The afternoon light filtered through the room's venetian blinds, casting golden lines over Angie's nimble fingers. With the university platform tab open and the Arcane Seed icon slowly spinning in the corner of the screen, she reviewed the final details. The game was ready. And with it came the familiar anxiety that always preceded putting herself out there — even under a name that wasn't exactly her own.
She typed slowly, testing each field.
Title:Lament of the Forgotten Souls
Tags: interactive horror, first-person, sensory game, indigenous theme.
Mana Rating: Low-intermediate consumption, high emotional impact.
She took a deep breath before moving on.Publishing a game on the academic network wasn't simple. You had to validate the Seed's origin, apply anti-plagiarism security protocols, fill out the university's shared-use rights form, and write both a technical and narrative summary. Angie knew all these steps well — she'd done it before. But this was the first time she was releasing something big. Something personal. Something that could draw attention — or trouble.
The university platform offered students a direct publishing channel, through an institutional link integrated with the profile of the candidate for the Arcane Technics degree. By default, this system connected the content to the official academic account, tracking each project through the student ID. It was a way to ensure safety, traceability, and usage control until graduation.
However, this channel was temporary. After graduation, students had to migrate to the independent creators' platform — a more aggressive and decentralized ecosystem, where even the smallest misstep could be costly. Unprotected or poorly configured data became easy prey for the so-called Seed Parasites: malicious scripts created by underground hacker groups, specialized in extracting all emotional and technical content from a seed, leaving it emptied, corrupted. A "full wipe" (A/n: meaning they stole everything, even the useless bits).
To avoid such a brutal transition — and the damage that came with it — the university offered an alternative form. It allowed the creator to manually configure some data like display name, Nyepal account (the local encrypted version of PayPal), and secondary info. It was a layer of freedom, but also a responsibility. Filling it out carelessly could expose much more than one imagined.
At the author identification tab, Angie hesitated. How should she name herself now? Her mind searched for alternatives. "Eidolon Arcadia" was a name she had used in earlier experiments. She thought about keeping it. But the initials "EA" flashed in her mind like a warning. She remembered the novels from the parallel universe she used to read. Many protagonist-creators adopted "EA" as a pseudonym — a code almost generic in that creative sphere. And that, to her, felt empty now.
She smiled faintly."If everyone is EA... then no one is," she murmured, resting her chin on her hand. Then she grew serious. This time it wasn't a test, nor a technical joke. It was the beginning of something that, she felt, would mark her future. The name she chose now could be cited in archives, forums, blacknets — or militia reports. It would be a signature. A spark in a dry world.
Deleting the old name, she typed: Nexus.It was the meeting point between worlds, ideas, systems. It was what she wanted to be.
She clicked Upload Arcane Seed. The system began reading the data. The energy channeled into the seed vibrated. It felt like watching a part of herself being distilled into bytes. With each percentage completed, a memory of hers slipped into the code: muffled footsteps in the asylum, the tremble of the old camera, the muted cries of spirits she herself had written. It finished in 97 seconds. Upload complete.
In the demo tab, she typed quickly:"You are Lucas. Trapped in an abandoned asylum built atop a forgotten indigenous cemetery. The old camera is your only ally. But beware: it also reveals what was never meant to be seen."
"If only my mother could see this... Or maybe it's better this way. This world has taken a lot from me — but my art is still mine."
She clicked Publish. The button glowed blue, confirming the official launch. Lament of the Forgotten Souls was now available on the university's Manauser network. Angie leaned back from the screen and sank into the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She felt emptied, as if her soul had been transferred into that game.That was what it meant to be a Reality Arcanist.
In truth, what she had made wasn't just a game. Not in that world. Angie had introduced a new kind of sensory narrative experience — something that only existed in fragments in her other self's mind, in confused memories from the parallel universe. Games with that structure didn't yet exist as a genre. Not yet. What she launched was a reinterpretation. A seed of something that might one day bloom.
But she had no time to celebrate. The public system was ruthless: with each new project, tracking intensified. The militias scoured releases in search of hidden talents, especially those who remained anonymous. Her anonymity was a tactic, but also a game of Russian roulette.
