The morning began with the hum of static and the faint scent of rain. The city that surrounded Liberia Academy's outskirts was a place where the old world's bones met the veins of the new — a fusion of crumbling streets and hovering transports, of broken lampposts wired with floating mana orbs. The distant peaks of the Academy's towers shimmered faintly in the horizon, their pale silhouettes almost ghostlike beneath the amber sun.
In a modest subdivision called Ravenholm Crest, a row of houses stood quietly, armored with rust and silence. The air here was calm — deceptively so — but beneath that peace lay tension, like a bowstring stretched just before release. For this was a world forever reminded of its fragility.
Inside one of those houses, behind a curtain half drawn, a man sat by the table with a plate of half-eaten breakfast and eyes that told stories more than his words ever could.
His name was Mark Francis.
A flickering holo-screen filled the dim room with shifting light, its glow painting the cracked walls with moving shapes. On screen, an anchor's voice rang — calm, rehearsed, but beneath it trembled a note of dread.
"—and once again, the Pioneer Guild expedition into the Abyss Tower has ended in failure. Reports confirm the twenty-first floor remains unconquered, following catastrophic losses suffered by the third Vanguard Unit and several independent pioneers. The Ministry of Metaphysical Affairs has issued an emergency lockdown on the site—"
Mark chewed slowly, expression unreadable. The fork in his hand trembled faintly as the report continued.
"—footage retrieved from drone surveillance depicts massive distortions on the twentieth floor boundary. Experts believe this anomaly marks a structural shift in the Abyss Tower's metaphysical architecture, potentially classifying it as an evolving Special-Type Dungeon."
The news cut briefly to shaky camera footage: blurred figures of armored pioneers running through smoke, the screen crackling with static, screams echoing faintly through comms before the broadcast stabilized again.
The anchor's voice lowered.
"Among the casualties are members of the Liberia Expeditionary Corps, including three Paladin-class pioneers and an Archmage affiliated with the Academy's research division. The exploration of Floor 21 has been indefinitely suspended."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Mark leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him.The rain outside began tapping lightly against the windowpane. The world, it seemed, was always mourning something.
He sighed and took another bite of his breakfast — cold rice, eggs slightly burnt, coffee black and bitter as ink. The kind of meal one didn't make to enjoy, but to endure.
The holo-screen shifted to the next segment, a reporter standing before the towering shadow of the Abyss Tower, its endless spire piercing the clouds.
"This colossal structure, discovered five years ago in the ruins of the Old Arclight City, remains humanity's greatest enigma. Despite global efforts, the farthest recorded exploration reached only Floor 20, codenamed 'Lamentation Layer.' Pioneers report impossible spatial distortions, auditory hallucinations, and entities immune to conventional metaphysical countermeasures."
"Theories suggest the tower is alive — a sentient structure feeding on metaphysical interference itself. Whatever lies beyond Floor 20… remains unknown."
The sound faded.
Mark turned the screen off.
Silence.
He stared for a moment at his reflection in the dark glass — faint, ghostly, eyes tired but sharp. His short black hair was unkempt, his jawline half-hidden by stubble, and his gaze carried the weary defiance of someone who had lived too long with rejection.
On the table beside his cup lay a stack of old, printed pages. Their corners were frayed, ink faded — titles scribbled in his neat but nervous handwriting.
"The Whispering Atlas.""The Clockmaker's Prayer.""Spiral Crossroads."
Each one stamped with a red mark of rejection.
He picked one up, skimmed the notes left by an editor months ago.
"Your metaphors are excessive.""The theme is obscure.""It doesn't connect with modern readers.""Unmarketable."
He let the page fall back onto the pile. His lips curved into a tired smile — the kind that hid an ache too old to name.
He had once dreamed of being a writer — no, not just a writer, but the writer. Someone whose words bled truth, whose poetry could touch the corners of the world untouched by logic. His specialty was acrostic poetry — intricate patterns of verse that, when read vertically, hid secret messages, layered meanings.
But no one cared for intricacy anymore. The world wanted survival, not symbolism.
