The white space dropped out from under him.
Ah'Ming yelped as the world inverted, the panels shattering into blue light as gravity returned all at once.
The last thing he saw before everything went dark was the star icon winking cheerfully.
He was kicked straight out.
Rude.
Ah'Ming came back to himself face-first.
Stone. Cold. Slightly greasy.
He groaned, peeling his cheek off the pavement with the slow dignity of a man who had just been ejected from reality. His limbs followed in the wrong order, like a marionette whose strings had been briefly tangled by a bored intern.
Behind him, something made a wet, dismissive fwump sound, as if the universe had cleared its throat and moved on.
"…Ow," he said to no one in particular.
The smell hit him next.
Warm custard. Caramelized sugar. Butter so rich it felt morally questionable.
Ah'Ming lifted his head.
In front of him loomed a storefront glowing like a shrine. Gold trim. Red lanterns. A hand-painted sign in cheerful calligraphy:
|GRAND AUNTIE LOK'S EGG TART EMPORIUM
Since Before You Were Born
The display window was a blinding parade of pastry perfection. Egg tarts arranged with militaristic precision. Glossy custard domes catching the light. Flaky crusts layered like geological records of good decisions.
He stared.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
A little blue screen appeared in front of him, yet offering no information or excuse as to why Ah'Ming had been spat out unceremoniously. Geez, even his bruises had bruises at this point.
He looked closer, almost curious.
It only repeated the same information that the calligraphy had.
Maybe it was for short-sighted people?
"Hey."
A voice, close. Human. Mildly annoyed.
"Are you done being a speed bump, or is this a performance piece?"
Ah'Ming rolled onto his side and finally noticed the crowd.
They were scattered across the plaza like debris from the same cosmic sneeze.
Some looked… normal.
A college-aged girl in a hoodie sat cross-legged on the ground, furiously checking her phone, muttering about signal bars. A middle-aged man in office slacks clutched a briefcase and looked like he'd aged three years in ten minutes. A teenager with headphones still around his neck stared at the emporium with religious awe.
And then there were the others.
A tall woman with moth-patterned eyes and antennae tucked neatly into her hair leaned against a lamppost, calmly brushing dust off her coat. A guy whose shadow didn't match his body kept trying to step on it, failing, and swearing under his breath. Someone in a chef's jacket was arguing with a floating speech bubble that hovered at shoulder height, the bubble aggressively displaying a thumbs-down icon.
Ah'Ming pushed himself upright.
But, none of the others were here. Why?
Even as he looked around, Ah'Ming couldn't see no hide nor hair of his temporary teammates. Not HuiPao, not Zhaoying, not Bianheng, not even those random people who were spat out of the wall.
To be completely honest though? He was pretty happy he couldn't see the crazy chef from the end. She was very cool, but also very loud.
"…Okay," he said, voice hoarse. "So I'm not hallucinating. That's good. Or very bad."
"You get used to it," said a boy sitting on the curb nearby.
He couldn't have been more than twelve. Freckles. Oversized backpack. Legs swinging like he was waiting for a bus. He was eating an egg tart with the focus of a seasoned professional.
It was a little brownish grey in the center, instead of a custard yellow.
Was he seriously eating the reward from the game???
the… the bone flavored tart?
Oh dear.
"You do?" Ah'Ming asked weakly.
The boy shrugged, flakes scattering onto the ground. "Fifth time for me. First time's always the worst. Second time you're angry. Third time you start taking notes."
Ah'Ming's eye twitched again. "Third time what."
The boy snorted. "Sub-story or instance ejection."
Before Ah'Ming could interrogate him further, the emporium doors slid open with a gentle chime.
Warm light spilled out. The smell intensified to dangerous levels.
A woman stepped outside.
She looked like someone's very kind aunt. Round glasses. Floral apron. Hair in a tidy bun. Her hands were dusted with flour, and she carried a metal tray stacked with fresh egg tarts, steam curling upward like a blessing.
She surveyed the assembled mess of humanity and… whatever else they were, and sighed.
"Goodness," she said. "They really do just drop you anywhere now."
Several people straightened instinctively.
The auntie smiled, sharp and knowing beneath the warmth. She was human, more human than the waitress from earlier. More kindly than the other paper people. But, her smile reached a bit too wide, her teeth a bit too sharp, her pupils a bit too small. It didn't help that she stood pretty rigid too, limbs locked as a marionette would.
