̢̟̥͈̤̑̓̅̋̾̀͒̋̀̈́͑̈́̊́̑͘͝ͅo̶̧̧̢̡̟̻͈̠͇̫̳̭̖̻̣̖̝̲͔̯̯͎̗̰̝̠͕̼̯̦̹̪̯͈͔̱̩̮̩͓̣̠͙̳͕̜͍̮͈̼̙̻̽͋̈́̒͂͑̋̀̈͝ͅr̸̡͉̗͈̞̒̎̾̎̎̈́̐̈́͌͋͐͛͛̓̆̓͆̂̇͜͠͠͝ͅi̴̡̛͔̦̝͈͍̰͕͚̩͕͇͖̯͚͆̐̓͑̑̀͌̇̎̀́̄͑͑́̑͂̈́̓̃̐̃̀̍̀̽̍̍̓̀͂͌͊̇̿̾͛̅́͊̓͊̽̋͗̐̋̒͛͐̔͘̕͘͝͝͝͝y̶̛͎̠͍̹͎͕̣̻̘̬̥̒̀̏̅̈́̉̒̃̓̀͝͝ͅ left to sen̴̢͍̫̹͈̜͒͂̈́̓̐͑͊͘͠d̴̛̗͓̹͕̥̰̽̽̔̿̽̐̎͋̓͠ you bȁ̵͕͎͚̺̭͖̃́̽̅͑͋̇̿̐͆͒̇́̕c-
The System glitches and stutters, as if fading.
B̴̛͙̩͙̩̏͂̉͑͋̎͒̀̄́͊͌͘͝ą̸͍͈͗̊c̶̫͂̔͆̒́̀̀̐̀̾̀̃̇̈́̆ķ̴̮͚͍̄̌̈́̽̄͗͛̈́̈͒ ò̸̢̬͈͔̖̼̫͔ne m̸̡̧̭̲̮̺̼̫̳̩̰͙̌̈͗͋̊̑͐͝͝o̴̢̰͖̩̭̜͙̖͎͉͇͋̓͒̎̒̓̐̒͌͛͋͜͜͝ͅr̴̛̭̰̂̈́̐̀̆̐̋̾͝͝͝e̷̲̞͕͇̫̫͚̍̆͛̿̅͐̐̾̿͛̔̌͊͜͜ͅ tim̸̡̞̟̺͔̫̿̔̈́́ë̵̪̝̤͔̙̲́̉̀̈́͐̊̾̀̇̐̃̕̚, I̸͎̞̯̼͚̯͎̼̽͜ ̷̥̭̺͈͕̦͍̞̤̬̠̙̝͋̑͒̈͘͝c̵̢̀̎̓̈́͊̈́́̔̒͌̕a̷̗͑͐͛̽̍̈́́̚ņ̵͈̪̠̞̼̖̗̋̓̀͗̅̌̑̒͂͂̓̽̅͜ ̶̧̈́̀̾̓͋̉̀̚ö̵͚͇̾͗̾̾̃̾̉̽̈͒͑͠͝n̵͔̩̪̖̞͍̳̥̝͎̤͈͒̂̎͑̇̄̑̈́̇̾̈̾̎̐̕͜l̷͕͓̼̹̭̹̥̰͈̼͉̽͛̈́̾̃̋͊͋͜ỳ̸̟̐̍̑̋͛̈́̐̓̅̄̄́̈͝ ̴̧̨̢̨͔͔̫̫͕̜̜̮̔͝͝ͅs̶̠͔͚͋ͅh̴̖̤̗͐́̈́̽͒͊͂̔͒̈́̑̇͝͝o̶̯̖͔̣̥̍͛͆͋̏̈̄̑͜͝w̶̪̗̼̘͔̎̈́̑̓͂͆͛͘͘͝ ̴̳͈̦͍̪̠͔̘̣̮̗͆̈́̒̀̂͂̈́̿̒̏̔̊̚͜͜ͅy̸̧̢̢̨̧̩̜̱̥̱̫̞͙̬̽͜ȏ̷͇͎͇̼̭͚́̊̔̇͌͘͝͠u̵̧̡̹̪͍̖̝̥̒̋̀̈́̽̊̃̽́͝ ̶̻͇̻̥̺̩̰̄̍s̸̢͖̒̉̿̇̍̀͝t̵̘̓͐̃̔͗͂̈͂̚͠͝å̷̭͔̖̮͔̜̱̭̫͛̏̑͊̒̈̀̌͗̆͐ͅt̸̡̫̞͎̼̆͆́͑͂̇̈́̋͑̅̉s̵̢̛̲̞̹͔̬̞̠̳̖̠͎͚̍͛͂̿́̌̌̄̿͘̕͠ͅͅ ̶̖̦̺̪͓͕͕̣̈́͒̓́̀̃͜ͅà̷̢̢̛̖͙̪̣̯̥̺̠̬̫̈̐̀̏̈́͜͠ͅn̷̢͍͍͇̠̟̱̠̤̭̈́̂̐̃̌̿̅͒̄͝d̸͍̈́̀̀̇̌͗̆͆̉̎̓͋̚͠ ̴̲̳̣̻̭͎̝̙̫̝̗͗̐̃̂̿̓͂̈́̈́t̵̂̄̌̅̾̑̄̂̈͆̌ͅh̷̯̯̳̟͙̖̞̥̥͖̫͈̞̋̿̽̾̒͗̏̃͌͝͝͠e̸̜͕̼͔̲̻̠͍̙̩̭̬̱̮̒͌̿͘͜ ̶͍̹̽͂̀̕͝ͅw̸̭̫̭͓͑͆̅͗̆̎͆̍̀̃̄̍̊̚͠o̸̧̡̧̢͕̪̲̦͖̖̻͉̺͍͛r̶͇͂̌̂̂͂̋̏̍́̌́̕͝͝l̸͈͉͚̼̞̹͙̭̦̠̥̙͇̝̣̀̔̒̊͗̾̒̅̍̈̔d̷̡̛̳̻̬̥͕̪̹̺͓̒̇̄͊̈́̔͆̉. I̵̛̜̼̤͇͈͇̻̱̟̰̱̿̈̈́͒̋͛̃̄͊̂̓͑̈͂̊'̵̼̈́̑̎͑̅̒̈́̉̾̅̀̀̃̾̓̕l̸̻͕͍͖͙͕̿̋͋̊͌̄̈́͗̀̒̓̾̄̏̅̆͠l̸̻̖̇͛̇͗̿̋̈́̒̒̈́̀̋̐͝ ̴̺̹̝̝̣͓̃̚k̶̨͎̦̮̲͈͔̮̉̆͋̈̑̀͂̿͋̈́͒͘e̷̲͉̲͍͚͚̭̺̝͔͖̺͑̑̀̓̿̉͂ę̷̰̟̭͉̬̮̐̋̉̔̑̈͐̽̎͗̏̆̕͘̚͝p̷̢͔̳͕͎̤̦̘̹̅͐̓̐̌̓̊͘ ̵̺̬̩͉͙͓̞̜̠̜̗̈́̉̃͊̉͐͂̃̆̅́͘į̶͚͎̫͕͓̺̫̜͙̰̙̘̠̣̰́̉̓͊̓̔t̷̯̘̼̓̋͗̀̈̅͝ ̵̻͉̳̱̲̱͕̞́ȧ̷̧̡̲̤͚̯̠͍̱̹͐̆̆̓̽̋͛͆̚͜͝͠͝t̴̨̛̮̱̦̭͐͂̿ ̶̘͎͈̮̥͉͉̱̉̈́̓̉̓̈̌́͋̚b̶̥̻͖̩̘̜̫̠͔̖̝͓̦̯̩̽̒̈́̽͋̓̑͘͝ầ̸̗͔̩̩̣̯͖̺̖̖̺̝́͑͒͋́̓͋̊́͘y̶̧̧̢̡̬̰̜̜̭̻͙̻̦͈̋͒̈́ͅͅ ạ̸̛̫̲̭̱̍̾͆̄̓̾́͗̋̊̂̈́͘̚̚͝n̴̢̦̱̭̫̆͊̂̉̈́̈́̌̃̿̈̏̓̓͠͝ͅd̷̡̜͔̘̫͕̘͓̳͍̥̙͙̭͛̀̍̅͑̚͜ ̶̨̨̬̭̟͍̺̖̮̰̟̥̖̲̞̇̍̽̍̃͘b̶̢̳̻̺̪̙̟̼͕̝͓̰̊͗̈́̔̇̌͒͛̈͊́̚͘͝͠͝ͅr̸̛̩͎̦̱̱̞͇̀̀̀͛͊̌͠i̷̮̝̝̜͔̥̓̉̊n̴̹͂̆̄͆̽̄̋̑̑̈́̕͘g̷̯̰̳̥̬̤̖͋̆̓̾̚ ̴̢̢͍̙͎͕̰̤̝̞̘͌̅̐̅̈́̊̀̓̀̋́͠ḩ̸͈̪͕͖̝̘̓͜i̶̧̢̠͖̮͖̦̳̫̭̥͈͙̣̟̎͜m̸̨͈͍̲̮̺͚͚̣̰̩͙̈́̆̒͗̓̂͝ͅͅ ̷̥̺̣̬̝̲̯͔̰̞̋́̑̄̈̄̐̊̈́͘ͅb̵̳̘͎̥̍̃͑̀͋̋̍̔͗̅͘͝a̷̡̳̥͍͙͑͆̓̚c̸̢̭̘̞͗́̊͌̅̊͗̄̈k̷̹̘̈̎͂. S-sţ̸̳̞̮̣̙̝̯̺͖͎̳͕̮͈̇͂́ay ̵̯͂̏̋̾̕ā̷̢̜͕͉͍̱̖̞̰̙ḻ̶̢͙̥̫̹͚̼̫̉̄́̄̐͛ͅi̸̧͙̯͉̪͕̱̖͓͍̲̺͋̂̅̈͐̈́͘͠v̶̨̻̯̅̿͘ę̷̻̲̥̺͎̗̎͗́͛͂̐͘, Ple̵̡̡̡̡̛̠̗̹̜̬̙̯̺̲͆̈́ą̴̨̟̪̱͖̖͕̒͛̂̈̄̍́͂̕̚se
The interface disappears.
More authority? Send me back? Keep it at bay? Bring him back? Stay alive?...
What the hell is allat supposed to mean?!
I take a look around me. It's precisely accurate to before the chase. The bonfire. The screaming woman and her charred son were next to her in the flames. The same regurgitation in my stomach with the same scent of burning fat. Again, too realistic to be a dream.
But if everything's the same. Ritualist Matthew approached in front of me, with a sly grin. The same massive cleaver. With the same face that looked like a taunt and an invitation.
