The Absolute Chair
Omnipotence Is Not Freedom
Chapter 2 — No Save Point
The next day did not arrive with sunlight.
There was no dawn.
No warmth.
Only a slow shift in the sky—from deep blood-red to a dull, rotten crimson—like a wound beginning to scab but never heal.
Karl-Jay had not slept.
He sat with his back pressed against a cracked concrete wall, knees pulled to his chest, the broken sword resting across his lap. Every muscle ached. His throat burned with thirst. His stomach twisted in hunger.
And fear.
Pure, animal fear.
He had learned one thing during the endless hours of darkness:
Noise meant death.
Every scream during the night had been followed by silence. Every sudden sound—metal falling, glass breaking, a door slammed in panic—ended the same way.
Something always came.
Karl-Jay slowly stood, movements careful, deliberate. Even his breathing was controlled, shallow. He peeked around the corner of the ruined street.
The city looked even worse in this half-light.
Buildings leaned like corpses frozen mid-collapse. Roads were split open, revealing pulsing black veins beneath the asphalt. Burned vehicles lay scattered, some fused with bone, others with flesh.
Bodies were everywhere.
Some human.
Some… not.
Karl-Jay swallowed hard and moved.
Food.
That was the problem.
His phone was dead. No maps. No guidance. No glowing quest markers. No system telling him what to do next.
This wasn't a game.
This wasn't a movie.
This was real.
He slipped into what used to be a convenience store. The front was smashed open, shelves overturned. Blood smeared the floor in long drag marks leading into the back.
He froze.
Listened.
Nothing.
Slowly, he crept forward, picking through debris. His hands trembled as he reached for a crushed bottle of water behind the counter.
A low growl echoed from somewhere above.
Karl-Jay's blood turned to ice.
The ceiling shifted.
Something crawled along it—too quiet, too fast.
He didn't think.
He dropped the bottle and ran.
The growl turned into a shriek.
Karl-Jay burst out of the store, heart slamming against his ribs, lungs screaming as he ducked into an alley and collapsed behind a pile of rubble, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from breathing too loud.
The shriek faded.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Only then did he realize he was shaking violently.
"I can't fight…" he whispered.
"…I can't fight anything."
The broken sword felt heavier than ever.
That's when he saw the boy.
A high school student—no older than sixteen. His uniform was torn, his backpack hanging from one shoulder. His face was pale, eyes red from crying.
The boy was walking slowly down the street, calling out softly.
"H-hello…? Is anyone there…?"
Karl-Jay wanted to shout at him.
Wanted to warn him.
Wanted to save him.
But fear sealed his mouth shut.
The ground shook.
A shadow fell over the street.
The boy looked up.
What came down from above was massive—its body shaped like a twisted giant, skin stretched tight over bulging muscle, its face a nightmare of fused mouths and eyes. Each step cracked the road beneath it.
The boy didn't even have time to scream.
A massive hand closed around him.
Bones snapped.
The monster lifted him up and bit down.
Blood rained onto the street.
The sound—the wet, tearing sound—was unbearable.
Karl-Jay gagged.
He turned away, vomiting violently against the wall, stomach empty but still convulsing, bile burning his throat. Tears streamed down his face, not from sadness—
from terror.
This wasn't heroic.
This wasn't dramatic.
This was slaughter.
He stumbled backward, barely holding himself upright, then ran blindly until he collapsed behind a fallen wall, hugging himself, teeth chattering.
"…No main character…" he whispered.
"…No strongest one…"
His hands clenched into fists.
"Everyone can die."
Voices pulled him back to reality.
Quiet. Careful.
A group.
Karl-Jay peeked through a crack in the wall.
Six people were moving through a collapsed apartment building, working together in silence.
There was a leader—a sharp-eyed man in his late twenties, signaling with hand gestures.
A fighter, muscular, gripping a metal pipe like it was part of his body.
A hard worker, methodically checking rooms, carrying bags without complaint.
A lazy-looking guy, yawning even now, but his eyes never stopped moving.
A funny one, whispering jokes under his breath to calm himself.
And a shy girl, sticking close to the group, clutching a small knife with white knuckles.
They looted carefully—taking food, water, medicine—from bodies that no longer needed them.
No prayers.
No apologies.
Just survival.
One of them froze.
The leader raised a fist.
Everyone stopped.
They waited.
Seconds stretched.
Then they moved again.
Karl-Jay watched them disappear into the ruins.
They survived because they understood something he was only now realizing:
This world rewards caution.
It punishes hope.
He looked down at his broken sword.
"…I get it now," he whispered.
This world wasn't a fantasy of power.
It was pure horror, stretched endlessly, waiting for the smallest mistake.
Karl-Jay pulled himself to his feet.
Silent. Hungry. Alone.
And for the first time since the clock rang, he truly understood:
To live here…
he would have to become something else.
End of Chapter 2.