"Welcome, dears. You've all been rewarded as promising newbies, with the bonded experts brought along as a gift."
A ripple went through the group.
Selected. That word again.
"For what?" someone demanded.
"For evaluation," Auntie Lok said pleasantly, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "For continuation. For audience retention."
Ah'Ming felt his stomach sink.
"…There's an audience here too?" he asked.
Her gaze flicked to him, eyes twinkling.
"Oh yes," she said. "They love this instance. Good players. Good drama. Very shareable. Does help that it's a large scale instance."
She gestured at the tarts.
"Take one," she added. "First item's free. After that, you'll be paying in points."
A few people hesitated.
Most did not.
As hands reached for pastries, Ah'Ming stared at the emporium, at the plaza, at the motley collection of people who had clearly been spat out by the same indifferent system.
Some looked terrified.
Some looked eager.
Some looked like they'd already learned how to game the comments.
He thought of the blue panels. The B. The wet cat remark.
Somewhere, something was watching.
Evaluating.
Waiting to see what he would do next.
Ah'Ming took an egg tart. Finally though, an egg tart.
"…Fine," he muttered again, brushing crumbs from his fingers. "Let's see what kind of show this place wants."
Auntie Lok kept talking.
Something about safety clauses. Something about narrative lanes and consent toggles and how "please do not antagonize persistent entities unless you have clearance." The crowd listened with varying degrees of attention. A few people took notes. Someone asked if death was permanent. Auntie Lok answered that with a smile that suggested the question had layers.
None of it stuck.
Because Ah'Ming's attention had snagged on a floating line of text that only appeared when he stopped blinking.
|SUBSTORY CLEARED: PAPER CAFÉ
|INFO SESSION UNLOCKED
"…Oh," he murmured.
That explained the tone.
This wasn't a sermon. It was onboarding. The kind you got exactly once, padded with cheer and egg tarts so you wouldn't panic too loudly. He caught fragments as his focus drifted back and forth.
First-time only.
No repeats.
Main instance now accessible.
Main instance.
His thoughts snapped back into alignment.
Resort.
Huipao had said it offhand, like it was obvious. Resort hotel. Safe zone. Or at least, safer than wherever the café had been pretending to exist.
Ah'Ming looked past Auntie Lok, past the plaza, and finally noticed the skyline.
It rose behind the emporium like a postcard that had been laminated too hard.
A sprawling resort complex stretched across the horizon. White towers terraced with greenery. Infinity pools catching sunlight like sheets of glass. Balconies draped in gauzy curtains that moved despite the lack of wind. The whole place radiated leisure with the intensity of a threat.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he whispered.
If this was the main instance, then it wasn't metaphorical.
It was literally a resort.
The info session wound down with polite applause and a reminder to "enjoy your stay responsibly." People began to disperse, some clustering into nervous groups, others wandering off with the boldness of those who assumed the system rewarded initiative.
Ah'Ming checked himself.
No injuries. Inventory somewhere unseen. Points ticking quietly in the background like a clock he could not look away from.
"If this is a resort," he said under his breath, "then I should have a room. Right?"
The logic felt dangerously reasonable.
He followed the signage.
The signs were tasteful. Cream-colored plaques with gold lettering and little arrows that adjusted themselves when he walked past, like they were politely checking his intentions.
|RECEPTION →
|GUEST SERVICES
|ELEVATORS
Each step closer made the place feel more real and less safe. The sounds changed. Water features murmuring. Distant laughter that looped too neatly. Somewhere, a bellhop's cart rolled by on its own, stacked with luggage that occasionally twitched.
Down a few flights of stairs, he could feel his mood dropping lower too.
The reception desk sat beneath a vaulted ceiling painted to resemble a sky that never quite reached dusk.
Behind the counter stood the receptionist.
She smiled.
Her teeth were perfect. Too perfect. All exactly the same size, aligned with architectural precision. Her eyes were dark, reflective, and when she tilted her head, they caught the light like polished stone.
Wow, this place was creepy.
"Welcome," she said warmly. "Checking in? How strange, the rest of your cohort already had rooms!"
"…I think so," Ah'Ming replied.
She extended a hand.
He hesitated, then placed his own on the counter.
The moment his fingers touched the surface, something pulsed. Recognition. A brief sensation like a barcode being scanned along his spine.
The receptionist nodded. "Yes. You're registered."
"That was fast."