He reached for the remote again, flicking channels aimlessly. Then — something caught his eye.
A small ad banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The voice of the anchor continued about trade policies, but Mark's eyes locked onto the simple text glowing beneath it.
"CALLING ALL ASPIRING AUTHORS, WRITERS, AND FREELANCERS IN LITERARY WORKS.""Are your stories unheard? Your words unseen? Join the MetaLiterary Renaissance.""Submit your manuscript, pen name, and contact to www.metapandemonium.com."
The words pulsed faintly with soft gold light — like it was alive. Like it was calling him.
Mark froze.The name — Metapandemonium — felt strange, almost theatrical, but something about it stirred him. He reached for his phone without thinking, hands trembling slightly.
He typed the address.A white screen bloomed into view — elegant, minimalist, yet carrying a faint shimmer of mana-text integration. At the top, the site logo displayed a stylized quill twisting into a spiral — a crossroad of lines.
He blinked.
For a moment, the word Spiral echoed faintly in his mind. His own manuscript — Spiral Crossroads.
Coincidence?
He shook his head and continued.
The page read:
"Metapandemonium is seeking meta-authors — visionaries capable of bending language beyond its mortal form. Submit your manuscript, pen name, and contact information. If chosen, you will receive an invitation."
Mark hesitated for a breath — then began typing.
Pen Name: M.F.Manuscript Title: Spiral Crossroads.Genre: Metaphysical Fiction / Psychological Allegory.Email: [redacted]Contact Number: [redacted]
He attached the file, his heartbeat echoing faintly in his ears.When he reached the submission button, he whispered to himself.
"This will be the last time."
Click.
A loading symbol spun for a moment — then a soft chime."Submission received."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.It felt almost like closing a book he had been stuck in for too long.
The room was quiet again. The rain had stopped. Sunlight began creeping through the thin blinds, scattering across the dust particles in the air like shards of gold. Mark stood, stretching stiffly, and turned toward the small hallway leading to his room.
His uniform hung neatly on the door — a deep navy coat with silver linings, the crest of Liberia Academy embroidered on the chest. Beneath it lay the documents confirming his acceptance into the Meta Psychology Department.
He wasn't a fighter.He wasn't a Pioneer.He wasn't someone who wielded blades or flames.
But he was someone who wanted to understand the why behind all of it — the minds that broke, the spirits that burned, the stories that died in silence. Meta Psychology, they called it — the study of metaphysical trauma, of cognitive resonance within the System.
He smiled faintly, adjusting his tie as he dressed. The mirror reflected someone ordinary, maybe too ordinary, yet his eyes carried that strange, defiant glint again.
"Maybe this is where it starts," he murmured. "Not with a sword. But with a pen."
He grabbed his satchel, stuffed his notebook inside — pages filled with half-written verses, ideas scribbled in the margins, incomplete acrostics that waited for their missing letters.
As he stepped outside, the faint hum of mana-lines running under the pavement greeted him. The air was crisp, tinged with ozone — the aftertaste of magic that powered the city's infrastructure.
Holo-billboards shimmered in the distance, advertising new mana gear, metaphysical resonance potions, Pioneer tournaments. One even showed highlights of the failed Abyss Tower exploration — faces of fallen pioneers, their names honored in silence.
Mark slowed his pace.He watched as the ad faded into another — Liberia Academy's crest, followed by bold text:
"Knowledge is Survival. Enrollment Period: Active."
He continued walking.
The streets around the academy were lined with small cafes, bookstores, mana repair shops, and student lodges. The chatter of young pioneers filled the air — laughter, gossip, the occasional burst of mana discharge from someone practicing an ability carelessly.
Two students passing by caught his attention.
"Hey, did you watch the Abyss Tower footage? They said something's alive on Floor 21."
"Yeah, my brother's in the Vanguard Division. He said their instruments picked up something like a heartbeat."
"Creepy. I swear, if the System's alive, we're screwed."
"Alive or not, I just hope our exams aren't as bad as last semester's."
Their laughter trailed off as they disappeared into the crowd.
