"̸P̷s̴y̵c̷h̵o̶l̷o̷g̵i̸c̴a̸l̶l̴y̷,̴ ̸d̶r̸e̴a̴m̴̴̴̵̵̷̶̵̷̷̴̷̶̴̴̸̸̷̸̴̴̶̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅs̶ ̵a̶r̴e̵ ̴d̸e̶f̸i̵n̵e̷d̵ ̷a̷s̷ ̶"̴s̵u̶b̷j̶e̵c̸t̷i̶v̸e̵ ̷m̵̴̵̷̵̸̸̴̶̶̵̷̷̵̷̵̴̵̷̵̸̶̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅe̴m̷̴̷̷̵̵̷̶̷̷̷̸̸̴̸̷̴̸̸̶̶̸̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅo̶r̴i̶e̴s̸ ̵o̸f̶ ̶w̴h̵a̷t̷ ̷w̵e̷ ̴e̶x̴p̶e̷r̶i̴e̸n̷c̷e̷ ̴w̷h̴i̸l̷e̵ ̴s̸l̶e̸e̶p̴i̶n̴g̵"̵ ̶o̵r̵ ̷"̸v̶i̶v̵i̸d̴,̷ ̸v̶i̷s̵u̵a̷l̵ ̶s̸e̶q̶u̸e̷n̸c̵e̵s̶ ̸o̶f̸ ̸i̷m̶̴̴̴̷̸̴̶̸̶̵̷̵̸̸̶̸̴̷̵̴̵̤͇̪̣̱̻͇̩̜͚̭̗̻̽͗̇͛̕ͅa̸g̷e̶r̴y̵ ̵t̴h̸a̴t̴ ̴o̵c̷c̸u̷r̴ ̵a̶t̷ ̵r̶e̷g̶u̶l̸a̴r̵ ̵i̴n̸t̴e̸r̷v̵a̵l̶s̶ ̵d̶u̴r̵i̵n̵g̵ ̸s̵l̴e̷e̶p̷,̸"̶ ̷a̶s̴ ̷d̸e̷f̸i̷n̵e̵d̷ ̸i̴n̸ ̷s̴t̴u̵d̷i̴e̴s̶ ̶b̵y̴ ̶K̵i̶t̷h̵i̶n̴g̴ ̶e̸t̷ ̸a̴l̶.̶ ̷a̵n̵d̴ ̷R̵u̴s̸s̴e̴l̷ ̵e̶t̵ ̷a̵l̸.̷ ̶
W.k- .P
Ṫ̴̩ḧ̶̼́͑i̸͓̜͗s̷̙̱̓̀ ̴̻̓ḋ̴͎͜ẹ̵̛͙ṣ̴͕͋̌c̴̛̹̰̅r̵̦̖͆͑i̷̛͔͆p̸̢̿t̷̨̉̅í̶̠͘ọ̴̗͛n̸̮̖̿ ̵̗͝ȯ̵̩f̷̯́ ̵̡̛͂d̵͇͒͐ŗ̶̓̿ȇ̴͙a̴͉̺͠m̸̥̌̂ș̷͍̑ ̴̫̊͘ả̷̝̠̎s̷̲̊̈ ̷̲̒f̴̪͕̿͐r̷͓̼̔̎ǎ̸̬͝ġ̸̟̾m̸̟̍ế̷̟n̵̻̽t̴̟̓e̴͚͕̎̆d̶̘̒ ̵̩̜̐n̴̤̻̏ả̶̠͙r̷̭̋r̸̨̄͊a̵̜̓̉ͅt̵͈̻͛́i̸̭̰͊̓v̸̮̪̇̑e̴̹̒s̵͇͙̒̚ ̶͓̗͛s̷̩̚h̴̟̟͊͠ȁ̵̛͎p̸̨̚ě̷͎̎d̷̛͈͆ ̷̝̋͆b̴̲̽y̵̲͉̓̑ ̷̻́̈́ť̸͕h̷̯̀͠ẹ̶̈̈́ ̸̙̰̒̀b̴͙͂ṛ̵̅a̷͚̾i̴̗̒̈́n̸͔͔̔͌'̴̫͓̔s̷̢̟̐ ̸͓̇a̷̎͜͝t̷̥͊͗t̶̗̪͊͊e̴͓̊ṁ̴̭̳p̶̳̪̑t̶͖̺̀ ̵̛̪͜ẗ̶̹̦́o̴͔͛͠ ̷͇̭̌̇p̴̭̎̂r̷͓͠o̴̯̾c̶̗͚̓̓e̴̡̒̕s̸̞̊ṣ̵͖͝ ̴̢̇̒e̵̘̗̓̋m̴̜̀̎o̴͎̓ẗ̵̨́̈́i̵͎̦͆͠o̸̟͑̽ṉ̸́s̸͔͠,̴͇̮̈ ̵̥͐͋m̴̖̆ȅ̴̻͛m̸͍͂͝o̴̧͉̽͝r̸͉̟̊͊i̶͔͊͘e̷̠͛ş̴̣͒,̷̗̋ ̸̬̣̔å̵͈͊ń̷̖́d̶̥͉͑̇ ̵̝̇̕s̷̲̀ȅ̵̺̗̃n̶̙̖͗͝ŝ̶̳o̶̧̠̕r̶͉͕͋̍ẏ̷̩ ̴̣̔̌s̸̼̅̋t̵̻̯̉ï̸̝̹m̴̡̭͒̈́ù̷̬̚l̴͎͖͋̚i̸̲̟̔ ̶̞̺́̍d̸̤͂͌ú̸̧͖r̵̰̀i̶̺͑n̷̖̑̀g̶̨̛͚̒ ̸̥̪́̕R̵̼͛E̸̎ͅṂ̶̉̓ ̴̥̲̂͐c̵̬̫̔̉y̷̲̥̾c̸͍̆͌l̷̺͌ͅë̶͍́̄s̸͎̍.̴͔͔̃̄ ̵̘̓͝Ỹ̸͖͉é̸̙t̴̯̄͝,̴͔̗͂͋ ̶͔͚͆̌f̵̼̎o̸̰̅͒r̵̨͙̅ ̴̤͗͝ä̵̪́ḻ̴̳͋͠l̶̨̾͜͝ ̷̖̙̄̽t̵̢̞̐h̶̙̘̎̈́e̸̘͖͌ ̴͈̖̉c̴͕̙̀͑ḽ̸͑̋i̸̭̋ń̴̬ȋ̴̘̞̑ĉ̶̜̾͜a̶̲̖͐̏l̸̩͆͜ ̸̟̘̈ṗ̸̭r̶̤͋e̴̗͝͝c̶̨͒͜i̶̠̽̍ṡ̶̬̥i̵̝̅̂o̷̫̯̔͌ñ̵̟͚,̵͙̻̀ ̸͔̙́̊s̴̺̼̅̊ủ̸̬̰͠c̸̹̪̑̂h̴̳̫͂̾ ̸̄̿ͅd̴͇̻̋e̸̱͠f̶͉̑͐i̶̗̙̅̒n̴͉̚ì̵̬͎̊t̸͚̙͒͝i̸̪̊o̴̠̘̎͗n̵̼̅̕s̶͎̐͒ ̵͕̙̚f̶̨̫͋̚ä̷͔́i̶͆̃͜l̴͕͕͒͑ ̵̼̆͋t̸̻͙͆̈o̷̥̙͂̍ ̷̛͔͜c̸̺̯͂̋ã̸̼p̵͉͆̍t̶͕͕͒u̸̧̓ŗ̸̜͊e̸̼̩̽̔ ̸̤̣̄̀t̷̜̽h̴̙͍̑̈́e̶̯̘͆̀ ̸̡̙̏͆v̶̮̅̒i̷̗̖̒̀s̵̻͖̚c̵͇̫͌̾e̴̩̊͊r̵͔̯̂̾a̶̯̒l̵̩̇,̸͕͙̍ ̴̼̬̑a̶̢̓l̴̗̱̃m̵̢̭͝o̶͖̼͝͝ṡ̶͉͇t̴͍̬͌ ̵͕͒̓m̶̙̚ÿ̷̨̲́s̶͉͊̂t̵͎̟͛͘i̴̲̎c̴̏͂͜a̴̬̅͂l̶͚̙̔̑ ̵̘̲͗q̶̹͕̈́͠u̶̢̗̎́a̸̞̼͒ḷ̶̡̕͠ḭ̷̛͋t̵̟͋̾y̶̗͛̊ ̵͎̇ō̶̖̹f̶͔̟̊ ̴̭̫̐d̸̛ͅr̴̡̈́ẹ̶̢̊͘a̶̻̚ṁ̴̰̹̾i̴̯̿n̷̽ͅǵ̷̡.̷͈̺̋ ̴̝́T̷̝̘̂̕h̷̪͐͝ē̶̦̙̚ ̴̣̓̍ẅ̸̘́̓a̸͑̈́͜ỳ̶̤͐ ̷̯̃̽ỉ̴̢̖t̷͈̔ ̶̯̓d̷̡̚í̵̞s̷̨̱̍s̴̜̮͋͒o̴̧͔̿̑l̴͕͋v̴̱̫̈́e̶̛ͅs̶̥̾ ̴̧͔͠t̴̮̮͋h̶̦̓̚ë̴̖̻́ ̷̫̪̇͠r̶̠̊̏i̴͕̥̔g̸͍̒͝ị̵̧̈́d̴̻̋͋ ̵̠̾b̵̮̙̚ȏ̸̗ͅu̴̲͐ṋ̸̈́ḓ̸̑a̴̻͈̿͝r̶̛̩̈́͜i̷̥̇e̵͕̙͑͒s̷͖̾ ̴̦̋́ó̷͕f̴̲̱̅̊ ̵̤̬͋̄t̵̫́̃ȉ̶̢ḿ̵̠̪̏ę̷̰̉,̷̖͐̃ ̷̮̯͂ś̸̭p̸͉͝á̶͍ć̶̨̻̿é̶̤̅,̴͚̙͝ ̴͙͆á̸͈̜̈́n̵̹̄d̸̝̎ ̵͔̅ǐ̵̥͓d̵͚̈́͠ẽ̷͇̚n̵̬͛t̵̲̂̏i̴͑̽ͅt̷̼̍ý̴͈̗.