Chapter 4 (part 2)

<47 DAYS OF HELL>(4)

✧PREMONITION✧

The end of this world is near. I can see it so clearly now—there are only two more tries left. Just one reset remains, and when that reset is used up, the fate of the entire multiverse will rest on you. So, don’t lose hope. Do everything you can—or don’t. That choice is yours alone. If you despise that cursed being, then turn that hatred into dedication. Don’t waste your energy worrying about what the world thinks of you or what others expect from you. It’s up to you whether you’ll try to save this damned world, or if you’ll just watch as it collapses, content to enjoy life while everything unravels.

Remember, even if the multiverse vanishes today, countless lives will be lost—but there are still worlds beyond imagination. And remember this well: there’s still one reset left for you. And whatever you do, don’t trust —

✧

"I still can’t get used to this."

With a sigh, I opened the classroom door, and a bunch of high school kids came into view. Kids. Why am I calling them kids when they’re my age? I don’t even know when I started calling everyone around me that—even adults. I still remember the day I accidentally called the teacher “kid,” and ended up having to stand all day as punishment. From that point onward, I decided to just call people whatever I wanted in my own mind.

Enough of that.

I walked into the classroom, took a look around, and found a desk with my name on it. Just to be sure, I checked it again, making sure it really said “Hoshino Natsumi (ホシノ • なつみ)” before finally sitting down.

I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a novel titled That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Clock. Not bad at all. I’d already read 31 volumes, and I was on the 32nd—the last one in the series, unfortunately.

After a few minutes, the bell rang. The teacher came in, and the head student stood, followed by the rest of the class. We greeted the teacher, then sat back down. She introduced herself as Muaki sukiro (ムアキ・スキロ). I heard the rest of her introduction but soon forgot most of it. After that, the class introductions began, each student standing up one by one. Eventually, my turn came.

✧

LIFE IS AN INTERESTING THING.

Alexei was just nine when he fell off a cliff. He barely survived, clinging to life by a thread. His family, barely getting by as it was, sold everything they owned, poured every last penny into saving him. While Alexei lay in the hospital, unaware of his family’s sacrifices, he would beam when his older brother visited. His brother returned home each day covered in bruises, telling Alexei that he had just come back from practice, smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. Alexei believed him, never realizing his brother was enduring beatings from his seniors at work, each bruise and cut the price of keeping Alexei’s spirit unbroken.

IT CAN SOMETIMES BE FULL OF HAPPINESS.

When he turned ten, Alexei’s parents told him he’d be going to school for the first time, and he was overjoyed. He’d always dreamed of going to school, and that simple hope filled his small world with excitement. Every morning, he would rush to school with bright eyes, eager to learn, eager to make friends. Alexei wasn’t the best in his class, nor the most talented, but he cherished each lesson, each friend, each day he spent in those classrooms. He would walk home along the snow-covered path, the chill in the air only making him more grateful for the warmth waiting at home.

SOMETIMES, IT CAN BE DELUSIONAL

As he grew, he began to notice the worry on his parents’ faces, the exhaustion in his brother’s eyes. They struggled, just as they always had, but Alexei was no longer a child, no longer oblivious. He insisted he could help. He argued, pleaded, begged to work alongside them. His family tried to shield him, but he learned the truth soon enough. Realizing the burden they bore, he made a decision; he would go to the nearby city and find work. For days he persisted, leaving for the city as soon as the sun rose, determined to bring back even the smallest bit of money to lessen their suffering.

IT CAN SOMETIMES BRING SORROW.

The day he finally returned with his first meager earnings, he found his house engulfed in flames. Snow was starting to fall, the delicate, indifferent flakes mingling with the ash as if the universe could no longer differentiate between warmth and cold. He watched as the fire raged, heard the cries fade into silence. No one survived. The snowfall came down heavier then, blanketing the remains of his home, as if trying to wash away the traces of his family, his childhood, his whole world.

But sometimes, life can bring hope.

Alexei was left with nothing but ashes and memories, yet a single determination kept him going: to revive the family he had lost. He worked relentlessly, pushing himself far beyond his limits, hoping for the impossible. In time, he heard rumors about a mysterious foundation. It was said to hold the answers to many mysteries, to offer power beyond imagination. Against all odds, Alexei passed their brutal entrance exams, clinging to a fragile hope that perhaps, somehow, joining the foundation might bring him closer to his impossible goal of bringing his family back.