"Who are you?"
I don't know.
I'd felt that glare twice. No. Thrice?
My mind slowly began to shatter, and the lines of my morality blurred. The fear of death once more carved the killing movements needed deeper into my muscles, my nerves.
This time… Running wouldn't be an option.
'Wind… Wind Slash." The words hummed in my skull like a struck bell.
Ritualist Matthew lunged again. The same generic way he did previously.
I sidestepped, the motion similar to the past, and raised my arm.
"Wind Slash."
Energy surged.
The air split with a scream that wasn't mine.
A crescent of mana tore forward, shearing Ritualist Matthew's finger cleanly off alongside the cleaver. 5 thuds sounded out. 1 for each finger cut. Then a greater thud. For the cleaver and the owner, hitting the ground. Crying out in pain. The mud was dyed a deep red.
Remaining MP: 230/250 |
The village froze. For they have seen what I did to poor Matthew.
I made sure that he couldn't run away for future interrogation. So… I took his dagger from his waistbelt. And as I mounted his back… I cut the back of his ankles (Achilles Tendons)… I cut the back of his knees (Hamstring Tendons)... I stabbed and twisted his forearms (Flexor Tendons)... And I severed the front of his elbows (Bicep Tendons)...
It's so quiet. I wonder what it's like to be dissecte一
"AAA—"
Tsk… How noisy.