Mark exhaled, eyes turning toward the towering silhouette of Liberia rising ahead — a city within a city, its spires touching the clouds, its gates humming faintly with mana barriers.
He approached the transport station, scanning his ID. The barrier opened with a soft beep. Inside the capsule, transparent walls revealed the panorama of the floating campus ahead — glimmering lakes suspended midair, bridges woven from pure light, lecture towers shaped like ancient runes.
The transport glided forward. The world beneath him shifted — students training in open-air fields, energy waves clashing, meta beasts projected in holographic simulations.
Mark's reflection in the glass looked small against that vast backdrop.He whispered, almost amused,
"A poet among warriors. What could possibly go wrong?"
The capsule stopped near the Academy Entrance Plaza. He stepped out, greeted by the scent of mana-infused grass and the distant toll of the academy bells. The plaza buzzed with life — new students rushing to find their classes, senior pioneers sparring near the training hall, drones delivering books and potions across the courtyards.
A massive digital banner hung above the plaza:
WELCOME TO LIBERIA ACADEMY: WHERE THE MIND FORGES REALITY.
Mark adjusted his bag and looked up at the slogan for a long moment.Then he smiled — quietly, sincerely.
"Reality, huh… maybe I'll rewrite mine too."
As he made his way through the bustling walkways, he noticed students reading the latest bulletin. Whispers filled the air again.
"They say Professor Argus is preparing a special lecture about the Abyss Tower tomorrow."
"Didn't they lose like, fifty pioneers last week?"
"More than that. The survivors say they heard voices — like someone reading from a book."
"A book?"
"Yeah. They said the words were burning in the air."
Mark paused mid-step.Words burning in the air.
The phrase lingered in his thoughts like an echo.He shook it off and continued walking.
The Meta Psychology building stood apart from the rest — quiet, modern, surrounded by gardens where mana-flowers bloomed with faint blue light. Inside, the walls were lined with murals depicting human silhouettes dissolving into script — fragments of poetry forming wings, words turning into shapes of light.
He took his seat near the back of the lecture room, setting his notebook down. Around him, other students murmured softly — some nervous, some confident, some already radiating faint auras of awakened energy.
The screen at the front flickered on, displaying the Academy seal.
And then, a new message appeared, scrolling across in deep crimson letters:
"Welcome, Students of Meta Psychology.Today, we begin with the nature of perception."
The voice that followed was calm, soothing, yet carried weight — the kind of voice that could make even silence feel meaningful.
"The world is a dream shared by billions," it said. "But what happens when the dream begins to think for itself?"
Mark's pen froze mid-note.Something about those words struck him too close, too deep — like an unseen pattern aligning in his mind.
Outside the window, the sun dimmed slightly. The clouds shifted.Far beyond the Academy's towers, the Abyss Tower loomed faintly in the horizon — tall, silent, endless.
And somewhere, on a server he could not see, in a space beyond the ordinary web, his submission to Metapandemonium flickered once.
Then again.
Then, it glowed.
A single notification appeared on his unseen account:
"M.F — Manuscript Approved. Await your invitation."
The System whispered.
And the spiral began to turn.
The lecture ended in a quiet murmur of shuffled notes and sighs. The hum of mana projectors faded into the background, and the last lines of Professor Caldrin's voice echoed faintly through the room:
"Perception shapes reality. But remember, reality also shapes you."
The words hung in the air like lingering ghosts. Chairs creaked, notebooks snapped shut, and footsteps filled the corridors as students began to leave. Some laughed, others yawned, but all carried that faint glow of wonder and exhaustion that followed every Liberia lecture.
Mark Francis sat still. His notebook was filled with neat handwriting, though most of his notes had drifted away from the subject. Between the lines of metaphysical theory and psyche resonance, he had written fragments of verse—barely formed, bleeding thoughts that clung to the edge of sense.
The world breathes in ruin, yet I inhale its song.In every silence, I find a scream that rhymes.
He read it again, quietly, lips moving but soundless. Then, sighing, he shut the notebook.
Outside, the artificial sky above Liberia's dome shimmered in hues of gold, shifting into soft indigo as the mana-powered daylight system prepared for dusk. The glass corridors buzzed with faint blue lines, carrying energy from the reactors below.