AND YET, LIFE CAN ALSO BE DESPAIR.

The foundation missions were deadly; he was assigned to teams, people he barely knew but fought alongside. They were all he had left to cling to, but every mission ended in tragedy. The first mission, he returned alone, his comrades mere memories, lost to the horrors they faced. The second mission left him haunted, returning as the only survivor once again, burdened by the weight of their deaths. On the third mission, he hoped it would be different, that he could save at least one of them, but once more, he returned with blood-stained hands and memories of screams. The foundation left no room for weakness, no sympathy for loss. He was just another soldier to them, and his losses, his grief, meant nothing.

And that life can be someone else’s, not mine.

Alexei no longer believed in hope, in life, or in a future where happiness existed for him. He had wished for one thing, a single wish since he was a child, and it had always been out of reach. Happiness, for him and for those he loved, seemed like a dream that faded the harder he tried to reach for it. He was tired, his soul worn down by despair, yet a quiet longing remained in his heart, a yearning for something better, something gentler.

Sometimes you get tired of it.

As he walked through a snowy forest on his way to yet another assignment, he felt a pang of nostalgia. The cold air and white-blanketed trees reminded him of his village back in Russia, the same chill, the same quiet beauty. He paused, closing his eyes, letting the silence wash over him. In that fleeting moment, he could almost hear his brother’s voice, could almost smell his mother’s cooking, could almost feel the warmth of a life that was long gone.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as he continued, each step heavy with the weight of memories and the shadow of regret. His journey had taken him far from that innocent child he once was, and though he longed to turn back, to find the life he had lost, he knew there was no going back. The forest, cold and unyielding, echoed the emptiness within him.

But at that time something stops you.

As Alexei trudged through the snow-laden forest, his gaze fell upon something unusual—a figure lying partially hidden beneath the frost-covered underbrush. Moving closer, he saw it was a boy, silver-haired and ghostly pale, barely clinging to life. Alexei’s heart twisted at the sight. The boy’s frail form lay twisted, his thin limbs almost weightless as Alexei lifted him, as if he belonged to the shadows of the forest itself. The boy’s breaths were faint, labored, each one a struggle against the cold that threatened to pull him under. For a moment, Alexei felt the familiar sting of helplessness, a whisper from a past he could never let go. This was a forest where everything and everyone seemed destined to wither and fade.

Life is a dilemma.

Carrying the boy toward his hidden cabin, Alexei could feel the layers of his own despair weaving around him, mingling with a strange sense of duty. The boy felt both foreign and familiar—a fragment of another time, of the childhood he’d lost in fire and ash. Yet he found himself caring, feeling a tug he had long suppressed, a feeling buried under countless scars and failures. Here, in this forest that held no promises, Alexei found himself wondering if this half-dead child was a reflection of his own broken hope, a last spark barely flickering in the darkness. He held the boy close, uncertain if he was driven by duty, pity, or an impossible dream, but he pressed on through the forest, the biting cold mirroring the numbness he held within.

After trudging through the endless snow, Alexei reached his small, creaking cabin, a hidden sanctuary in the heart of the forest. Gently, he laid the silver-haired boy down on the worn sofa, adjusting a thin blanket over his fragile frame. His skin was deathly cold, but as Alexei placed his hand on the boy's forehead, a fever burned underneath, relentless and angry. The sight of such vulnerability unsettled him, stirring the embers of empathy he had long since buried. Without hesitation, he turned toward the woodshed, fetching an ax to chop the wood stacked outside, his hands moving rhythmically, mindlessly, almost like a ritual to keep his mind from the boy’s lifeless gaze.

Sometime you wana continue.

Once the fire crackled to life, casting its warm glow across the dark cabin, Alexei lingered only for a moment, watching the flames begin to thaw the room. The boy, however, remained pale and feverish. Desperation nipped at Alexei’s heart, a hollow ache he knew well, but he set his jaw, took a breath, and braced himself for the long walk into the city. Five hours through the unforgiving snow, every step testing his resolve, yet he kept going. With his mind weighed down by memories of past losses, he clung to the only thing he knew—survival, pushing forward until he reached the city, and returned, medicine in hand, retracing the weary miles back to his cabin.

Sometimes you want to stop.