"IT FUCKING HURTS STOP! PLEASE, IT HURTS! FUCK! FUCK YOU! STOP!"
Too noisy.
To complete my art piece. I stripped my top and tied it to the Ritualist's mouth as a makeshift gag temporarily.
Good. That should prevent him from moving and wasting energy screaming.
Nevertheless, the scream was the trigger word for the rest of the Ritualist. They all picked up their weapons and ran at me with their Enhanced Strength and Staminas…
It really pissed me off. Maybe I should try eating them to gain their attributes…
Nah.
I shouldn't hesitate any longer.
Compared to ḩ̶̖̱̉̉̈̽̂͑̌͛̈̇̃͛̃̚̚̕͜í̷̢̭͙͇͉̰̞͉̖̤͖̫̝̲̟̆͊͆̇͑͠m̶̢̺̯̦̞̱͙̲̬̹̲̮͍̊͌…
Urgh… Fucking cringe but…
"Temporal Anchor: Activate."
As the world turned blue, my fingers flicked the air again, again, and again.
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
Arcs of razor-wind.
Bodies ruptured. Tents shredded. In the same way it once did, blood misted the entire camp.
I kept movin一
Ghhhuuuaaahhhkkk. Fuck…
He kept moving, numb, until the screams stopped. Until only the crackle of the bonfire remained.
This particular Ritualist thought to herself.
Who the fuck is this guy? He's fucking creepy!
He's just been killing us while smiling.
Wait.
Has he ever stopped smirkin一
In that moment of thought, Isaac ran straight at her with his arms out.
"STAY BACK! I'LL TELL YOU WHATEVER YOU WAN一"
Remaining MP: 10/250 |
A hug and a single stab to do the job.
Oops. Shit…
She could have provided good info… Eh. I got Matthew for it.
But that wasn't the end of it.
'Everyone thinks human life is valuable. Some who go against the logic of kill or be killed believe that human life is so valuable that even the worst murderers should not be deprived of the value of their lives.'
It is in the nature of us humans to spare.
For that is the Right to Life.
However, if someone knew they were living inside a simulated universe, would they still feel bound by that right?
Absolutely not.
In such a case, their actions could spiral unchecked, branching into the worst crimes imaginable. Even atrocities unthinkable by regular folk—war crimes included—would suddenly become possible.
To the citizens of that simulated world, would such a man appear anything but a monster?
Would he even still be seen as human?
Of course not.
Did Isaac care?
Absolutely not.
To him, these were but non-playable characters in a world he now slowly remembered he hated. He was blinded before by Noësis' spectacle. Now that his eyes truly were peeled, he began to see.
All the more reason to kill logically.
Isaac, inhumanely, began dead checking every 'carcass' present. For him, what good would it be if a basically superhuman being were to survive his initial onslaught and snap his neck from behind?
Yeesh… Broke bum. No money whatsoever.
Therefore, the knife he picked up plunged and slitted over and over again. Until he was certain that only he was alive.
And that Woman in the Flames.
She stared at him, looting all their subsidiary weapons with hollowed sockets, her child's charred corpse clutched tightly against her chest. Her 'eyes' were not of gratefulness.
They were empty, yet filled with pain.
Fuck… Her vocal cords had been seared to ash, and her body is clinging to life only by the faintest thread.
Tsk… I should help her.
For no particular reason, the sight angered Isaac. He felt somewhat guilty for the unexplained anger. Yet he still decided to grant her a swift death, not out of mercy but spite.
In truth, she, at least, would be allowed the permanence of an ending. He who was condemned to die twice and awaken again in the ruined world he had once adored as a boy, would not.
"Wind Slash."
The words left his lips by reflex. Nothing answered. No hiss of energy, no cutting arc of power, his hand outstretched in a fool's gesture.
Of course. How idiotic of me.
Remaining MP: 11/250 |
A dull ache spread through his bones; his body was in pain as well. Even so, even now, he moved sluggishly and awkwardly. With the last of his strength, he twisted.
Grip. Twist. 1 2 3.
Crack.
