The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points]
[You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)]
[You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)]
[You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
[You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
[You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)]
[You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)]
[You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)]
[You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent)
Programming: 60 (Competent)
Art: 60 (Competent)
Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.
DO NOT READ DOWN , WORD COUNT
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.Chapter 1: A World Without Fear
The glow of the phone screen was cold and unforgiving in the dim light of the small room. Leo sat perched on the windowsill, the rough, painted wood digging slightly into his thighs. One by one, he tapped open the unread messages, his thumb swiping with a grim, mechanical rhythm.
[We regret to inform you that, due to a lack of professional experience, the leadership team feels you are not qualified for the Character Animator position at this time. We wish you the best in your job search. Goodbye.]
[Sorry, our firm is only recruiting Motion Designers with a minimum of five years' experience. Your qualifications do not yet meet our requirements. Apologies.]
[The hiring manager reviewed your resume and sees a promising future for you. However, this position has now been filled. We are truly sorry and wish you luck.]
[Read]
…
A bitter, humorless smile twisted Leo's lips. The phone screen went dark, reflecting his own tired face back at him. He let out a soft, mocking sigh, the sound barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the grime on the windowpane.
"Leo, Leo, Leo," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a low rasp. "You're in the same boat I was in when I first started. Hitting brick walls everywhere. No one willing to take a chance."
His fingers found the condensation-beaded can of soda on the sill beside him. The can hissed as he cracked it open, the sharp scent of sugar and artificial flavoring cutting through the stale air. He tilted his head back, the cold, carbonated liquid a welcome shock to his system, and took a long swallow.
The self-talk might have seemed insane to an outsider, but for him, it was a necessary ritual. It was a way to bridge the chasm between two lives. Because he wasn't the original Leo. Three hours ago, he had been Alex Vance, a successful game producer from another Earth, and then—nothing. Just a dizzying, wrenching dislocation before he'd woken up in this body, in this room, with this life.
After the initial tidal wave of panic and disbelief had receded, a strange, weary acceptance had settled in. This quiet monologue was Alex, the producer, speaking to Leo, the boy whose life he had inexplicably inherited. A eulogy only he could hear.
He took another sip of the soda and let his gaze drift around the room. It was painfully clear that his new family was struggling. The word 'well-off' wasn't even in their vocabulary. The paint on the walls was peeling, the wooden furniture was scuffed and mismatched, and a faint smell of damp and fried food seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
His new father was a water delivery man, a grueling manual labor job that had etched deep lines into his face and stooped his shoulders. His mother washed dishes in the back of a bustling restaurant, her hands perpetually chapped and raw.
And then there was his sister, a sophomore in college. Her life had been derailed by a drunk on a motorcycle who'd plowed into her just outside the campus gates. Her leg was shattered. She was recuperating at home now, the vibrant energy he could sense in family photos replaced by a frustrated, pained stillness. The driver couldn't pay, leaving the staggering medical bills to crush his already burdened parents. Leo, fresh out of university himself, had felt the desperate urgency to find a job, any job, to ease the immense pressure on his family.
This wasn't just a tough situation; it was a crisis. They needed money. Now.
He looked back at the rejection messages on his phone, the clinical, corporate words a stark contrast to the raw desperation of his reality. He felt nothing now—no anger, no disappointment. Just a hollow numbness. He shook his head, drained the rest of the soda, and stared out the window into the narrow, shadowed alley below. The air smelled of wet asphalt and overflowing dumpsters.
"Being rejected is no big deal," he whispered, the words a mantra for himself. "I started from nothing once. I can do it again, even in a new world."
He had accepted it. This was his life now. And this version of Earth, he had to admit, was fascinating. Technology had progressed along a similar path; computers were ubiquitous, and to his surprise, VR technology was already widespread. Culturally, however, it was a different story. The icons he knew, the movies he loved, the games he'd helped create—none of them existed here.
This parallel world had a strange, glaring blind spot.
The entire concept of horror was… stunted. Deficient. Whether it was films, novels, games, or even music, anything designed to frighten was laughably primitive. The genre was so underdeveloped that the very word for "horror" had been warped. People used "terrifying" as a synonym for "shocking" or "surprising."
That performance was absolutely terrifying! they'd say, meaning it was breathtaking.