Mark stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and joined the flow of students exiting the Meta Psychology wing. The hallways smelled faintly of ozone and lavender—the latter from the enchanted cleaning drones drifting lazily through the air.
He descended the long spiral staircase that connected the tower's upper floors. Voices drifted from the students passing by.
"You think he was serious about the Abyss Tower being conscious?""Come on, Caldrin always talks like that. He loves dramatics.""Still, if the System is alive…""Then we're just words in its book."
Mark smirked faintly. Words in its book… How fitting.
He reached the exit doors. The moment he stepped outside, a cool breeze swept through the courtyard. Magic-infused lanterns began to ignite one by one, casting soft blue light over the cobblestone. A fountain in the center of the plaza rippled with shimmering liquid mana, forming ever-shifting runes that danced on the surface.
He pulled out his phone, intending to check the time—
It vibrated violently.
He frowned and looked down. The screen flashed with static, lines of distorted code running down the display. The Liberia insignia flickered, replaced by a black background and a single, crimson phrase that pulsed like a heartbeat.
METAPANDEMONIUM
Mark froze.
The letters began to move—sliding, curling, rearranging themselves into a new message.
"Across all, you have been chosen."
His breath hitched.
Then another line appeared, typed in one letter at a time, the digital sound of keystrokes echoing eerily from the speaker.
"So for starters, your system will be forced to awaken."
The world seemed to tilt. His vision blurred for a fraction of a second, and then—
A chime.
Not from the phone. From somewhere inside his head.
The air thickened. Colors deepened. Space itself seemed to breathe.
A glowing window materialized before his eyes—transparent, flickering softly, lined with intricate patterns of runes and code intertwined.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
Name: Mark Francis
Age: 21
Class: Poet
Level: 0
He stumbled back, eyes wide. The window followed his vision, anchored in front of him like a holographic ghost. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"What the f—" he muttered, voice low, shaking.
Another message appeared beneath the window.
[FIRST MISSION]
Write a poem about your pain and suffering. Be honest. Be raw. Be you from the very beginning.
Objective: Submit to www.metapandemonium.com
Reward:• First Poet Skill: REWRITE (No mana cost)
Note:This ability affects SANITY.
Mark blinked rapidly, trying to steady his breathing. He looked around — no one seemed to notice. The students around him walked by as though nothing had happened, laughing, talking, completely oblivious to the floating window before him.
"Am I—am I hallucinating?" he muttered under his breath.
He waved a hand through the air. The window flickered but didn't vanish.
"No f*cking way…"
His fingers trembled as he tapped the message. It rippled, responding to touch. The runes shifted again, aligning into faint, whispering lines that curled like ink in water.
He looked around once more, swallowed hard, and slipped away toward a quieter part of the campus—the eastern garden, empty now except for the whisper of wind and the hum of mana-flies dancing above the flowers.
He sat down on a bench, exhaled, and stared at the glowing window hovering inches above his palm.
"A System," he murmured. "A real f*cking System. But I'm not even a Pioneer. I didn't awaken. I don't have metaphysical energy or…"
He trailed off.Then he remembered the message.
"You have been chosen."
He scrolled down. A faint pulse ran through the text—almost like a living heartbeat responding to his gaze.
"Chosen for what?" he whispered.
The System didn't answer.
Only a faint, low sound filled his ears.A whisper. Soft, rhythmic. Almost like… verses being recited under breath.
He shivered. The voice wasn't human—it was something between thought and echo.
"Pain births art.Art births truth.Truth births madness.Welcome, Poet."
Mark stood abruptly, heart racing. The window flickered with his movement, then steadied.
"This isn't real. This can't be real."
He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to steady the spinning in his head. But the System stayed. The words didn't vanish. And somewhere deep in his chest, he felt it — a faint pulse that wasn't his heartbeat.
Like a new rhythm syncing with his own.
The System spoke again.
[MISSION TIMER: ACTIVE]Time Limit: 01:00:00"Write your truth."