"You were pre-assigned," she said. "First-time participants always are."
She reached beneath the desk and produced a card.
It slid across the counter and stopped exactly in front of him.
Blood red. Not metaphorically. The color was deep and wet-looking, like it had opinions. His room number was embossed rather than printed.
404
The numbers seemed to sink slightly into the card when he stared at them.
"…There's no room 404 in normal hotels," he said.
Her smile widened by a fraction. "We are rarely normal."
"Right. Of course."
He picked up the card. It was warm. Uncomfortably so.
at least it wasn't pulsating.
"Enjoy your stay," the receptionist added. "Please do not attempt to access floors you have not unlocked. And if your room answers you back, kindly inform guest services."
Ah'Ming paused. "Answers me back how."
She blinked. Slowly. "However it chooses."
With that, she turned to the next guest, who appeared to be made entirely of mirrors and was arguing about check-out times.
Card in hand, Ah'Ming turned toward the elevators.
There were four of them.
Three looked normal. Brushed steel doors. Soft music chiming from somewhere overhead.
The fourth had a faint reddish sheen and a floor indicator that skipped numbers when he watched it too closely.
He swallowed.
"…Okay," he told himself, stepping forward. "Room 404. Just a room. Just a hotel."
The elevator doors slid open.
The inside smelled faintly of chlorine and old paper.
He stepped in anyway.
Ah'Ming pressed 4.
The button lit up obediently, a calm amber glow that suggested nothing in his future plans was about to be respected.
The elevator began to move. Smooth. Quiet. Too smooth. Like it was gliding through intention rather than floors.
With nothing else to do and a rising sense of dread to occupy, Ah'Ming summoned the system again.
The blue light unfolded in front of him, neat and professional, like it hadn't just thrown him onto pavement earlier.
|STATUS
He tapped it first.
A pane expanded, listing him in uncomfortable detail. Name. Current evaluation grade. Stats that made him look far braver on paper than he felt. A small note at the bottom helpfully labeled "Narrative Role: Protagonist (Provisional)".
"…Provisional my ass," he muttered.
Was everyone called provisional protagonist? It certainly explained how… unique some of the other people he'd seen had looked.
Next tab.
|INVENTORY
The items slotted into place with tidy icons.
|Resort Newspaper.
|Child's Drawing.
|Box of Bone Marrow Egg Tarts.
The last one pulsed faintly, as if offended by his earlier comment.
He did not open it. He was not ready.
Next.
|MONSTERPEDIA
A grim little thrill went through him.
The tab opened to a mostly empty catalog. Greyed-out silhouettes. Locked entries. One or two low-tier creatures already filled in with sparse descriptions and a disturbingly cheerful progress bar labeled "Knowledge Improves Survival Odds!"
He closed it before curiosity could get him killed.
Then he noticed the final tab.
|TEAM
He tapped it.
Nothing happened.
The icon was washed-out, unresponsive, like a feature from a demo version he hadn't paid for.
"…Oh," he said quietly.
Not in a team. That tracked. He thought of Huipao, of the others. They were probably in a team. They were in a guild too. Maybe if he joined a guild, another tab would appear too.
He exhaled and leaned back against the elevator wall.
That was when the doors slid open.
Soft chime. Pleasant. Deceptive.
Ah'Ming stepped out without looking up, still frowning at the empty team tab.
The air hit him immediately.
Dry. Dusty. Thick with age.
Not chlorine. Not flowers. Not whatever expensive nothing hotel lobbies or corridors were supposed to smell like.
This smelled like paper.
Old paper.
The kind that had absorbed decades of quiet.
"…Wait."
He stopped walking.
Lifted his head.
Shelves.
Endless shelves.
They rose around him in concentric rows, stacked floor to ceiling with books of every size and binding. Ladders on rails creaked faintly as they moved on their own. Green-shaded lamps cast pools of light across long wooden tables scarred with ink and time.
Somewhere far away, a page turned.
Ah'Ming slowly turned around.
The elevator was behind him.
Its indicator glowed.
3
Level three.
"…No," he said flatly.
Level three. The same level as the egg tart emporium. The same number. The same trick.
"This is not level four," he informed the universe.
The universe did not respond.
The elevator doors slid shut with a final, contented thunk.
"Hey!! wait?!"
He lunged forward and stabbed at the call button.
Nothing.
No light. No chime. The panel was dark, smooth, dead.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "It's been five minutes."
