Game 12: A Taxi Ride to Hell
Why is everybody pretending like I cut the ocean with a spoon? Han Tae-yang (한태양) was scrolling through the continuous stream of comments and mumbling. his screen was flashing, and thousands of strangers screaming CHEATER! "GOD-TIER!" "HACKER!" all at once. To him, it felt overblown. He had battled that covetous bamboo-staff tree as he would brush his teeth, vexing, yet obligatory.
Then perhaps he had forgotten what normal was like.
The monster was a nightmare to most of the level ones. For him, it was Tuesday. But Tae-yang struck himself on the forehead with the thought.
"Oh... right. I forgot that other people play like walking potatoes. My bad."
He sat on the couch reminiscing of the old times, times of instant noodles dust and unpaid rent slips stacking up on the desk. Once he would have sold his soul to get a free lunch, not to mention ten billion won. At that time, he was so hungry that he live streamed mukbangs that ate the leftovers of other people. The chat laughed, he cried and his stomach still grumbled.
Now? Different story.
When someone believed that he would be dispensing strategies like free tissues, he was dreaming.
Knowledge is all the meal ticket I have, he said to himself. And this time I am not giving it away for scraps.
The system was already murmuring of a new trial in twenty-four hours. That was the real prize. He required numbers, rather than notoriety or big deals. And he already had a plan.
That is how he ended up waving a taxi, when the sun had set behind the skyline.
The cab reeked of three lives of garlic fried chicken and air freshener attempting, and failing to secure victory in the war. The driver was an older man with a belly that was stretching his seatbelt and was looking at him in the mirror.
"Where to, kid?"
"Uh... an abandoned house," Tae-yang said flatly.
The driver blinked. "Excuse me? Did you just say abandoned house?"
"Yeah. You know, spooky, broken windows, probably rats holding a union meeting inside. That kind."
The driver's brow furrowed. "Young people these days... Do I look like a horror movie side character? Should I start practicing my scream now?"
Tae-yang grinned. "Don't worry. If ghosts eat me, you'll at least get the fare."
The driver muttered all the way down the street, clutching the wheel like he was driving straight into hell. Tae-yang just leaned back, enjoying the drama. He had bigger problems than an old man's paranoia, like what was waiting for him in that house.
By the time he got out, the sky was swallowed by night. The neighborhood was empty, hushed like it had been drained of all life. Cracked sidewalks ran jagged under his feet, weeds stabbing through the cement.
The house itself stood at the edge of the block like a corpse that refused burial.
Its paint was long peeled away, leaving rotted wood exposed. Broken shutters dangled by one hinge, swaying with the wind like tired eyelids refusing to stay open. The windows, what was left of them, were black holes. Some still had shards of glass clinging to the frame, jagged like teeth.
The roof sagged like a broken spine, tiles missing, letting moonlight pierce through gaps. And the front gate... if you could call it that... leaned so far sideways it looked like a drunk man trying to get home after payday.
The air smelled of damp mold, rust, and something sharp, metallic, like dried blood. The neighborhood cats gave the house wide berth, watching from shadows with glowing eyes, tails twitching. Even stray dogs refused to bark.
Tae-yang stood at the gate, staring.
His gut tightened. Not from fear. Well, maybe a little. But mostly from the thrill.
"This is it," he whispered. "The perfect place to die tragically in a B-rated horror film."
He gripped the rusted gate, pushed it, and it squealed like a dying boar.
Every step up the cracked stone path echoed like thunder in his ears. The wooden porch creaked under his weight, loud enough that even ghosts would've complained about the noise. His breath fogged the air as the night grew colder, every gust of wind whispering nonsense through the hollow window frames.
He reached for the front door.
The wood was swollen with damp, scarred with scratches, as though something had clawed its way out, or in. His palm brushed the surface, and a shock of cold rushed up his arm, like the house itself was alive and waiting.
For a second, he thought he heard whispering.
Then silence.
Han Tae-yang pushed the door.
The hinges screamed. The darkness inside swallowed him whole.
And just as his foot crossed the threshold.
[SYSTEM ALERT: TRIAL LOCATION ENTERED.]
The door slammed shut behind him.