"An hour?" he hissed. "An hour to write a damn poem?"
He looked around desperately — but everything seemed painfully normal. The sky above shimmered in soft twilight, the mana lamps buzzed, and laughter echoed from far-off dormitories. Yet to him, the air felt heavy, warped, alive.
He took a deep breath, sat back down, and pulled his notebook from his bag. The same one filled with rejected verses and abandoned lines. The one he had sworn he wouldn't open again.
"Fine," he muttered. "You want honesty? I'll give you honesty."
He flipped to a blank page. The System window hovered at the edge of his vision, faintly illuminating the paper. His pen felt heavier than usual. He hesitated—then began to write.
The words came slow at first, reluctant, like blood from an old wound.
I once built a home in silence,furnished it with rejection letters.Every word I wrote was a ghost,and every ghost carried my name.
He stopped. The pen trembled. Something inside him stirred — an ache, a pressure, like an invisible hand pressing against his skull.
The System flickered, text shifting rapidly.
[RESO-ANALYSIS: ACTIVE]Emotional resonance detected. Synchronizing with host psyche.
His chest tightened. He gritted his teeth and kept writing.
I called my dreams "paper wings,"but they never learned to fly.So I buried them in coffee cups,and watched deadlines pass me by.
The light around the page deepened. Shadows inched closer, and the air rippled faintly, like the world itself was leaning in to listen.
He felt something cold trickle down his spine — not fear, but… awakening. A strange sense of alignment, as though every buried emotion he had ever suppressed now found its place on paper.
He wrote faster.
I've loved the sound of breaking,when it comes from within.It's how I know I'm real.It's how I know I can still bleed ink.
The System pulsed violently. The window expanded, filling the air before him.
[POEM RECEIVED]Verifying truth…95% authenticity detected.Mission complete.
Reward: Skill REWRITEEffect: Alter a fragment of perceived reality through written verse.
Cost:Sanity.
Mark dropped the pen, his hand shaking. The notebook's pages fluttered in a nonexistent wind. The words he had written glowed faintly — the ink turning silver before fading into the paper.
Then, he heard it.A voice. Gentle, almost loving, yet threaded with something ancient.
"Your words now carry weight, Poet.What you write may live.What you hide may rot."
He stumbled backward. "What the hell are you?"
The System replied, not as text, but as sound, rippling through the air.
"I am the Muse beyond meaning.The silence between screams.I am Metapandemonium."
The bench creaked behind him as he gripped its edge, gasping for air. The world wavered faintly, colors shifting like oil on water. For a moment, he felt as if he were inside his own poem — every breath a stanza, every heartbeat a verse.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
The window faded, leaving behind only faint letters burned into his vision.
[Skill Acquired: REWRITE]
When the Poet speaks through truth, the world listens.Use with caution. Reality bends, but never breaks without consequence.
Mark sat down heavily. The air felt too thin. The world, too large.
He buried his face in his hands, whispering through clenched teeth:
"What the f*ck just happened…"
Silence answered him.Then, faintly, his phone vibrated again. He looked down.
A new message.
FROM: METAPANDEMONIUM"Congratulations, M.F. You've written your first truth. The Spiral begins."
His pulse quickened.
Another notification followed, almost immediately.
"Prepare for contact."
The screen went black.
Mark stared for a long time, unable to move, unable to think.The night deepened. The lanterns hummed softly. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled — faint, like an omen.
He finally stood, tucking his notebook under his arm. His reflection in the fountain water looked… different. His eyes seemed sharper, glowing faintly at the edges, as if light itself clung to them.
He whispered softly, almost afraid to hear his own voice.
"If this is a dream, it's the cruelest one yet."
He turned and began walking toward the dorms. His footsteps echoed in the empty courtyard.
And behind him, upon the bench where he had sat, the faint silver outline of his poem glimmered briefly—then sank into the air like mist.
The System, unseen, watched.
And somewhere far away, in the labyrinthine digital abyss of Metapandemonium, unseen eyes opened.
Lines of code whispered like poetry.
"One Poet has awakened.Let the Rewrite begin."