̶͕̟͂̇ ̴͕̮̄̅T̴̡̙̚ȯ̵̧͖̋ ̴͙̻͑̚ả̸̡ṋ̸̀͌ ̷͍̌ő̴̱̺͛ṟ̸́͗ͅd̶͔̪͝i̴̬̓n̴̙͔̑̂ạ̸̒͝r̴̡͛̅y̷̦͆̕ ̸̙̬̊͂p̷̙̋̍ě̶̫ŕ̴͈͠s̷̰̓o̴͍̜͘n̵̖̻̈́̌,̶̥͖̈́ ̵̡̬͆̓d̶̤̅r̴̼̈͑ė̷͔͝a̸̲̓m̴͔̼̂̚ś̶̩̓ͅ ̷̧̒̋a̴̝͎̐r̶̭̅e̸͖̬͑͑ ̵̢̦̽͝l̸̤̟̀̍e̴̪̍s̵̛͖̅ͅs̸̖͛ ̵͇͕̍͊ḁ̶͌̏ ̵͉̄̏n̵̨̋e̴͙̍u̴̪̒r̸̖̙̚ó̶̫̚ľ̶̝o̷̻͝g̷̱̃͌ȉ̴̑͜c̶̤̤̑̿a̷̦̎̎l̴̻̬̚͝ ̶̹̻͊͘p̷̧͓̈́́h̸̻̕é̸̡̩͘n̸͓̿̔ͅỏ̸̯̝m̴̢͖̈ȩ̸̘̐͝ǹ̶̞͗o̴̞̘̐́n̴̠̝̿͠ ̸̢͐a̴̩͓̋͂ṉ̵͍̅d̷̢̽̇ ̸̰̭̍͗m̷̢̈́̏ͅò̸̢͒ŗ̸̏͝ẹ̴͖́ ̶̳̱̑a̸͇̳͑͆ ̷̢̮̕d̸̢̰͂e̴̱̓̽s̸̬͔̅̇c̷̖̼̃̒ê̷̞ń̴̘t̵̬̿ ̷̳͎̀i̷̛̤͝n̶̹̆̚t̸̥͋ő̵̺̯ ̸̖͌a̸̼̞̿̀ ̴̡̏r̴̩̮͆̈e̴̡͎͊̀a̸̻̼̓l̸̳̎m̸̞͍͋ ̸͎̌͝w̶̰̗̽͠h̶̳̝̑e̴̼̎r̷̤͚͑e̵̼̗͗ ̶̦͍̿r̷̢͝͝e̷̥̞̓a̴͍̣̿l̶͖͈̊͠į̴̏̈́t̶̪͔̾̍y̶͐͜ ̸̣͕́͘ù̸̹͘n̴̛̺͜ȓ̴̹̣a̷͇͚͌͋ṽ̷͍̟̎e̵͓͓͑͘l̶̠̇ṡ̸̝̕ ̸͎̠̇i̶̯̘̽̑n̵̟̝̂ ̶̏͜f̴͙͂ă̵̰̯ṿ̷̽ǒ̸̢͂u̵͉͘r̷̥̺̔ ̵͖̙̅o̸̢̅͐ͅf̴͖̀̈́ ̶͚̿a̶̞̎̃ ̵̜̇r̶̥͘e̴̡̋ą̴̲̉͒l̷̔͜i̸̡̤̅̿ṫ̷͈̇y̴̞͗ ̸̡̒̽o̴̮̼̕f̷̼͠ ̵̦͌͘t̶̳͊ẖ̷̉̀ẹ̴͋̚i̶̓͜ṟ̶̮̀͝ ̵̩̼̈́̄o̶͍͂͠ŵ̶̹͑n̴͈̕.̵̭̓͝
Wake Up!
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The air rushed back into my lungs with a gasp that felt like drowning.
One moment, I was there, deleted by a book, vision dissolving into static and the next, I was here, standing in the same dense forest that stretches endlessly. The same village with the same hands trembling against the frailness.
You're an amazing guy, Isaac Mun ahh death.
WHAT THE FUCK.
I'd leaned on this log minutes before. The metallic tang of blood was still fresh in my mouth, but my body was whole again, every injury sustained was erased as if death had been nothing but a nightmare.
