The beast's claws descended with an unspeakable, primal violence.
There was no time to scream, no time to even register the agony. There was only the sound—a wet, sickening crunch, like a ripe pomegranate being crushed under the heel of a heavy boot. His skull shattered, and in an instant, fragments of consciousness and spray of crimson painted every corner of that cursed room.
In that moment, with a simplicity that was as brutal as it was final… Edward died.
Or at least, that was what he believed.
As he drifted into a realm of hazy, fragmented dreams, the gates of the afterlife appeared before him like a low-budget cinematic sequence with faded, sepia colors. Then, without warning, that gaudy world shattered into pieces, much like a mirror dropped into the depths of hell.
Edward began to regain his sight. His vision was blurred, as if he were staring up from the bottom of a stagnant, murky pond.
"Huh? Not dead yet?" Edward muttered internally. He tried to lift his head, but his limbs felt as heavy as lead. "It seems Hell rejected my application due to insufficient qualifications. Finally… I'm awake from that pathetic nightmare. Wait… where the hell am I?"
He felt the grass beneath his palms. It was cold and stiff, feeling less like greenery and more like rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
He found himself lying on an uneven island—a jagged piece of earth that seemed to have been ripped out of the very context of time and space. The island floated in the center of an infinite white mist. There was no sun, no moon, and not a single star to guide the way. Only a vast, oppressive white void that swallowed light and sound like a cosmic shroud.
Edward pushed himself up from the cold, brick-lined floor, dusting off his clothes. Strangely, his attire was perfectly intact, despite the fact that his head had "exploded" only minutes prior.
"Another dream? Honestly, my subconscious lacks creativity," he scoffed, trying to mask the violent shiver that raced down his spine. "Am I going to spend the rest of my death jumping from one nightmare to the next?"
He began to walk along a stone path made of eroded bricks, arranged in an irritatingly random pattern. The path led toward a small mansion situated in the center of the void.
"What a gloomy place," Edward remarked. "Let me guess: the owner is a depressed teenager with an obsession for Gothic poetry. Heh."
The mansion was a monolith of obsidian darkness. It was small, more akin to a massive stone cottage with a roof as sharp as a blade. Its walls were a coarse, textured grey, devoid of any human ornamentation, as if they had been constructed from ground-up bone. Long, narrow windows pierced the structure like slits in a corpse, separated by a protruding tower that rose from the roof like a demonic horn.
"On second thought… it looks like an abandoned church. Or the workshop of a very busy coffin maker."
Edward noticed that the grounds were carpeted in short, white flowers. They weren't ordinary blossoms; they were a shade of white so pale it was frightening. They swayed in a cold breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, causing Edward to shudder.
Between the flowers, gravestones jutted out at uncomfortable angles. Edward approached one, searching for a name that might explain his predicament. He found only a single phrase etched deep into the stone:
[A Good Hunter]
"A hunter? The only thing I've ever hunted in my life is a common cold and overdue debt."
Suddenly, right in the center of his field of vision, a translucent black menu materialized.
"What the…?"
He waved his hand in front of his face, trying to swat it away like a persistent fly. But the screen was "etched" onto his retinas. He tried closing his eyes, but it remained. It only flickered away when he blinked twice in rapid succession.
"First, I'm cured by a miracle. Then I die. And now I have a 'System' like those cliché webnovel protagonists who get reincarnated into other worlds? Brilliant. All I'm missing now is to be turned into a tree or a slime."
He snorted derisively and blinked twice to bring the menu back. He read the words glowing with a faint, ghostly light:
『Welcome, New Hunter, to the Nightmare. You must end the curse to escape. You will gain greater power and evolution the closer you come to death. Good luck.』
A complex expression crossed Edward's face. He pinched his arm—hard.
"Ouch! Dammit, this isn't a dream. How am I supposed to understand this nonsense? 'The closer you come to death'? Is this a promotional offer for suicide?"
He shouted into the void, but the silent white fog was his only answer.
Turning around, he noticed a beautiful woman sitting near the stairs of the stone path. She was perfectly still. Her skin was as pale as wax, and her hair was a waterfall of silken white. She wore elegant, traditional European attire, with a small red hat covering the back of her head. She looked like a life-sized porcelain doll—beautiful to the point of causing deep, instinctual unease.
"Illogically beautiful..." Edward muttered, his habitual gaze—never free from a touch of womanizing curiosity even in purgatory—scanning her form. "If this is Hell, maybe I can get used to it."
He tried to wake her. He touched her shoulder, called out to her, but she remained a living corpse—a statue pulsating with silent beauty.
"For God's sake! Is there anyone here with a pulse? Or at least someone who can return an insult!"
The response came as a brittle, sickening sound—the sound of dry bones snapping beneath the soil.
Edward spun toward one of the graves in front of the mansion. He froze for a second, then slowly approached and knelt. A strange sense of calm washed over him. After acting like a fool in that hospital room and dying for it, he realized that "composure" was the only weapon he had left.