Not loud and not too dramatic. Only the sickening snap of blackened bones and cauterized flesh. She collapsed like a severed marionette, her 'eyes' still wide. A thread of red leaked from her lips, blooming across the ground like a muted flower against all odds.
And in her final stillness, a faint smile lingered, serene, as if peace had at last found her.
Isaac did not share it.
Something within him stirred. It writhed in his chest like molten nails, grinding against the tender lining of his heart.
Not passion, but worse.
Both purpose and will seared his spirits brighter than any Clause-Construct, hotter than any 'Stygian Surge'. Calling it an effect of Noësis would be utterly foolish. What festered in Isaac was determination, the most sinister type. The type of willpower that transcends any form of logic.
A step forward.
I'll do it. I'll fucking do it motherfucker.
You wanna kill me and tell me that I'm in some Canonical M̷̢̨̱̬̟̰̮̬̬̞̞̯͈̦͍͚͇̃̓͜p̵̧̨̨̢͕͉͚̭̠͎͖̠̻̞̠͕̮̞̼̦̦͕͍͓͕̥͔͎̥̜̲͙̽̑̏͗͊̓́̚͘͜͝r̷̢̡̨̦̼͉̙̥̟̲̭͍͔̬̥̲̝̻̖͈̂̈́̾͗̏̂̓̍̿́̒̀͋̀̑͒̔͐̇͗̒̄̆͗̏͗͊̚̕̕̚͜͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅt̴̡̼̦̣͖̱̼̘̙̹̝̱̞̉̂͐͑̈́͋̊͛͒̉͐̏́͑̈̀͆͑̽͆̓̓̀̓̂̎̂̈́͐̈́͗̍̕͘͝͠ŷ̷̢̧̧̛̛̮̙̖̲̫̺̭͑̍̏̆̔̀̌̆̿̆̄̍͑͌̉̈́̿͂͌̓͋̍̀̑̈́̄̕͘͝͠y̸̧̡̢̺͓͇̠͍͈̘̭͕̮͍̱̘̠͍̝̭̥͖̗̖̘̣͇̰̤̗͇̱̜̯̪̜̆̃̀̀͌̃̍͒̎́̂͊̋́̏͗̑̄̿̆̆̈́̊͘̕̚͜͜͠͝ͅt̷̡̢̡̨̢̢̡͖͚͍̳̳̳̻̭̮͎̘͈̩̪͕̭̖̞̲̬͙̤͔̹̩̤̤̪̱̫̤͕̫̺̦̮̜͚̝͉͎̘̙̞̰̐̌̊̇͒̎̔́̓̀́̋́̈́̚̕͜͜ͅý̷̢̢̨̨̢̨̧̛̮̠̖͎͓̥͍̯̜̰̺̦̙̟̻̮͕̤͉̠͍͉̠̱͈̺̬̗͖͍̗̭̤̹̲̙͎̘̣̈́̅͆̌͒̎̔͐̆̅͂͗͋͊̓̅̈́͌̇́̿̄͐̾̄͋̇̿̔̋̄̏̆̽̆͋͊̊̇͘͜͜͝ͅr̴̛̺̟͓̬̙̜̣͓̰̙̥͂̎̎́͑̊̄̀̿̈́͛̌͛́̾͌̽͗̂͗̑̐ Ending, huh???
Fuck you, man! I'll figure out what shit you're yapping about!
I'll fucking kill you, you impertinent shit.
When that moment came, he would make the certain one felt death as he had, twice over, if possible, thrice.
Isaac Mun.
Would conquer this world not as a player, but as an inhabitant and a Genius of the new EAA.
The crunch of gravel beneath Isaac's boots scrapes against the mud as he forces motion towards a paralysed Ritualist Matthew.
Time is of the essence.