While she sipped lukewarm tea and tried to calm her nerves, on the other side of the city, someone clicked on the newly posted title.His name was Raul. Seventeen years old. Newly awakened. Rank D.His mind was chaotic and brilliant, marked by sensitivities the world didn't understand — until he discovered mana.
He opened the game out of curiosity. Expected nothing. The menus were simple, almost raw, but pulsed with a strange energy, hard to describe. When the intro began — the camera trembling in the dark, the flickering flashlight, the muffled wails — he felt something familiar.Not fear.But recognition.
"This... is different," he murmured, placing his fingers on the mana-sensitive screen. Every step Lucas took echoed within him. The grayish palette, the metallic noises, the constant sense of being watched... It felt like that world had been made for him.
Raul began playing in silence, his eyes gleaming. He didn't know who the creator was. It didn't matter. For the first time, a game didn't push him out — it pulled him in.
Raul Acupe Torres was never the crowd type. He preferred the comforting hum of an old fan, books stacked on the floor, and screens flickering through the night.His room was the perfect portrait of a newly awakened bachelor: piles of mandatory reports, scattered cables, and a crooked shelf stuffed with second-hand streaming equipment.
He shared the cramped apartment with Ícaro, a sunny-natured healer Manauser with an easy smile. Ícaro worked part-time at a community clinic and spent the rest of his time trying to drag Raul out of the room — usually without success.
Since awakening to mana, Raul had been classified as an alchemist — a support subclass specialized in creating magical compounds and catalysts for other Manausers.Fortunately, alchemists and healers still enjoyed some institutional protection; the local government and corporations had an interest in maintaining high-quality support, which earned them certain privileges, like partial fee exemptions and better job offers.
But protection came at a cost. All support Manausers were required to fulfill social service hours, choosing between missions, public assistance, or milder alternatives — like Arcane Seed testing and analytical streaming. For him, the ideal was clear: silence, control, and distance.
Lament of the Forgotten Souls stood apart from the standard games on public platforms. It was raw, sensorial, with no user-friendly interface, no intrusive tutorials. A narrative experiment with minimalist mechanics — like the "indie" games from the fragmented memories Angie inherited from her counterpart in the parallel universe. In his world, it was a novelty. In hers, it was a manifesto disguised as horror — a letter to those who saw in the shadows not an end, but a beginning.
Beta testing and streaming were seen as legitimate forms of service: they allowed for the analysis of psychosocial and behavioral effects in newly awakened users, as well as generating valuable data for corporations and universities. Raul filled his reports with the meticulous precision of a physicist preparing a thesis: "Initial phase: mild auditory discomfort caused by high-frequency sounds. Emotional intensity: moderate."
For the audience, the experience came through an app connected to the immersion system — a tool created specifically for streamers like Raul. It captured the visual and auditory impulses from the simulation and translated them into real-time video. The result was like watching someone's mind playing — raw, unfiltered, in first person.
In his broadcasts, Raul combined biting sarcasm and overly technical analysis. It was like watching a quantum physics lecture taught by a comedian with questionable humor. His audience was small but loyal. They enjoyed the way he deconstructed games layer by layer, exposing flaws and brilliance with the same coldness as a surgeon.
His makeshift studio — a chipped wooden table, two plastic chairs, piles of technical papers, and a microphone bought with discount coupons — was his sanctuary. There, Raul didn't need to explain himself. He was just another knot in the vast web of Manausers trying to survive in a shattered world.
He adjusted the crooked microphone, wiped his glasses on the hem of his Planck Institute T-shirt, and smiled at the camera with that gleam of someone who knows they're about to suffer — and loves it, with his usual calculated mockery:
"Good afternoon, thinking creatures. Today's experience is paranormal, unstable, and potentially disastrous. Honestly? I can't wait."
On that humid afternoon, he accepted the chat's challenge: test a newly launched game on the university platform. Lament of the Forgotten Souls. The name alone already promised tragedy. Messages from his followers flooded in:
"This is going to be your kind of madness, Raul."
"Finally something that'll fry your brain the right way."
He laughed, typing something back to the chat with nervous fingers:
— "Consider my sanity officially compromised."
What Raul didn't know — yet — was that this choice would affect far more than just his afternoon. It would stir something deeper. Something that neither clinical reports nor his alchemist formulas could predict: the way he saw his own soul.