Here, horror wasn't about fear. The works that existed under the label were tepid and bland, often devolving into clumsy melodrama or unintentional comedy. The audiences were small, the subject matter was repetitive, and creativity was non-existent. Over time, the genre had simply withered from neglect, its development stagnating completely. All the clever tricks, the psychological manipulation, the carefully crafted jump scares from his world… they didn't exist here. Suspense was in its infancy, so naive that a show like Detective Conan would probably be hailed as a masterpiece of psychological tension.
He glanced at the computer desk, a worn but functional setup. Sitting beside the monitor was a sleek, head-mounted VR device, its surface traced with flowing blue lights. It looked strangely futuristic in the shabby room. Despite their financial struggles, the family had the essentials of modern life. He'd tried it earlier, loading up a crude driving simulator. He'd felt the vibration feedback through the controllers, but there were no other somatosensory inputs. It was on par with the consumer-grade VR from his old world.
A powerful tool with no good software to run. A world of potential, untapped.
He sighed, sinking into the lumpy computer chair, the worn fabric scratching against his back. It was a damn shame. All this technology, and nothing to truly… experience.
Suddenly, a crisp, metallic chime echoed, not in the room, but directly inside his head. A translucent blue box materialized in his field of vision.
[Ding! Simple Game Development System has been activated]
[You have received a Novice Gift Pack. Open it?]
Leo froze. His breath caught in his throat. The numb calm that had encased him for the last three hours shattered like glass. A jolt, electric and sharp, shot through him, and his heart began to hammer against his ribs. A golden finger? The standard-issue cheat for transmigrators?
Simple Game Development System… Was this it? His way out?
A fierce grin spread across his face, the first genuine expression he'd shown all day. "Not bad," he thought, a frantic energy surging through him. "At the very least, this could speed things up. Help this family get back on its feet." He focused on the shimmering box in his vision. And a gift pack, too. Let's hope it's something good.
Open it, he commanded silently.
The chime sounded again, followed by a rapid-fire cascade of notifications.
[You have obtained 500 Fright Points] [You have obtained a Main Attribute Panel (+60 to all stats)] [You have obtained a Game Development Engine (Monkey-Proof Edition)] [You have obtained the step-by-step Development Tutorial for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the Concept Design and Promotional CG for the horror game "Dark Forest"] [You have obtained the complete Art Asset library for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the Prologue Demo for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the complete Original Soundtrack for the horror game "Dark Forest" (Novice Gift Pack exclusive)] [You have obtained the VR conversion blueprint for the horror game "Dark Forest"]
"Dark Forest?" Leo whispered, his eyes wide. The sheer length of the list was staggering, a mix of shock and elation bubbling up in his chest.
He closed his eyes, and an avalanche of information flooded his mind. It wasn't just text; it was knowledge, skills, instincts. He felt his understanding of programming, art design, and sound engineering sharpen from a theoretical memory into a practical, intuitive skill set. A simple, elegant panel solidified in his mind's eye.
Planning: 60 (Competent) Programming: 60 (Competent) Art: 60 (Competent) Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
It took him several minutes to process the deluge. The system was exactly what it claimed to be: simple. It contained a virtual store, filled with step-by-step development kits for every game from his original world, from massive AAA blockbusters to tiny indie pixel games. The currency was 'Fright Value.' To earn it, he had to make players feel genuine fear. One player, one moment of true fright, equaled one point. And it was repeatable. As long as he could keep scaring them, the points would keep coming.
The ratio was small, 1:1, but the potential was limitless.
"Fright Value…" Leo mused, leaning back in his chair. The worn springs groaned in protest.
To get Fright Value, he needed to scare people. And the most direct way to do that was with a horror game. A real one. He thought of the masterpieces from his world—games that had made even him, a seasoned producer, jump in his seat. If he could recreate those games here, in this world so starved of fear… the Fright Value would pour in. This world wasn't just behind; it was a blank, untouched canvas. An entire market, ripe for the taking. Not moving in on it would be an insult to the system he'd been given.
He noted that the exclusive assets in the gift pack—the art, the demo, the soundtrack—were a one-time bonus. Future games purchased from the system would require him to create those himself. A pity, but a fair challenge.
What truly stunned him was the first game the system had given him. Dark Forest.
As Alex Vance, he hadn't just heard of it; he'd played it, studied it, and completed it. It was a masterclass in indie horror development.
Leo's smile sharpened, losing its last trace of desperation and gaining a predatory edge. His evaluation of Dark Forest echoed in his mind, no longer a memory, but a mission statement.
It was a small-production game that delivered two things with brutal efficiency: "top-tier oppression" and "heart-stopping terror."
And it was going to be his debut.