Time hiccupped. My memories clawed at the edges of coherence: the Myconid, the Stygian Surge, the W̷͎̠͔̫̥͎̟͊̀͊͗͑͐̽̽̆̄́͆͑̚e̶̡̛̤̩͎̯̫̥̼̤̎̿̈́̓̈́̈́̔͝å̵̯̆̒̎̓̔̔̋̆̄̕̚͝v̶̥̹̫̍̇́̿͂̊̈́͂̔̀͘e̶͉̰̱̮͎̫̘̯̟̰͕̋̽͆́͂̆̊̍̄̿̎͒͑͜ͅr̸̡̥͌ ̵̨̲̣͕̞̮͓̇͛̀̈́̍̌̀̎́͋̂̏̐͆͜͠ö̴̡̢̼̫͎̦̦̪̜͇̟́ͅf̷̮͈̌́͊̇̈́͐͆̑̀̈́̓̌͝͠ ̸̹̦͌͛͂̋Ļ̷̙̫̦̮͇̯̾ȇ̸̡̡͕͈͎̞͈̜̹͖̩̯̻̽̎̊̿́͂͒̈́̽t̷̡̧̜̱̦͊͊̋h̴̢͔̫̼͉͉͓͎̫͚̼̪͒̂̒͌͊̚͠a̴̢̓̑̈́̿̋̓̊͌͐͒̈́̾́͘ř̶͇̪̙̗̳̈́g̵͎̈́́͂͆̂̿̅i̶̧̬͍͍̮̠̖̻̲͋́̽̋́̍̈̂̎͐̍̆̐͂ͅĉ̷̰̫̞̫̱̫͍̍͆͆̓̎ ̵͓̦̟̱̯̟̌̽̈͜L̶̈͌̍̍̂͂̆̈́̏̐́̈́͘͜͝i̸̫̝̪̞̞̖͎̅̎͠g̶̢̰͙͚̜͓̤̹̜̼̹̪̰̬̋̈́͗͜͠h̶̫͑̀̀̐̃̍t̷̹̖̓͂́͑̋ and the darkness.
But I'm back here, stitched back into a moment I'd already lived. The same shadows flickered at the corner of my vision, warped in the heat haze, as if spacetime itself had recoiled from the paradox of my return.
I pressed my palm to my chest, feeling the heartbeat that shouldn't exist. Was this a salvation from God or a flaw in the fabric of reality, a glitch that made death just another door?
"W-What the fuck, man?"
A dim blue interface appears to me:
Are y̸͖̜̍͛̈́̃o̵̢̥̤̜̪̟͕̗͍̹̐̽̔̒̇̐͝ư̸̮̱̲͈̙͔̳̟͈̫̦͉͂̂̃̓̈́͆̃̈́̀̋̒͠ alright? i̴͕̳̞͓̔̿͗͝ͅ don't have a̶̱̩̲̠͕̤̤̺̗̘͌n̶̥̝̳̲͌̒̀̄̓̽̊̈́y̵̝͙̙̼̲̱͉̥̟̩̿́͛̾ more ả̵̡̧̧͎̲̼̱̦̰̦͎̼̰̲̺͎̠̗͓̗̫͍̞͖̯͚͇̤̭̗̼̙̘̼̹̬̘̯̳͙̤̯̬̗̞̳̩̤̭̼̣̘̟̩̤̗̗̠̇͋̽͌͋͗͒͑̾͆͊͋̀̉͂́̀͛̑̓̈̃̆͋͗͆̀́̅̓̈́͗̈͘̚͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅu̴̢̧͉̰̹̪̹̲̜̦̪͙̝̩̣̮̫͖̬̬̥̭͚̜̹͙͇̼̳̩͕̪̓̂͋̂͋͒̄̍̀̀̋͊̀́̀͋͛̃͂̂͆̂͒̆̿̿͆̋͊̐͋̆͐̍͗̀͘͘̕̕͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅţ̶̲̳͈̗̜̪͌͛̏̔̔̃̿͋̄͆̄̇͘͠h̴̢̟̥͈̤̑̓̅̋̾̀͒̋̀̈́͑̈́̊́̑͘͝ͅo̶̧̧̢̡̟̻͈̠͇̫̳̭̖̻̣̖̝̲͔̯̯͎̗̰̝̠͕̼̯̦̹̪̯͈͔̱̩̮̩͓̣̠͙̳͕̜͍̮͈̼̙̻̽͋̈́̒͂͑̋̀̈͝ͅr̸̡͉̗͈̞̒̎̾̎̎̈́̐̈́͌͋͐͛͛̓̆̓͆̂̇͜͠͠͝ͅi̴̡̛͔̦̝͈͍̰͕͚̩͕͇͖̯͚͆̐̓͑̑̀͌̇̎̀́̄͑͑́̑͂̈́̓̃̐̃̀̍̀̽̍̍̓̀͂͌͊̇̿̾͛̅́͊̓͊̽̋͗̐̋̒͛͐̔͘̕͘͝͝͝͝y̶̛͎̠͍̹͎͕̣̻̘̬̥̒̀̏̅̈́̉̒̃̓̀͝͝ͅ left to sen̴̢͍̫̹͈̜͒͂̈́̓̐͑͊͘͠d̴̛̗͓̹͕̥̰̽̽̔̿̽̐̎͋̓͠ you bȁ̵͕͎͚̺̭͖̃́̽̅͑͋̇̿̐͆͒̇́̕c-
The system glitches and stutters, as if fading?