The first scene opened with the static hiss of an old tape, followed by visual distortions — thick grain, vibrating lines on the screen edges, and a discreet logo blinking in the bottom right corner: two interlocked diamonds, one green and one gold. It was the symbol of the emulated Arcane Seed — subtle, almost imperceptible, yet pulsing like something alive.
The image slowly brightened, revealing the claustrophobic interior of an old car in motion. The cracked dashboard, the worn fabric on the seats, and the steering wheel wrapped in electrical tape all screamed nostalgia. It was a white Volkswagen 1600 — the legendary Zé do Caixão.
(a/N: In Brazil, this nickname — which translates to "Coffin Joe" — was commonly used to refer to this model because of its long, coffin-like trunk and the eerie aesthetic often associated with it.)
The car moved slowly down a dirt road surrounded by dense forest. The sky overhead, heavy and dark, seemed to press down on the car, as if the storm was just waiting for the right moment to break.
In the driver's seat, a young Black man in his early twenties, wearing an open floral shirt over a white T-shirt, kept his hands steady on the wheel. His afro was tied back with a red bandana, fluttering in the breeze from the open window. His gaze held a mix of anticipation and stubbornness — the kind of energy you get when someone feels they're about to do something unforgettable, even if dangerous. The game hadn't revealed his name yet. But the camera liked him. The framing was careful, intentional, as if it wanted the player to see him before knowing him.
The only soundtrack was a muffled bolero playing from the radio, the static filling the space between notes, as the car crept along a road seemingly forgotten even by GPS. That's when a voice came in, off-screen, raspy and somewhat tired, with the drag of someone who smokes more than they sleep:
"Camera rolling."
The camera shook slightly and turned with a rough motion, resting against the windshield. Now, the framing showed both front-seat occupants. The driver remained the focus, but beside him, finally visible, was Pedro Gabriel. Pale skin, scruffy beard, straight brown hair tied in a messy bun, and a worn black leather jacket. He wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky. His expression sat somewhere between boredom and sarcasm.
"Alright, Lucas," he said with a sigh, "now that we're officially driving through the middle of absolute nowhere, can you remind me again why we're visiting an abandoned asylum in the ass-end of the world?"
Lucas — finally named in the game — didn't take his eyes off the road. He just smirked at the corner of his mouth.
"Because no one goes there. And where no one walks, that's where the stories hide."
He shot a quick sideways glance.
"Relax, Pedro. If things go bad, you can just say you were kidnapped by an idealist. Way more dramatic than your cousin's wedding footage."
Pedro scoffed. "That wedding had an open bar. This has... indigenous spirits and mold. Great trade, Lucas."
He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. "You're the only lunatic who calls a supernatural ambush a journalistic opportunity. This is going straight into my journal of regrets — hardcover and all."
Lucas laughed. "Don't worry. This'll be worth an honorary mention on your resumé. 'Survived an investigation with Lucas Mendes, idealist and potential ghost bait.'"
"You pay me in pastries and vague promises of co-authorship. If we get arrested — or worse, attacked by a trauma-ridden, possessed wild bird — you're calling my mom. And you're gonna be serious about it."
Lucas kept his eyes on the road, but his voice lowered slightly. "Ever since I found that old note in a yellowed newspaper at the library, I haven't been able to get this place out of my head. São Sebastião Sanatorium. Shut down overnight. Director vanished without a trace. Four patients dead. Almost all the files... burned."
Pedro was silent for a moment, just watching the road grow narrower. Then he muttered:
"So basically, the kind of place where smart people never set foot."
Lucas shrugged and smiled without turning his head.
"The whole town avoids talking about it. Do you really think a real journalist would let a story like this slip away?"
Pedro gave a dry laugh. "Of course. Because stories with indigenous spirits and haunted cassava fields always end well…"
The camera shook slightly as the car hit a pothole. The suspension groaned. A metallic creak echoed for a few seconds before fading into the muffled bolero playing.
Pedro gave a short whistle and pointed with his chin at the road ahead. "A textbook case of 'don't go there.' If even the police avoid this place, there's a reason."
Lucas replied casually, but his voice came softer:
"Which is exactly why we have to go."