If causality remains unbroken, the Ẁ̷͖͚̎͛͐͠e̴̻͙̟͌̈̈͑͜a̵̭̻̞̪͚̹̬̞̲͕͔̻̜̝̔͜v̸̢̖̹̳̲͙̅́̈́͌̈́͒ȩ̴̛̼͙̖͈̯̹̺̟̖̼̺͈̫̻̰͔̿ř̴͕̦̩̻̪̞͋̈́̏̋̂͊͛̏̀̓͗̕͘͠ ̵̢̲͓̙͈͔̩͖̭̐̊̔̌̀̎̑́̋̉̚̕͜͜ȍ̸̪̦̟̩̍̇̑̽̔͗̃̽̚͝f̷͖̲̪̭͖̌͑̊̔̈́̎̂͐͜ͅ ̷̢̩̞͋́̾͆̐͐͝L̸̢͉̪͎͚͈̪̺̯͚̱̮̼̓̃̊̊͜ė̷̛̖̤͈̆͌̏̈́͑́̈́̊͘͝t̵̢̛͖̤̗̹͓̯͔̲͚͓͔̪̻̪̀̔̿̈́͂̆ͅh̶̨̬͉̖̻̯͉̝͖͎͓̙̱̅ͅå̷̧̢̧̫̙̪̙̥͍̫͌̓̒͋̈́͒͜ŕ̸̨̫̼̮̣̦̀͆̂̽̓͘g̵̡͉̼̈͊̂̅̆͊̄̏̍͋̀͝i̵͇̾̽̌͐̈̋̓̐̇̒͘͝c̸̛̣̙͍͈̹̭̹̹̺͉͚̰̲̈́̑̍̃̇̒̓ͅͅ ̸̢̨̼̲͚͔̞̩̲̣͉̝͈̟͕͇̩́͆̓̏͂͑̌̔̀̄̓̅̕͠L̵̦͔̬̱̹͕̰͔̰̳̱͛͌̌̂ͅͅĩ̴͖͕͉̝̗̘̖̠̤̟̬͍̬̰̃g̴̞͈̥͎͚͔͙̹̫̳̘̳̈́̑̀̍̃͂̆̈̀͋̄̋̚ͅh̶̡͔͎̱̥͍̳̭̟̝͕̞̭͒̉̾̎̆͗͗͋̐̿̑̉̅̎͠͝͠t̷̳͉̖̟͍̝̫̲̐ will pull up soon.
Seeing as h̵̛̲̏͐̄͊̀̄̈́͝ë̵̗͎̰̺̟̖̝̖͍́͗̒̆has the authority to dispel the game's System, I stand NO FUCKING CHANCE right now.
His percentage of survival? Absolute zero. Perhaps less than zero, if such cosmic mockery could even be measured. And yet, his fingers twitched with the phantom memory of Thaumitons.
So I'll run. The System has used every ounce of authority it has to stall him, so I'll RUN. I will FLEE.
Yet, if there remained within him even the faintest ability to In-Thread a Clause-Construct. There was a potential for his survival, all hinging on one factor.
Tsk… A mere closure of the book. Like, my life is a fucking joke?
A story?
Shit, it still pisses me off!
His body and mind halted; the earlier death and expenditure of stamina still haunted him mentally and physically.
His only saving grace.
"Temporal Anchor. Personal stats."
The air crackles as reality peels back. Fortunately, the cerulean interface shudders to life like a broken machine, extremely blurry.
Name:ERROR
Class: Anomalous Entity
Title: "Eulogist of Every Truth", "Audience? of the Acts", "Adept of the Howling Void"
Age: 17 (Biological Age). 19 (Mental Age)
Stats:
- Strength: 1-Star
- Vitality: 2-Star
- Agility: 2-Star
- Intellect: 5-Star
- Stamina: 67%
Attributes:
Temporal Anchor (Passive?): A reminder that you're an outsider, you have been granted the authority to 'perceive' into the inhabitants of this world—With sufficient usage, you may see more…
Hollow Frame (Curable Debuff): While the mind is expansive, the body is a hollow joke—merely a shell incapable of expressing full potential in the material plane.
Element Affinity:
Wind (Main Element): 2-Star
Mana Remaining: 14/250 MP
Hmmmm… No trace of the "Survival Instinct" attribute. Well… It did warn me not to die twice, and I disobeyed; this is my punishment, I suppose.