The air in front of him shimmered.
A system screen snapped into place, larger than the others, with none of the usual cheer.
|SUB-STORY #2482: THE LIBRARY
|MAIN INSTANCE #4238: RESTFUL RESORT
He stared at it.
Slowly, his expression went from disbelief to tired fury.
"Seriously?" he demanded. "I just got out of one."
The system, as usual, did not apologize.
Somewhere between the stacks, something shifted.
A chair scraped.
A whisper rippled through the shelves, not words exactly, but the sound of too many voices trying not to speak at once.
Ah'Ming squared his shoulders.
"…Fine," he said, again. Because apparently that was his brand now.
He took a step forward into the library.
A small plaque on the nearest shelf flickered to life as he passed.
|Please keep quiet! Do not disturb the Peace.
Strangely enough, nothing happened.
No quest marker. No dramatic music sting. No helpful ghost librarian shushing him into action.
The library just… existed.
Rows upon rows of shelves stood in patient silence, the lamps humming softly, the air thick with the expectation that something should be occurring. Ah'Ming waited for a system prompt to drop. It did not. He waited for a voice, a shadow, a monster shaped like overdue fees.
Nothing.
"…Okay," he said to the quiet. "So this is one of those."
He wandered for a bit, shoes whispering against the floor, until he found a couch tucked between two shelves. It looked inviting in the way only furniture that had never tried to eat anyone could. Worn leather. Deep cushions. The kind of couch that suggested naps and questionable life choices.
Ah'Ming sat.
The couch accepted him without incident. A good sign. Probably.
He eyed the nearest shelf, then immediately looked away.
Nope.
One, he didn't like books. Not really. Reading was work. Manhwas at least had pictures and clear pacing. Two, there was a very real chance these books were written in… whatever language monsters used. Teeth. Static. Regret. Hard pass.
He leaned back and waited.
Time stretched.
Enough that his thoughts began to echo.
"…Maybe the system doesn't work inside substories," he murmured, tapping the air out of habit.
Nothing unfolded. No blue panels. No tabs.
Instead, two simple lines of text blinked into existence in the corner of his vision, small and almost shy.
CURRENT VIEWERS: 12,483
CURRENT LIKES: 14
He blinked.
"…Huh."
Fourteen.
Out of twelve thousand.
That was… a ratio.
"Wow," he said softly. "Tough crowd."
He slouched deeper into the couch, equal parts irritated and resigned. Maybe this was some kind of endurance test. Maybe the library wanted him to get bored. Maybe it fed on impatience. Maybe the books were waiting for him to make the first move so they could judge his literary taste.
Then—
Pop.
A sharp sound, like a cork being pulled from reality.
Ah'Ming sat up.
Pop. Pop.
Three more in quick succession.
Light flared between the shelves, brief and disorienting, and figures stumbled into existence like dropped items in a game world.
People.
A woman in a windbreaker spun in place, immediately defensive. A lanky guy in sandals looked down at his own hands, then at the shelves, then whispered, "Nope," under his breath. Another person appeared halfway up a ladder, yelped, and clung to it for dear life.
Teleportation.
More players.
Ah'Ming scanned their faces.
None of them were familiar.
No shadowblade(?) guild. No teammates. No one he could anchor himself to.
The viewer count ticked up by a few dozen. Likes did not move.
The library remained silent.
From somewhere deep in the stacks came the faintest sound of pages rustling, as if something had just been very pleased.
Ah'Ming exhaled.
"…Guess I wasn't the main event after all," he muttered, standing up from the couch.
He straightened his jacket, looked at the newcomers, and then at the endless shelves.
"Alright," he said, to himself, to them, to the unseen audience watching for something interesting to happen.
Time passed the way it only ever did in places full of books.
Thick. Heavy. Folded in on itself.
The viewer count crept upward in small, unenthusiastic increments. The likes stayed stubbornly low, as if the audience had collectively decided to watch with their arms crossed.
Then a voice rolled through the stacks.
Warm. Baritone. Calm in a way that suggested it had never been hurried by anything as trivial as fear.
"Everyone," it said, carrying impossibly far. "Let's gather in the center. It'll be easier if we can see each other."
The lamps nearest Ah'Ming brightened, subtly angling their light like helpful ushers.
"…Center," he echoed. "Right. Sure. Love that for us."
Finding it was another matter.
