The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, slicing the silence with its monotonous hum. Shadows swirled across the walls as its blades turned, a slow dance that reminded him of dungeon torches flickering against stone. But this was no dungeon. No cavern filled with corpses. The ceiling was plain concrete, painted in dull off-white, with cracks running along the edges like veins on pale skin.
He blinked once. Twice. The city roared outside the half-open window—an unending tide of car horns, laughter, and drunken shouts. Neon lights bled through the blinds, painting him in alternating shades of crimson, green, and electric blue.
For a long time, he didn't move.
It was too quiet. Too soft. Too fragile.
No clanging of chains. No gurgled cries of dying men. No stench of rotting flesh. Just the faint smell of instant noodles wafting from the corner of the room, where a cracked bowl lay forgotten.
He sat up slowly, his muscles taut, like a predator waiting for the strike that never came. His eyes scanned the room—one table, one chair, a futon folded against the wall. Everything bare, lifeless. A cage without bars.
"Another world…" His voice was hoarse, as if speaking cost him more than silence.
The Archon System pulsed faintly within his soul. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
---
He rose and moved through the tiny apartment, each step measured. The fridge groaned when he opened it, revealing little more than bottled water, cheap beer, and instant meals stacked carelessly. He grabbed a can, cracked it open, and took a swig. The bitterness spread across his tongue, but no amount of beer could wash away the iron tang of blood that haunted his mouth.
His reflection in the window stopped him.
A stranger stared back—hollow eyes, sharp features, shadows clinging to his frame like a second skin. He leaned closer. There were no chains binding him. No blade pressing against his throat. No cursed seal burning across his chest. Yet his body refused to believe it. His muscles twitched, ready to fight, ready to kill.
"Pathetic." The word escaped in a growl. He pressed his palm against the glass, the neon light painting his skin red like blood. "You don't belong here."
But the city outside moved on.
Cars rushed by. Music thumped from a distant club. A couple laughed as they stumbled down the street. The world didn't care about him.
And perhaps that was the most dangerous thing of all.
---
Morning arrived reluctantly. The city didn't sleep, not truly, but it wore the mask of dawn well. He found himself on the streets, blending into the tide of strangers.
Vendors rolled out carts, steam rising from pots filled with broth and skewered meat. Grease smoke stung the air. Students rushed past with heavy backpacks, heads bent over glowing screens, earbuds shutting out the world. Office workers hurried, coffee in hand, faces already tired before the day had begun.
It was surreal.
These people feared deadlines, exams, bills. They fought wars with late rent and broken relationships. They did not know the feel of a blade slicing through bone, the weight of blood soaking into their hands.
A group of teenagers shoved past him, laughing too loudly. One brushed his shoulder.
Instinct roared. His hand almost shot out, ready to twist the boy's arm until bone snapped. For one heartbeat, the alleyways of his past overlapped the crowded street. Blood. Screams. The sharp crack of joints breaking.
But then—
"Sorry, man!" the boy muttered before running to catch up with his friends.
He froze, trembling.
I almost killed him.
He exhaled slowly. The world was different. But he wasn't.
He needed cover. A way to exist in this neon jungle without drawing attention. Odd jobs came first.
The ramen shop owner—a stout man with graying hair and a tongue sharp enough to cut steel—hired him to wash dishes. "Don't just stand there! Hands! Move them!" he barked daily.
He obeyed silently.
The customers came in waves. Salarymen slurping broth with hunched shoulders. Drunkards stumbling in at midnight, spilling half their soup on the table. Couples whispering laughter over bowls of steaming noodles.
Their problems were so… small. He couldn't decide if he envied them or despised them.
At night, he returned to his crumbling apartment. Always alone. Always silent. The Archon System stirred only in his dreams, whispering in fragments he could never hold onto when he woke.
One evening, the city lights painted the streets in garish colors. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering. Music thumped from bars. The smell of oil and cigarettes clung to the air.
He walked home with steady steps, but the shift in air caught his attention.
An alley. A man dragging a woman into the shadows. Her muffled cries sliced the air, ignored by the passing crowd. People kept walking, eyes averted. Nobody cared.
Something stirred within him.
He followed. Silent.
The man pushed her against the wall, blade flashing under the neon glow.
Before thought could intervene, the Archon's shadow surged forth, wrapping his arm in darkness. His strike was silent. Precise. Absolute.
The man crumpled. His throat torn open by an unseen force.
The woman bolted, sobbing, never once looking back.
He stood in the alley, blood dripping from a hand that hadn't even touched the blade. Neon lights flickered overhead, painting the corpse in violent color.
"This city…" His voice was low. Dangerous. "It's no different after all."
The Archon pulsed.
[Blood Recorded. Pathway Unlocked.]
Days passed. The city swallowed him whole.
He kept working—washing dishes, hauling crates at the market, sweeping streets when no one else wanted to. Slowly, he learned the rhythm of neon life. How to navigate crowded subways. How to avoid the eyes of policemen who lingered too long. How to blend in.
But shadows followed.
At night, the System whispered. With every act of violence, every drop of blood, it stirred deeper. He saw notifications in his mind's eye—cryptic, fragmented. Skills unlocked. Pathways branching. Power calling.
And he answered.
Yet, by day, he listened to the chatter of the ramen shop customers, the complaints of tired students, the drunken laughter of men trying to forget their misery. He even found himself chuckling once when the old ramen master nearly slipped on spilled broth and cursed so loudly that the entire shop froze.
It was strange. Jarring. Terrifying.
The world was pulling him in two directions. The human simplicity of everyday life… and the inescapable hunger of blood and shadow.
Which side would consume him first?