That's when the radio hissed — first like it was adjusting its own frequency, then with a sharp pop. The music cut out. A deep, dragging male voice emerged from the static, like it was coming from an old tape recorder:
"...local authorities are investigating new disappearances in the White Valley region. Mutilated bodies were found near the ruins of the old São Sebastião Sanatorium…"
Pedro turned off the radio with a tense click. The two of them sat in silence for a few seconds, only the engine hum filling the space between them.
"Okay. Now we've got creepy music, ominous narration, and dense forest. This is turning into an episode of Fantástico from the 80s."
As if the universe was listening, a rusted sign appeared among the brush, its letters almost erased by corrosion:
"RESTRICTED AREA — ENTRY FORBIDDEN AFTER SUNSET."
Pedro slumped in his seat, crossing his arms. "Great. Just need zombies now. I hope you run faster than you talk, Lucas."
Lucas didn't answer. He simply slowed the car and stopped in front of a rusted iron gate, half-shrouded in a low mist that now seemed to move with a will of its own. The camera held its focus there — still, like it was waiting for the player's next command.
Wow.
Raul took his hands off the keyboard like he'd just touched something hot. He stayed there, frozen for a moment, eyes wide, pupils dilated. His breath, once short and focused, now came slower — heavy, almost uneven. The ambient sounds of the studio — the oscillating fan, the faint buzzing of the gear — all felt distant.
He took off his glasses with an automatic gesture and ran his hand over his face, like he needed to confirm he was still in the real world.
"Damn... this is good," he said, almost laughing nervously. "Like, absurdly good. What the hell is this?"
The livestream camera still captured his face, bathed in the bluish glow of the screen. The reflection in his eyes revealed more than technical focus — it was genuine surprise. Wonder. A spark of something he hadn't felt while gaming in a long time.
"First of all: ten out of ten for the historical accuracy of that 'Zé do Caixão' moment. That's the kind of detail you only get from someone who knows what rust really smells like — not from some recycled AI patrol sim. And second... man, this Lucas guy? He's got more presence than all the government enhancement game protagonists combined."
Chat went wild:
"OMG SOMEONE SCREENSHOT RAUL'S FACE LMAO"
"THERE'S NO WAY THIS IS IN-GAME"
"THIS ISN'T AN OFFICIAL GAME, RIGHT???"
"IT'S GOT SOUL. THIS GAME HAS SOUL."
"I'M LEGIT SHAKING RN. NO JOKE."
But Raul didn't respond.
He wasn't reading the chat anymore. Not right now.
Something about the game was different. It didn't feel like something spat out by a tactical defense AI. There were no predictable loops, no recycled aesthetics from mana enhancement sims. It wasn't made for frontline hunters.
It was made... for someone like him.
A support. An analyst. A pattern decoder. And more than that — someone who, deep down, had been waiting for something that could truly move him.
"This isn't just simulation," he whispered, more to himself than to the mic. "This is... a memory. Or a vision. Someone built this from a feeling, not a function."
He glanced again at the gold-and-green lozenge in the corner of the screen.
"Whoever made this... knew exactly what they were doing."
Raul raised a hand, asking for silence from no one — a silly reflex from being completely absorbed.
There was no generic menu. No algorithmic jump scares. No canned dialogue.
This thing had blood. It had choice. It had intention.
For the first time in ages, Raul wasn't analyzing.
He was feeling.
And for the first time since the world became a fortress surrounded by monsters, he wondered — heart pounding — who would dare to create beauty within the chaos.
His eyes were locked.
Raul wasn't playing the game anymore.
He was inside it.
Inside the tape. Inside the car. Inside the story.
He'd agreed to play Lament of the Forgotten Souls as a dare — a chat challenge, intrigued by a newly uploaded game with no credits, no trailer, no simulation registry. No other streamer had dared touch it yet. He was the first. The first to dive in with an active Arcane Seed, synced through neural connection via the Root Diadem.
Raul kept his gaze fixed on the screen as the cutscene played out. It felt like a lucid dream — only shared. Overlayed in his vision, the chat floated like a translucent layer over the foggy road. Comments flew by: some laughing at Pedro's voice lines, others betting how long it would take for the horror to kick in. Raul gave a small, restrained smile.