B̴̛͙̩͙̩̏͂̉͑͋̎͒̀̄́͊͌͘͝ą̸͍͈͗̊c̶̫͂̔͆̒́̀̀̐̀̾̀̃̇̈́̆ķ̴̮͚͍̄̌̈́̽̄͗͛̈́̈͒ ò̸̢̬͈͔̖̼̫͔ne m̸̡̧̭̲̮̺̼̫̳̩̰͙̌̈͗͋̊̑͐͝͝o̴̢̰͖̩̭̜͙̖͎͉͇͋̓͒̎̒̓̐̒͌͛͋͜͜͝ͅr̴̛̭̰̂̈́̐̀̆̐̋̾͝͝͝e̷̲̞͕͇̫̫͚̍̆͛̿̅͐̐̾̿͛̔̌͊͜͜ͅ tim̸̡̞̟̺͔̫̿̔̈́́ë̵̪̝̤͔̙̲́̉̀̈́͐̊̾̀̇̐̃̕̚, I̸͎̞̯̼͚̯͎̼̽͜ ̷̥̭̺͈͕̦͍̞̤̬̠̙̝͋̑͒̈͘͝c̵̢̀̎̓̈́͊̈́́̔̒͌̕a̷̗͑͐͛̽̍̈́́̚ņ̵͈̪̠̞̼̖̗̋̓̀͗̅̌̑̒͂͂̓̽̅͜ ̶̧̈́̀̾̓͋̉̀̚ö̵͚͇̾͗̾̾̃̾̉̽̈͒͑͠͝n̵͔̩̪̖̞͍̳̥̝͎̤͈͒̂̎͑̇̄̑̈́̇̾̈̾̎̐̕͜l̷͕͓̼̹̭̹̥̰͈̼͉̽͛̈́̾̃̋͊͋͜ỳ̸̟̐̍̑̋͛̈́̐̓̅̄̄́̈͝ ̴̧̨̢̨͔͔̫̫͕̜̜̮̔͝͝ͅs̶̠͔͚͋ͅh̴̖̤̗͐́̈́̽͒͊͂̔͒̈́̑̇͝͝o̶̯̖͔̣̥̍͛͆͋̏̈̄̑͜͝w̶̪̗̼̘͔̎̈́̑̓͂͆͛͘͘͝ ̴̳͈̦͍̪̠͔̘̣̮̗͆̈́̒̀̂͂̈́̿̒̏̔̊̚͜͜ͅy̸̧̢̢̨̧̩̜̱̥̱̫̞͙̬̽͜ȏ̷͇͎͇̼̭͚́̊̔̇͌͘͝͠u̵̧̡̹̪͍̖̝̥̒̋̀̈́̽̊̃̽́͝ ̶̻͇̻̥̺̩̰̄̍s̸̢͖̒̉̿̇̍̀͝t̵̘̓͐̃̔͗͂̈͂̚͠͝å̷̭͔̖̮͔̜̱̭̫͛̏̑͊̒̈̀̌͗̆͐ͅt̸̡̫̞͎̼̆͆́͑͂̇̈́̋͑̅̉s̵̢̛̲̞̹͔̬̞̠̳̖̠͎͚̍͛͂̿́̌̌̄̿͘̕͠ͅͅ ̶̖̦̺̪͓͕͕̣̈́͒̓́̀̃͜ͅà̷̢̢̛̖͙̪̣̯̥̺̠̬̫̈̐̀̏̈́͜͠ͅn̷̢͍͍͇̠̟̱̠̤̭̈́̂̐̃̌̿̅͒̄͝d̸͍̈́̀̀̇̌͗̆͆̉̎̓͋̚͠ ̴̲̳̣̻̭͎̝̙̫̝̗͗̐̃̂̿̓͂̈́̈́t̵̂̄̌̅̾̑̄̂̈͆̌ͅh̷̯̯̳̟͙̖̞̥̥͖̫͈̞̋̿̽̾̒͗̏̃͌͝͝͠e̸̜͕̼͔̲̻̠͍̙̩̭̬̱̮̒͌̿͘͜ ̶͍̹̽͂̀̕͝ͅw̸̭̫̭͓͑͆̅͗̆̎͆̍̀̃̄̍̊̚͠o̸̧̡̧̢͕̪̲̦͖̖̻͉̺͍͛r̶͇͂̌̂̂͂̋̏̍́̌́̕͝͝l̸͈͉͚̼̞̹͙̭̦̠̥̙͇̝̣̀̔̒̊͗̾̒̅̍̈̔d̷̡̛̳̻̬̥͕̪̹̺͓̒̇̄͊̈́̔͆̉. I̵̛̜̼̤͇͈͇̻̱̟̰̱̿̈̈́͒̋͛̃̄͊̂̓͑̈͂̊'̵̼̈́̑̎͑̅̒̈́̉̾̅̀̀̃̾̓̕l̸̻͕͍͖͙͕̿̋͋̊͌̄̈́͗̀̒̓̾̄̏̅̆͠l̸̻̖̇͛̇͗̿̋̈́̒̒̈́̀̋̐͝ ̴̺̹̝̝̣͓̃̚k̶̨͎̦̮̲͈͔̮̉̆͋̈̑̀͂̿͋̈́͒͘e̷̲͉̲͍͚͚̭̺̝͔͖̺͑̑̀̓̿̉͂ę̷̰̟̭͉̬̮̐̋̉̔̑̈͐̽̎͗̏̆̕͘̚͝p̷̢͔̳͕͎̤̦̘̹̅͐̓̐̌̓̊͘ ̵̺̬̩͉͙͓̞̜̠̜̗̈́̉̃͊̉͐͂̃̆̅́͘į̶͚͎̫͕͓̺̫̜͙̰̙̘̠̣̰́̉̓͊̓̔t̷̯̘̼̓̋͗̀̈̅͝ ̵̻͉̳̱̲̱͕̞́ȧ̷̧̡̲̤͚̯̠͍̱̹͐̆̆̓̽̋͛͆̚͜͝͠͝t̴̨̛̮̱̦̭͐͂̿ ̶̘͎͈̮̥͉͉̱̉̈́̓̉̓̈̌́͋̚b̶̥̻͖̩̘̜̫̠͔̖̝͓̦̯̩̽̒̈́̽͋̓̑͘͝ầ̸̗͔̩̩̣̯͖̺̖̖̺̝́͑͒͋́̓͋̊́͘y̶̧̧̢̡̬̰̜̜̭̻͙̻̦͈̋͒̈́ͅͅ ạ̸̛̫̲̭̱̍̾͆̄̓̾́͗̋̊̂̈́͘̚̚͝n̴̢̦̱̭̫̆͊̂̉̈́̈́̌̃̿̈̏̓̓͠͝ͅd̷̡̜͔̘̫͕̘͓̳͍̥̙͙̭͛̀̍̅͑̚͜ ̶̨̨̬̭̟͍̺̖̮̰̟̥̖̲̞̇̍̽̍̃͘b̶̢̳̻̺̪̙̟̼͕̝͓̰̊͗̈́̔̇̌͒͛̈͊́̚͘͝͠͝ͅr̸̛̩͎̦̱̱̞͇̀̀̀͛͊̌͠i̷̮̝̝̜͔̥̓̉̊n̴̹͂̆̄͆̽̄̋̑̑̈́̕͘g̷̯̰̳̥̬̤̖͋̆̓̾̚ ̴̢̢͍̙͎͕̰̤̝̞̘͌̅̐̅̈́̊̀̓̀̋́͠ḩ̸͈̪͕͖̝̘̓͜i̶̧̢̠͖̮͖̦̳̫̭̥͈͙̣̟̎͜m̸̨͈͍̲̮̺͚͚̣̰̩͙̈́̆̒͗̓̂͝ͅͅ ̷̥̺̣̬̝̲̯͔̰̞̋́̑̄̈̄̐̊̈́͘ͅb̵̳̘͎̥̍̃͑̀͋̋̍̔͗̅͘͝a̷̡̳̥͍͙͑͆̓̚c̸̢̭̘̞͗́̊͌̅̊͗̄̈k̷̹̘̈̎͂. S-sţ̸̳̞̮̣̙̝̯̺͖͎̳͕̮͈̇͂́ay ̵̯͂̏̋̾̕ā̷̢̜͕͉͍̱̖̞̰̙ḻ̶̢͙̥̫̹͚̼̫̉̄́̄̐͛ͅi̸̧͙̯͉̪͕̱̖͓͍̲̺͋̂̅̈͐̈́͘͠v̶̨̻̯̅̿͘ę̷̻̲̥̺͎̗̎͗́͛͂̐͘, Ple̵̡̡̡̡̛̠̗̹̜̬̙̯̺̲͆̈́ą̴̨̟̪̱͖̖͕̒͛̂̈̄̍́͂̕̚se
And the interface disappears.
More authority? Send me back? Keep it at bay? Bring him back? Stay alive?...
What the hell is allat supposed to mean???
I take a look around me. Precisely accurate. The bonfire. The screaming woman and her charred son were next to her in the flames. The same regurgitation in my stomach with the same scent of burning fat. Again, too realistic to be a dream.
But if everything's the same. Ritualist Matthew approached in front of me, with a sly grin. The same massive cleaver. With the same face that looked like a taunt and an invitation.
"Oh? Hi there… Wanna join us for a little snack?"
I didn't know.
It couldn't know.