Bony fingers, pale as spoiled milk, pierced through the dirt. Edward flinched but held his ground. Two hands emerged, followed by frail, skeletal arms. In the palms of those skeletal hands lay three items: an axe, a saw, and a cane.
The menu reappeared:
『Choose your Hunting Tool. Selection is final.』
Edward frowned, sinking into deep thought. "Why is a skeleton offering me weapons? Is this a 'Death Buffet'?"
He decided to play along. As the saying goes, a man must adapt to his circumstances—especially when those circumstances involve armed skeletons.
He reached out and first examined the Saw. It wasn't a normal saw; it was a monstrous hybrid between a massive meat cleaver and a jagged-toothed blade. Its short, thick spine hinted at both practicality and extreme cruelty.
"This looks a bit too heretical," Edward remarked. "As if the person who made it had nightmares about butchering cattle. Next."
The Axe was the second weapon. It reeked of ancient iron and dried blood. It was a heavy, formidable tool mounted on a long handle.
"Too heavy. Looks like it was designed for someone who enjoys crushing skulls in a single swing. I'm not quite that violent… yet. Next."
Finally, there was the Cane. It looked like the elegant walking stick of a high-society gentleman—slender, refined, and coated in a polished black lacquer.
"This looks just as hypocritical as its owners. Hiding a certain death behind a mask of elegance."
As he scratched his head in confusion, a side note appeared on the screen:
『Note: Trick Weapons possess two forms. You may shift the shape, design, and style of the weapon depending on the situation.』
"Two forms? Let's see then..."
He grabbed the Saw and flicked it through the air. With a terrifying mechanical clack, the blade snapped open, extending into a longer, more savage version of itself, granting a wider reach.
"Impressive… heavier, but stronger. Like carrying the metal jaw of a crocodile."
He picked up the Axe. Upon a specific pull, the handle extended, turning it into a massive pole-axe that allowed for sweeping, circular attacks.
"Before it was for crushing; now it's for harvesting."
Lastly, the Cane. He didn't expect much, but with a sharp flick, the cane segmented, transforming into a serrated metal whip. It lashed through the air with a sound that tore through the silence.
"I didn't see that coming! A whip and a sword in one? But… I'll go with the Axe. I've always liked things that solve problems from the root."
The moment his choice settled on the Axe, the brittle sound echoed again from another grave. More skeletal hands emerged, holding three vintage firearms.
『Firearms: Designed to stagger enemies, leaving them open for a visceral attack. They are for utility, not for the kill.』
"Even in death, bullets aren't for killing? What a backward world."
He inspected the pistols. They were short, metallic, with slim barrels and dark wooden grips, resembling 19th-century dueling pieces. He chose the Blunderbuss. In a world of madmen, accuracy was a luxury he couldn't afford to miss.
He blinked twice, and a new message appeared:
『Waiting...』
"You've got to be kidding me! Even in the afterlife, I can't escape the 'Waiting Room'? Life and death are truly miserable."
He paced around the island. The breeze caressed his cold face, and the "Doll" remained drowned in her beautiful, terrifying silence.
He reached the massive wooden doors of the mansion. There were bloody handprints on the wood, as if someone had tried to claw their way in—or out—in a fit of pure desperation. He tried to push them, but they were heavier than a mountain.
A notification popped up:
『The door is locked for those with clean hands.』
"Clean hands? What, do I need to wash up with Dettol first? I'm starting to get a headache from all this symbolism."
He noticed a dial on the door that resembled a clock, but instead of numbers, there were symbols of planets and strange beasts—a map of a distorted universe.
Suddenly, the prompt he had been waiting for appeared:
『Proceed to your grave and begin the Hunt.』
"My grave..."
Edward was taken aback. He returned to the spot where he had first woken up and found an empty grave without a name. He touched it with a slight tremor. Immediately, the white mist surged like the tentacles of an octopus, swallowing him whole.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the same dark hallway where he had met his end.
He surveyed the area with a look of pure loathing. "No other choice… I have to play along with this nightmare to find an exit."
He called out into the darkness, his voice steady but cold. "Where is that damn beast? You caught me off guard, you filthy pile of fur. But now, I have an axe that I'm dying to test on your head!"
At the end of the hallway, he saw it.
The hairy creature—a grotesque hybrid of man and wolf—was prowling on all fours, its muzzle dripping with a thick, crimson fluid. Edward felt a surge of pure adrenaline. He gripped the handle of his axe, his knuckles turning white.
"Doesn't look like there's an option to just order a pizza..."
He sighed as the werewolf turned to face him, its eyes glowing like red embers in the dark.
"I'm not afraid. I'm just… wondering how I'm going to get this much fur out of my teeth later!"
The wolf began to circle him, muscles tensing for the pounce. In that heartbeat, Edward realized the bitter truth of this new reality:
In this place, you are either the Hunter… or the Prey.