In the dim light, he gently fed the boy the medicine, each drop an act of quiet defiance against the cruelty of fate. Exhausted, Alexei sank to the floor, leaning against the sofa, his head resting on the leg just beside the boy. The fire cast shadows on the walls, the warmth of the flames a distant reminder of the home he’d once had, of a family he could never bring back. He watched the boy’s shallow breaths, a faint rise and fall beneath the blankets, and for the first time in years, allowed himself to hope that perhaps, in this fleeting moment, his efforts would mean something. As his eyes grew heavy, he drifted into sleep, his heart still haunted, yet soothed, under the soft light of the fire.

Life can be so complex, —yet at the same time so simple.

✧

“Now it’s your turn, introduce yourself,” the teacher said to me with a gleaming smile.

I stood up, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares on me. The entire class of kids—well, people my age, but somehow they felt like kids to me—were waiting. Nervousness bubbled up in me, but then, not really. I didn’t actually care about their reactions. I looked around, then started with a single word.

“Hoshino.”

That one word cast the room into silence, every eye glued to me.

“Um… anything else? Your hobbies, maybe?” the teacher asked, trying to fill the gap. She looked hopeful, waiting for something, anything, that would give her a clue about who I was.

“No.” I tilted my head slightly. “Why should I tell personal information to a stranger?” I replied flatly. Her baffled expression was priceless; a faint chuckle escaped from some classmates. But I didn’t care about their laughs. I’d told her my name, and I was done. The teacher, after a moment of stunned silence, blinked and gestured for me to sit down.

“Alright… just sit down,” she said, trying to recover.

I sank back into my chair and opened my novel, letting their curious looks wash over me. I didn’t have to explain myself to them.

The rest of the day was filled with glances and whispers, people trying to strike up conversations, but I turned each of them down with curt replies or by ignoring them altogether. If there was one thing I’d perfected, it was the art of shutting people out without them realizing how empty their attempts really were. When the final bell rang, I slipped out quietly, blending into the crowd. The sunset washed over everything, stretching shadows across the ground as I made my way home.

My “home.” It was a sprawling mansion, one that looked like something out of a dream but felt hollow to me. I opened the door, and there was my “mom,” waiting for me. She greeted me, her voice layered with warmth, and I replied with a hollow “hello” before heading straight to my room.

My room—my own sanctuary. It was packed with light novels and anime posters, little fragments of other worlds where I could lose myself. A massive bed dominated the space, with a sleek desk that held my supercomputer, its screens gleaming even in the dim light. This was the place where I felt I could escape.

I booted up the computer and settled in to watch some anime, drifting through hours as they slipped past without a trace. Time here didn’t feel real; I could ignore everything that felt empty and just lose myself in these worlds that didn’t ask for anything from me. Eventually, though, hunger got the better of me, and I dragged myself downstairs for dinner.

In the dining room, my “brother” and “sister” were already eating, laughing about something. I gave them a bright, fake smile and greeted them in a cheerful voice that felt as hollow as the walls of the mansion. We ate together, and they talked, filling the space with stories and plans. I nodded, added a few words here and there, and kept up my mask, though every response felt like watching someone else play a role that I was somehow performing too.

Once I was done, I returned to my room and lay down on my bed, reaching for a manga on the nightstand. My mind drifted through the pages, soaking in another story, another world. Hours passed like that, and before I realized it, midnight had come and gone. Finally, without meaning to, I slipped into sleep, where dreams of strange worlds waited, reminding me that I was always only halfway awake in this one.

✧

Anaya Patel had always held a quiet resilience, a strength forged through loss. Her village in southern India, once vibrant with colors, festivals, and the hum of a life she had fought to hold onto, now felt like a faded memory, washed out by a thousand shades of grief. Losing her brother—her last family member who depended on her—had broken something deep within her, yet she pushed forward, willing herself to keep fighting. She’d taken the offer from the foundation as a last, desperate hope, a chance to bring her brother back or, at the very least, to find a purpose beyond her own pain.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

But that decision had only led her deeper into darkness. Her days became a blur of experiments that tore her body and mind apart, each session leaving her with scars and memories too horrific to erase. Pain, at first, was sharp and consuming, yet over time, she grew numb to it. They would tear her muscles, set her nerves alight, disable and enable her body parts with ruthless precision—always keeping her on the edge of survival, never fully letting her slip away. The experiments molded her body into something nearly unbreakable, something no longer hers, even if she could never truly forget the suffering.