But I did. I'd felt that glare twice. No. Thrice?
The lines of my morality blurred.
The fear of death carved the killing movements needed deeper into my muscles, my nerves.
'Wind Slash'. The words hummed in my skull like a struck bell.
This time, I won't run from them.
Ritualist Matthew lunged again. The same generic way he did previously.
I sidestepped, the motion similar to the past, and raised my arm.
"Wind Slash."
Energy surged.
The air split with a scream that wasn't mine.
A crescent of mana tore forward, shearing Ritualist Matthew's finger cleanly off alongside the cleaver. 5 thuds sounded out. 1 for each finger cut. Then a greater thud. For the cleaver and the owner hitting the ground. Crying out in pain. The mud was dyed a deep red.
Remaining MP: 230/250 |
The village froze. For they have seen what I did to poor Matthew.
I made sure that he couldn't run away for future interrogation. So…
I took his dagger from his waistbelt. And as I stepped on his back…
I cut the back of his ankles (Achilles Tendons)…
I cut the back of his knees (Hamstring Tendons)...
I stabbed and twisted his forearms (Flexor Tendons)...
And I severed the front of his elbows (Bicep Tendons)...
It's so quiet. I wonder what it's like to be dissecte一
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!"
"IT FUCKING HURTS STOPP!!! PLEASE IT HURTS!!!! FUCK FUCK FUCK. ARGHHHHHH!!!!"
Ughhh, too noisy.
To complete my art piece. I stripped my top and tied it to his mouth as a makeshift mask for now.
Good. That should prevent him from moving and wasting energy screaming.
Nevertheless, the scream was the trigger word for the rest of the Ritualist. They all picked up their weapons and ran at me with their Enhanced Strength and Staminas…
It really pissed me off. Maybe I should try eating them to gain their attributes…
Nah.
I didn't hesitate any longer.
My fingers flicked the air again, again and again.
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
"Wind Slash."
Arcs of razor-wind.
Bodies ruptured.
Tents shredded.
Blood misted the entire camp.
I kept movin一
Ghhhuuuaaahhhkkk. Fuck…
He kept moving, numb, until the screams stopped. Until only the crackle of the bonfire remained.
This particular Ritualist thought to herself.
Who the fuck is this guy? He's fucking creepy!
He's just been killing us while smiling.
Wait.
Has he ever stopped smirkin一
In that moment of thought, Isaac ran straight at her with his arms out.
"STAY BACK! I'LL TELL YOU WHATEVER YOU WAN一"
Remaining MP: 10/250 |
Oops. She could have provided good info…
Eh. I got Matthew for it.
A single stab to do the job.
But that wasn't the end of it.
The woman stared at him, her child's charred corpse clutched tightly against her chest. Her eyes were not grateful.
They were hollow, empty, yet drowning in pain.
Her vocal cords had been seared to ash, her body clinging to life only by the faintest thread.
Tsk… I should help her.
For no particular reason, the sight angered Isaac. He decided to grant her a swift death, not out of mercy but spite.
She, at least, would be allowed the permanence of an ending. He, condemned to die twice and awaken again in the ruined world he had once adored as a boy, would not.
"Wind Slash."
The words left his lips by reflex rather than belief. Nothing answered. No hiss of energy, no cutting arc of power, his hand outstretched in a fool's gesture.
Of course. How foolish of me.
Remaining MP: 11/250 |
A dull ache spread through his bones; his body was in pain as well.
Even so, even now, he moved. Slow. Awkward.
With the last of his strength, he twisted.
Grip. Twist. 1 2 3.
Crack.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Only the sickening snap of fragile bone and ruptured flesh.
Quiet. Final.
She collapsed like a severed puppet, her eyes still wide.
A thread of red leaked from her lips, blooming across the ground like a muted flower.
And in her final stillness, a faint smile lingered, serene, as if peace had at last found her.
Isaac did not share it.
Something within him stirred. It writhed in his chest like molten nails, grinding against the tender lining of his heart.
Not fire. Worse.
Purpose and will.
It seared brighter than any spell, hotter than any 'Stygian Surge'. It was not Noësis.
It was determination, but the most sinister type.
A step forward.
I'll do it. I'll fucking do it motherfucker.
You wanna kill me and tell me that I'm in some true ending, huh???
Fuck you, man. I'll fucking figure out what shit you're spewing. I'll fucking kill you, you impertinent shit.
And when that moment came, he would make certain the one felt death as he had, twice over if possible, thrice.
Isaac Mun. Not as a player, but as an inhabitant of the EAA.
The crunch of gravel beneath Isaac's boots scrapes against the mud as he forces motion towards a paralysed Ritualist Matthew.