How cruel…
As a matter of fact, how the fuck was I brought back to life? What did the System mean by expending too much Authority? What Authority brings back the dead anew?
My memory of the game is shit, but I am 100% sure there were no revival Spells with the sole exception of necromancy.
Yet, I'm neither skeleton nor Vethari or whatever the fuck you call them.
If so… I would be considered a temporal paradox.
Dammit… Fucking hell…
Isaac was an outstanding student with knowledge of all things science, easily answering most questions he faced.
But this? In his scientific words:
'Newtonian cause-and-effect lies shattered, yet entropy still claims its due.'
It was a quote that he'spammed' in both college and university to 'rage bait' his companions upon them making a mistake.
Perhaps, this was the universe's way of 'rage baiting' him back as karma.
What fucking equation governs second chances?
NONE!
Even aside from that, hypothetically, let's say that this was the Canonical M̷̢̨̱̬̟̰̮̬̬̞̞̯͈̦͍͚͇̃̓͜p̵̧̨̨̢͕͉͚̭̠͎͖̠̻̞̠͕̮̞̼̦̦͕͍͓͕̥͔͎̥̜̲͙̽̑̏͗͊̓́̚͘͜͝r̷̢̡̨̦̼͉̙̥̟̲̭͍͔̬̥̲̝̻̖͈̂̈́̾͗̏̂̓̍̿́̒̀͋̀̑͒̔͐̇͗̒̄̆͗̏͗͊̚̕̕̚͜͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅt̴̡̼̦̣͖̱̼̘̙̹̝̱̞̉̂͐͑̈́͋̊͛͒̉͐̏́͑̈̀͆͑̽͆̓̓̀̓̂̎̂̈́͐̈́͗̍̕͘͝͠ŷ̷̢̧̧̛̛̮̙̖̲̫̺̭͑̍̏̆̔̀̌̆̿̆̄̍͑͌̉̈́̿͂͌̓͋̍̀̑̈́̄̕͘͝͠y̸̧̡̢̺͓͇̠͍͈̘̭͕̮͍̱̘̠͍̝̭̥͖̗̖̘̣͇̰̤̗͇̱̜̯̪̜̆̃̀̀͌̃̍͒̎́̂͊̋́̏͗̑̄̿̆̆̈́̊͘̕̚͜͜͠͝ͅt̷̡̢̡̨̢̢̡͖͚͍̳̳̳̻̭̮͎̘͈̩̪͕̭̖̞̲̬͙̤͔̹̩̤̤̪̱̫̤͕̫̺̦̮̜͚̝͉͎̘̙̞̰̐̌̊̇͒̎̔́̓̀́̋́̈́̚̕͜͜ͅý̷̢̢̨̨̢̨̧̛̮̠̖͎͓̥͍̯̜̰̺̦̙̟̻̮͕̤͉̠͍͉̠̱͈̺̬̗͖͍̗̭̤̹̲̙͎̘̣̈́̅͆̌͒̎̔͐̆̅͂͗͋͊̓̅̈́͌̇́̿̄͐̾̄͋̇̿̔̋̄̏̆̽̆͋͊̊̇͘͜͜͝ͅr̴̛̺̟͓̬̙̜̣͓̰̙̥͂̎̎́͑̊̄̀̿̈́͛̌͛́̾͌̽͗̂͗̑̐ Ending. By the end of the story, the protagonist should have defeated him by banishing him. So how? Is he another transmigrated? If that's true, that means I'm not the only one who's been transported here.
But really? How plausible is that?
I mean. I'm grateful that, at least, I didn't get transported here by some shitty isekai protagonist via truck or summoning.
But still man~
He drops his body weight on Ritualist Matthew's back;
"MMMMMMMMHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
who screamed into the makeshift gag.
That 'boss' could arrive in minutes or hours. What I really need is a sense of time first. That way, I can form a timeline of events and figure all this shit out.
What I need is safety as well.
What I need-
Isaac's priorities crystallise.
Logically, what would be the safest spot, being the central location for every event in the game?
Simple.
All Isaac had to do was head to Elenos's Institute of Noësical Academics.
The Nexus of the main storyline.