Yet even with her new, unwanted immortality, Anaya was far from indestructible. She’d endured almost five thousand deaths, each a violation of her very soul, a reminder that there was no release. Léiguǎn, the entity she now faced, seemed intent on pushing her past every limit she thought she had. The foundation had warned her of creatures with incomprehensible powers, but nothing could have prepared her for this. Léiguǎn’s form was an abomination—its shadowy, skeletal frame seemed to mock the line between life and death, its claws reaching with deliberate, almost gleeful malice. Its eyes, hollow yet filled with a predatory light, seemed to strip her of any remaining strength with each encounter.

She lay on the cold floor of the underground lab, every inch of her body bruised, bleeding, bones fractured beyond repair. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the floor in a dark, endless puddle. And yet, she knew it wouldn’t be her last—she’d come back, only to endure it all again. Léiguǎn’s power would find her, each cell in her body exploding, leaving her writhing, gasping for breath. It was a grotesque cycle of torture, a nightmare she could never wake from.

This time, she’d tried to hide, finding a small, empty room at the edge of the lab. She held her breath, her pulse hammering in her chest as she listened for the faint, unsettling sounds of Léiguǎn searching for her. For a moment, she thought she might finally escape, that her suffering might have a brief reprieve. But then came the familiar, bone-chilling scrape of claws on metal, the faint, almost mocking whisper of her name echoing through the dark hallways. Her breath caught as the door creaked open, revealing the creature’s silhouette against the dim light.

Léiguǎn approached with a dark, twisted joy, claws reaching down to her trembling form. She barely had the strength to scream as it ripped her nails from her fingers, each sensation a new brand of agony, her mind splintering with each merciless second. Her vision blurred, her body going limp, yet Léiguǎn continued, reaching inside her, its claws tracing the fragile line of her intestines with a precision that was as cold as it was horrifying.

And then, just as she was on the brink of oblivion, the creature stopped. She lay in a pool of her own blood, her breath shallow, her body broken beyond repair, yet she could still feel. Still suffer. Days passed, each hour stretching into an eternity, her mind suspended between hope and despair. Hunger gnawed at her, pain dulled her senses, yet there was an agonizing awareness that she was still alive. Alone in the darkness, she began to believe that she might finally escape. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to hope, yet there it was, a fragile, treacherous thing.

She crawled forward, inch by inch, each movement a fresh wave of pain, her mind locked onto the faint glimmer of freedom just within reach. But as she neared the door, she felt it—a cold, dark presence lingering just beyond her vision. Léiguǎn was there, waiting, a shadow in the darkness, its hollow eyes watching her futile struggle with a silent, mocking satisfaction. She slumped back, the last shreds of hope slipping from her grasp as the creature reached for her one final time.

With an eerie slowness, Léiguǎn broke each of her bones, its claws moving with the care and precision of an artist savoring their craft. Each snap, each splinter, drove her deeper into the abyss of her own pain, until there was nothing left but an overwhelming, suffocating despair. It traced her nerves, tearing each one, leaving her trapped in a limbo of agony, unable to die, unable to live.

Until, at last, she was limp and frozen. Léiguǎn broke her nails, blood gushing out, but only a slight twitch responded. He pointed a claw into her mouth and ripped her tongue out. Blood filled her mouth, but her tongue didn’t regenerate. She tried to scream, but no sound came.

Léiguǎn grabbed Anaya's arm and stretched it until the muscle fibers tore. The pain was so intense that she tried to cry out, but only blood spilled from her lips. Holding her severed arm, Léiguǎn discarded it before grabbing her legs and dragging her.

As her body scraped across the floor, glass shards embedded in her back, and she started to bleed more heavily, leaving a trail of blood streaking the ground. Eventually, Léiguǎn reached a room and walked in, laying Anaya's body onto a medical bench. He picked up a scraper from somewhere nearby and began scraping the skin off her legs. With every passing second, Anaya wished she could scream, but she was silenced. Her eyes bled from the unbearable pain, and she wanted to bite her tongue, though it was long gone.

When Léiguǎn finished scraping the skin off her legs, they lay bare, muscles and bones exposed, as blood drenched the bench. Still unsatisfied, he picked up needles and stabbed them into her exposed legs. Anaya’s ears began bleeding from the agony. Léiguǎn then picked up an iron cutter and began peeling her skin, starting from her remaining flesh. He repeated the process again and again, until all that remained were her bones.