Time is of the essence. If causality remains unbroken, the Ẁ̷͖͚̎͛͐͠e̴̻͙̟͌̈̈͑͜a̵̭̻̞̪͚̹̬̞̲͕͔̻̜̝̔͜v̸̢̖̹̳̲͙̅́̈́͌̈́͒ȩ̴̛̼͙̖͈̯̹̺̟̖̼̺͈̫̻̰͔̿ř̴͕̦̩̻̪̞͋̈́̏̋̂͊͛̏̀̓͗̕͘͠ ̵̢̲͓̙͈͔̩͖̭̐̊̔̌̀̎̑́̋̉̚̕͜͜ȍ̸̪̦̟̩̍̇̑̽̔͗̃̽̚͝f̷͖̲̪̭͖̌͑̊̔̈́̎̂͐͜ͅ ̷̢̩̞͋́̾͆̐͐͝L̸̢͉̪͎͚͈̪̺̯͚̱̮̼̓̃̊̊͜ė̷̛̖̤͈̆͌̏̈́͑́̈́̊͘͝t̵̢̛͖̤̗̹͓̯͔̲͚͓͔̪̻̪̀̔̿̈́͂̆ͅh̶̨̬͉̖̻̯͉̝͖͎͓̙̱̅ͅå̷̧̢̧̫̙̪̙̥͍̫͌̓̒͋̈́͒͜ŕ̸̨̫̼̮̣̦̀͆̂̽̓͘g̵̡͉̼̈͊̂̅̆͊̄̏̍͋̀͝i̵͇̾̽̌͐̈̋̓̐̇̒͘͝c̸̛̣̙͍͈̹̭̹̹̺͉͚̰̲̈́̑̍̃̇̒̓ͅͅ ̸̢̨̼̲͚͔̞̩̲̣͉̝͈̟͕͇̩́͆̓̏͂͑̌̔̀̄̓̅̕͠L̵̦͔̬̱̹͕̰͔̰̳̱͛͌̌̂ͅͅĩ̴͖͕͉̝̗̘̖̠̤̟̬͍̬̰̃g̴̞͈̥͎͚͔͙̹̫̳̘̳̈́̑̀̍̃͂̆̈̀͋̄̋̚ͅh̶̡͔͎̱̥͍̳̭̟̝͕̞̭͒̉̾̎̆͗͗͋̐̿̑̉̅̎͠͝͠t̷̳͉̖̟͍̝̫̲̐ will pull up soon.
Seeing as he has the authority to dispel the game's system. I stand NO FUCKING CHANCE.
So I'll run. The system has used every ounce of authority it has to stall him, so I'll RUN.
But both his body and mind halted. His earlier death and expenditure of stamina still haunted him.
A mere closure of the book. Like, my life is a fucking joke? A story? Shit, it pisses me off.
His percentage of survival? Absolute zero. Perhaps less than zero, if such cosmic mockery could even be measured.
And yet, his fingers twitched with the phantom memory of mana.
If there remained within him even the faintest ability to cast a spell…
"Temporal Anchor. Personal stats."
The air crackles as reality peels back.
The cerulean interface shudders to life like a wounded machine, extremely blurry:
Name:ERROR
Class: Anomalous Entity
Tittle: "Eulogist of Every Truth", "Audience? of the Acts", "Adept of the Howling Void"
Age: 17 (Biological Age). 19 (Mental Age)
Stats:
- Strength: 1-Star
- Vitality: 2-Star
- Agility: 2-Star
- Intellect: 5-Star
- Stamina: 67%
Attributes:
Temporal Anchor (Passive?): A reminder that you're an outsider, you have been granted the authority to 'perceive' into the inhabitants of this world—With sufficient usage, you may see more…
Hollow Frame (Curable Debuff): While the mind is expansive, the body is a hollow joke—merely a shell incapable of expressing full potential in the material plane.
Element Affinity:
Wind (Main Element): 2-Star
Mana Remaining: 14/250 MP
Hmmmm…
No trace of the "Survival Instinct" attribute.
Well… It did warn me not to die twice. And I disobeyed, this is my punishment, probably.
How cruel…
Actually, how was I brought back to life? What did the system mean by expending too much authority? What authority brings back the dead anew?
In EAA, there were no revival spells, only necromancy. But I'm neither skeleton nor Vethari.
I'm just a temporal paradox.
Tsk, Dammit
Isaac was an outstanding student with knowledge of all things science. Easily answered most questions he faced. But this?
Newtonian cause-and-effect lies shattered, yet entropy still claims its due. What fucking equation governs second chances?
Hypothetically, let's say that this was the true ending.
By the end of the story, the protagonist should have defeated him by banishing him.
So how? Is he another transmigrated? If that's true, that means I'm not the only one who's been transported here. But really? How plausible is that?
I mean. I'm grateful that, at least, I didn't get transported here by some shitty isekai protagonist via truck or summoning.
But still man~…
He kicks Ritualist Matthew in the ankle.
"MMMMMMMMHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
Screamed into the makeshift mask.
That 'boss' could arrive in minutes or hours.
I need a sense of time first so I can form a timeline. I need-
Isaac's priorities crystallise.
Head to Elenos's Institute of Noësical Academics.
The Nexus of the main storyline.