"Yeah, I'm still here. But the story's driving for now," he said, his voice taking on a calm, almost meditative tone. "Immersion's running in 'you're not in charge' mode, so sit tight and enjoy the ride."
The Root Diadem vibrated lightly against the base of his skull — not painful, but a reminder that the boundary between him and Lucas was only code and neural impulse.
Lucas didn't respond. He just slowed the car to a crawl, the engine rumbling in low idle, and stopped in front of an iron gate, rusted and half-hidden beneath creeping fog that now seemed alive — swirling in slow pulses, like breathing. The virtual camera held on the gate, fixed on the corroded metal, as the cutscene ended. Everything was still — motionless, as if the world was waiting for the player's next command.
That was when the first choice appeared for Raul, viewing everything from inside the sim through the Diadem: follow the main road to the asylum, or turn right and explore the grounds.
>Follow the main road to the asylum.
>Turn right and explore the grounds.
Raul hesitated for a second, analyzing the scene. The atmosphere was heavy, and even with his experience in immersive simulacrums, he could feel the weight of it. He chose to turn right.
The camera followed Lucas and Pedro as they slipped through a side gate, skirting the sanatorium beneath the tall tree shadows. The ground was uneven, covered in dry leaves and the scattered remnants of old objects, like forgotten relics. Then, the two characters split — a narrow path forced Pedro to detour.
Moments later, the camera — now from Lucas's perspective — found another camera lying in the dirt. Still recording.
Raul — or Lucas — crouched, picked it up, and hit play to see what it had captured.
Curious, he played the footage.
Pedro held the camera, filming as Lucas pushed through the side gate. The metal groaned with age and resistance, blending with the dry crackle of dead leaves scattered along the ground. Ahead, the sanatorium loomed behind twisted, towering trees, as if the forest itself had grown inward to bury it. A low, crawling fog hugged their legs like something alive, thick and damp.
The path was narrow and uneven, littered with decaying leaves, dried mud, and faint tire tracks long abandoned. Off to the sides, skeletal remains of old ambulances rested like broken beasts — windshields shattered, doors torn off, their paint corroded to brown flakes. One still bore the faint emblem of the São Sebastião Asylum, nearly erased by rust.
"This is straight out of a crime reenactment," Pedro muttered behind the lens. "And we're the extras about to die."
Lucas, already a few paces ahead, barely reacted. He narrated to no one in particular, voice pitched with excitement, like a student turning paranoia into a thesis.
"Entry log, 02:36 AM. Lateral access to former medical complex confirmed. Signs of looting, emergency evacuation likely. Objects discarded suggest panic. Potential for a breakthrough case study—"
"Lucas," Pedro interrupted, "this isn't fieldwork. Something's off. The air's wrong. Still. Heavy."
They reached a fork in the path — one led toward the main structure, the other disappeared into overgrown weeds beside a collapsed fence.
"Which way?" Pedro asked.
Lucas pointed ahead. "I want a clean shot of the front. Go around. Meet me in the psych wing. We'll compare footage."
"You just want your dramatic opening shot."
But Pedro didn't argue. He turned off toward the side trail. Lucas pressed on.
Minutes later, Lucas stopped. A camera — Pedro's — lay on the ground, still recording. Red light blinking. Unmoving.
"Pedro?" Lucas called, tension creeping into his voice.
He knelt, picked up the camera with both hands, and pressed play.
The footage flickered. Pedro, visibly uneasy, walked fast, muttering to himself. Then a rustle behind him. He spun. The image jolted. A scream. The camera fell sideways. Static. Then black.
When it resumed, silence. The frame remained still, grounded in the dirt. Until the worn tips of Lucas's shoes entered the frame.
End of footage.
Everything froze. The HUD dissolved.
Raul felt the shift hit him like a surge through the spine. A pull inward. He was no longer watching.
He was Lucas now.
Breathing. Holding the camera. Looking through fog at a world long abandoned. Cold. Damp. Real.
And then—
A prompt appeared:
>Flee the area and abandon Pedro
>Search for your best friend
The simulation awaited his choice.
And somewhere, behind the silence and fog, the game was only just beginning.