During this brutal process, he fed her pieces of her own organs. Finally, when nothing was left of Anaya, Léiguǎn stopped and walked away, leaving only her remains behind.

What Léiguǎn just did now was repeated process that Anaya Patel suffered since stepping here.

In the shadows, darkness reigns.

Yet, in the light, despair casts a pall.

The world, oblivious to the unfolding tragedies, continues to move forward.

Nothing seems destined to prevail in this tragic world.

No respite from darkness is in sight; only shadows will remain.

Anaya Patel's continued existence is a testament to a faint glimmer of hope, but that hope is ultimately an illusion.

In this world, lies are truth, and truths are misconstrued.

✧

"Ugh…"

I slowly opened my eyes, but what I saw above was… brown? My mind must be playing tricks on me. There was no way the sky, overcast with clouds, could turn brown. But then… wait. Was that even the sky? I blinked, trying to focus. No, that was definitely a ceiling. A wooden ceiling.

"An unfamiliar ceiling?" I muttered to myself, my voice barely a whisper.

Where was I?

Sitting up, I realized I was on a sofa, and beside it was a man—middle-aged, maybe. He was broad-shouldered, with thick muscles and striking red hair. There was something oddly familiar about him, a nagging feeling like I’d seen his face in the mirror before, or somewhere close to that.

How did I end up here? The last thing I remembered was being in a snowy forest.

Ah, right—I’d escaped from the orphanage and wandered into the woods. But I’d… died. My chest tightened at the memory. Cute rabbits… No, they weren’t cute at all! They were little monsters, quick and ruthless. If I ever see another rabbit, I swear I’ll kill it on sight. And it wasn’t just the rabbits. I died dozens of times—first to rabbits, then a snake, then a bear, and finally, the cold itself. Nature seemed to have it in for me.

I glanced over at the man, who appeared to be asleep. Now seemed like a perfect time to slip out. I knew I should probably thank him, but that could wait—I wasn’t exactly skilled at talking to people.

As I crept toward the door, each step made the floor creak, so I tried to tread lightly. When I opened the door, a blast of cold air rushed in, filling my lungs with icy clarity. I was just about to step outside when I felt a presence behind me. Instinct kicked in, and I yanked a small compass out of my pocket, spun around, and aimed to jab its tip at my would-be attacker’s neck.

But the man—Alexei—wasn’t an ordinary opponent. Without breaking a sweat, he caught my hand mid-strike, his grip unyielding.

“A toy like this could never harm me,” he said, almost amused.

I took a step back, startled.

“I saved your life, and this is how you repay me?” His voice was calm, but there was a hint of reproach in it. “Oh, how the world has changed.”

He started muttering something about the loss of gratitude and the state of humanity. But as he spoke, I noticed something familiar in his tone, the way his voice rose and fell. That red hair, that voice… they sparked a memory.

“.....…”

Of course! That dream I used to have. His name was Alexei Volkov, a man from a village in Russia—a man haunted by misfortune. And more importantly he worked for the Foundation.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” I stammered, feeling awkward under his gaze.

Alexei raised an eyebrow, surprised by my stuttering.

“A-and thank you,” I managed to say, the words clumsy on my tongue. Years of being stuck in endless loops in that orphanage had dulled any social skills I once had.

“It’s fine. If you’re sorry, that’s enough.” He sighed. “Well? Are you coming in or not?”

I turned and looked outside. Snow was piling up around my feet. I hesitated, glancing back at him with a hint of uncertainty.

He sighed again, closing the door, then took my hand and led me back to the sofa, practically dragging me. Once seated, he settled beside me and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Hoshino,” I answered casually, only giving my first name—I’d forgotten my last a long time ago.

He nodded. “Alright. I’m Alexei Volkov.”

“So, can I call you Alexei?” I asked, a little too eagerly.

Alexei looked slightly taken aback but shrugged. “Sure.”

He looked me over for a moment, then frowned. “So, Hoshino, what on earth were you doing in the middle of that forest? You were half-dead by the time I got you back here.”

He started lecturing me about the dangers of the wilderness, telling me I shouldn’t have ventured out there alone. As he talked, I debated whether I should tell him the truth. Then I decided—this was a rare chance. I may never get to say it again. So, why not?