The library resisted in quiet ways. Like an evil librarian. Like a complete-. No. No, Ah'Ming. No swearing! Be nice, be good. Shelves shifted just enough to block straight paths. Aisles looped back on themselves. Once, he passed the same brass globe three times in under a minute. Somewhere behind him, someone cursed softly and gave up, sitting down on the floor instead.
It took a long time.
Long enough that by the time Ah'Ming finally broke through into an open space, the conversation was already well underway.
The center was a vast circular reading hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. Long tables had been pushed aside to form a rough ring. People clustered in groups, voices low but urgent, all oriented toward one man near the middle.
Ah'Ming slowed.
So that was the leader.
He looked… unassuming. Too normal for the attention he commanded. Casual posture. Easy smile. Hands moving as he spoke, expressive and relaxed, like this was a dinner party instead of a death-adjacent scenario. He leaned in close to whoever he was talking to, voice dropping, eyes bright.
People reacted instantly.
Nods. Laughter. A few flushed faces. One person looked like they might cry from gratitude alone. He could almost understand…. The man seemed so trustworthy…. So full of leadership qualities…..
yummy.
Floating near him, faint and only visible if you stared too long, was a system tag.
TAMER
"Love me, Love me not"
Well. That explained it.
Ah'Ming felt a strange pressure in the air around the man, like standing near a lit stage. Affection, weaponized and polished to a science.
"…He's number three thousand four hundred fifty-eight," someone murmured nearby.
"That low?" another voice scoffed.
"That high?" a third countered.
Ah'Ming frowned.
3,458.
It wasn't top ten. It wasn't even top hundred. It was… aggressively specific. The kind of rank you only remembered if the list was very, very long.
Billions, he thought, uneasily. Billions and billions. Made sense though, if Bianheng's words were trustworthy. Across
That would explain the reverence. And the bitterness. Fame was relative. Survival was not.
He didn't go any closer.
Instead, he drifted sideways, gravitating toward the edge of the crowd like a leaf avoiding the main current.
Two people stood off to the side.
One had moss growing down their arms in soft, trailing fronds, green veins faintly visible beneath their skin. They leaned on a cane made of knotted wood, eyes half-lidded but sharp. The other looked painfully normal. Plain jacket. Plain hair. The kind of face you forgot five minutes after seeing.
Ah'Ming cleared his throat.
"Um," he said. "Hi."
They both looked at him.
The normal(er) looking one blinked. "You lost?"
"…Probably," Ah'Ming admitted. "I just got here. I don't really know what the game-mode is."
They exchanged a glance. He wanted a friend too, dang it!
The mossy one tilted their head, studying him. "First substory?"
Technically second, but still.
"…Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
The normal one sighed, then relented. "It's wave defense."
Ah'Ming blinked. "Of course it is."
Why did the second one make so much more sense than the first one? This one was a classic game, one everyone knew.,
The first one? What even was it? A detective story? A mystery novel? It was completely stupid, and he was over ninety percent sure that they had cleared it the completely wrong way.,
"There's a grandfather clock," the mossy one added, gesturing vaguely upward. "Big. Can't miss it once you see it."
"For the last fifteen minutes of every hour," the other continued, "the lights cut out. Complete blackout."
"And then the shadows come," said the mossy one, tone almost bored. "They hit hard. They don't like noise. Or fear."
Ah'Ming hummed.
"What about the rest of the time?" he asked.
"That's prep," the normal one said. "Exploration. Clues. Puzzle-solving."
"To answer the question," the mossy one finished.
Ah'Ming nodded quickly.
"Right. The question," he said.
He did not ask what it was. It was probably pretty obvious.
The words tangled in his throat, caught somewhere between not wanting to look stupid and not wanting to draw attention. He glanced back toward the center, where Tamer was laughing softly, a hand resting on someone's shoulder a second too long.
Affection numbers flickered invisibly. Approval spread like warmth. Sickly warmth. It was sweet, like popcorn. But when you ate too much you'd throw up, on your first date. Onto your date.
Ah'Ming looked away.
"…Thanks," he said instead.
"No problem," the normal one replied. "Stick near the edges if you can't fight."
"I can fight," Ah'Ming said reflexively, then immediately regretted it.
They both looked at him again.
The mossy one smiled, slow and knowing. "Sure you can."
Above them, somewhere deep in the library, a clock began to tick louder.
The lights dimmed by a fraction.
The hour was getting close.