“I’m looking for a specific Foundation,” I said, keeping my tone even but watching his reaction.

Alexei froze, his eyes narrowing, his voice turning cold. “Why?”

“Because I have to kill something,” I replied, “or rather, an entity.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just studying me with an unreadable expression. Then he asked, “Why kill it? Why not just avoid it?”

I thought about it for a second. Why was I so determined? Right—if I didn’t stop it, the multiverse itself might be at risk.

“I have someone to protect,” I said simply, though in truth, I mostly meant myself. Let him think whatever he wanted.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked, his gaze piercing.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

“Are you absolutely sure? You don’t want to just run?”

His words weren’t enough to sway me. After what felt like hours, he finally sighed, resigned.

“So, which one is it?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said you know its name.”

“Oh… Yes, it’s… Keter.” I paused. “Or no… wait, I think they call it the cursed file?”

Alexei gave me a look of complete disbelief.

“The cursed file?” I repeated, suddenly realizing my mistake. The Foundation, or anyone for that matter, only ever referred to it by that title. Nobody spoke of it by name.

Alexei sighed yet again, shaking his head.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!”

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts before making a call. From the way he spoke, I could tell he was calling someone from the Foundation.

“It’s Alexei Volkov,” he said.

The person on the other end replied, and Alexei continued, “I think I’ve found an entity.”

[“You’re still chasing those things? Alright, do you know its name?”]

“It’s the cursed file.”

There was a long pause.

[“Alexei, listen to me. You don’t have to do this. The Foundation abandoned that mission long ago. If I weren’t in a high enough rank, I’d be dead just for mentioning it. But listen—don’t expect help from the Foundation.”]

“Understood. Thanks for the warning. I’ll handle it alone, then.”

[“You know what? Fine. I’ll send a few operatives to back you up. Experienced ones—names are Ji-hyeon Lee, Magnolia Rose, and Astrid Jensen.”]

“Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”

He hung up and sighed, glancing at me with a seriousness that made my heart pound.

“Listen, kid,” he said. “Are you still sure you want to do this?”

I nodded firmly. “You already know my answer. Why ask again?”

With a resigned sigh, he muttered, “Alright, then. Let’s get prepared.”

✧

Extras 2

Astrid Jensen was born beneath the vast, cold skies of the Scandinavian north, where the sun lingered low for most of the year, casting its pale light across a land of snow-dusted forests and icy fjords. He was a quiet, contemplative boy, often drawn to the silent, frost-covered woods near his village. The people of the town would say he had an old soul, that he held the secrets of the northern lights in his heart. From a young age, Astrid had an unusual bond with his older sister, Freja. She was his confidant, his source of laughter in their small home that creaked with the wind's lament. She was the one who understood his quiet ways and saw beyond his silence.

When Astrid was just sixteen, a brutal winter storm swept across the land, fiercer than any his village had seen in decades. Freja had been out that night, tending to their mother’s grave at the old cemetery on the hill. She never came back. Search parties braved the storm and scoured the forest for days, only to return with nothing but pieces of her blue scarf snagged on a branch. Astrid waited by the door every day for weeks, convinced that Freja would return, that she was just lost in the snow. He felt he would know if she were truly gone. But days turned to weeks, and the world seemed to turn colder in her absence.

After Freja’s disappearance, Astrid was never the same. His silence grew heavier, deeper, like the snow that blanketed the world around him. He took to wandering the frozen woods alone, searching for any trace of her, though deep down he knew it was hopeless. His parents were shattered, too lost in their own grief to notice his. In the end, it was Astrid who kept her memory alive—he who sat alone in the graveyard, talking to the air as if she were still beside him, whispering back her soft laughter.

Years later, when he left the village, the weight of Freja’s memory went with him. He became known as a man who could endure anything, his face unchanging even in the face of horror, as if he had already seen the worst the world could offer. But beneath that calm exterior was a grief that never healed, a wound frozen over but never forgotten. In rare moments of quiet, if you watched him closely, you might catch him gazing at the sky, searching the horizon with that same haunted look, as if he were still waiting for his sister to come home.

One night, as he sat in a desolate, mist-shrouded bar miles from any place he could call home, a stranger slid into the seat across from him. The man wore a dark coat, his face obscured by shadows. He didn’t introduce himself, only spoke in a low, knowing voice, "I understand what it's like to lose something… someone.” His words were like a spark in the dark, flickering through Astrid’s numbness. The stranger handed him a small, unmarked card, with an emblem of a raven and the words, Foundation. Astrid slipped the card into his pocket without a word, somehow knowing this might be his path to finding meaning, perhaps even answers about Freja’s fate. With a final nod, the stranger disappeared into the night, leaving Astrid in silence once more, a silence now haunted by a strange, whispered purpose.

✧

Magnolia Rose grew up under the Southern sun in a town where magnolia trees blossomed year-round. She was the daughter of a well-known local artist and a kind but distant mother, who passed away when Magnolia was only seven. Her mother’s death left a gap in their home, a silence that echoed through the rooms and filled every corner with quiet sorrow. Her father became her world after that, pouring his love and grief into his paintings, capturing his pain in rich strokes of color and shadow. As Magnolia grew, she learned to paint alongside him, hoping that maybe she could hold her mother’s memory through her art.

But her father’s heartache never healed, and over the years, it took a darker turn. His once-bright landscapes became twisted, somber; the colors bled together, heavy with despair. Magnolia watched as he slowly faded, spending long hours locked away in his studio, surrounded by canvases full of sorrow. She was left to care for herself, a little girl alone in a big, empty house filled with haunting portraits. By the time she was twelve, her father had all but disappeared, not physically, but in spirit. It was as if the grief had consumed the man he used to be, leaving only a hollow shell in its place.

One night, while she was still young, she woke to the sound of breaking glass from his studio. She rushed in, only to find her father slumped on the floor, clutching one of his paintings in a frenzy, muttering her mother’s name. The sight shattered her. She had always feared he might drown in his sadness, but seeing it overtook her in a way she wasn’t ready for. She spent that night holding him, whispering softly, hoping she could somehow bring him back from the edge. But after that, something inside her father shifted, and he became more distant than ever.

When Magnolia turned sixteen, her father took his life, leaving her alone in the world. He left no note, just one last painting on his easel—a haunting, ghostly image of a magnolia tree in a dark field under a bruised, stormy sky. The painting was cold, empty, yet achingly beautiful, and for the first time, she understood how deep his sadness had been. The loneliness she felt after that was sharper than any pain, like the petals of the magnolias she loved, beautiful but with edges that could cut.

With no family left, Magnolia wandered from place to place, her only possessions a small suitcase and the final painting her father had made. She carried it with her everywhere, as if it held a piece of his soul, a reminder of the love that had once been warm and whole. In every town she stopped in, she searched for a place to belong, though nothing ever felt like home.

One rainy evening, Magnolia found herself in a city far from her hometown, where shadows seemed to cling to every corner. She ducked into a small, dimly lit café, hoping for warmth and maybe a bit of rest. She was lost in her thoughts when a woman with piercing eyes approached her table. There was a strange familiarity in the woman's gaze, a sense that she saw Magnolia's pain without needing to ask. “Sometimes,” the woman said, sliding a card across the table, “we find our purpose in places we least expect.” The card was simple, embossed with a symbol of a raven and the words, Foundation. Magnolia didn’t ask any questions. She held the card tightly, feeling the weight of the woman’s words settle deep within her. This time, for the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of purpose—and the faintest hope that, perhaps, she had finally found her way forward.

✧

[Anaya Patel has meet her end]

[Michael Thompson has meet his demise]

[Sudden quest!]

[Kill ten organisms]

.

.

.

[Completed!]

[10 Insanity points obtained]

[Error!]

[Error!The host cannot interact with system!]

[Artificial intelligence mode activated!]

[Distributing the points equally.]

[Strength +0.025]

[Agility +0.015]

[Magic +0.00009]

[Mentality +0.25]

[Intelligence +0.50]

[Endurance +1]

[Side Quest:kill one human]

[Reward:■]

[Failure:Mentality +0.0025]

image [https://see.fontimg.com/api/rf5/rg9Rx/YmY1M2RjMTM1MTBhNGY0NGE5MDNkN2Y1OWMyMjUzMzMudHRm/VG8gQmUgQ29udGludWVkIA/ananda-black-personal-use-regular.png?r=fs&h=130&w=2000&fg=000000&bg=FFFFFF&tb=1&s=65]