Leroy was in the Neutral Zone, standing in the midst of other people. The Neutral Zone consisted of such beauty one wouldn't ever think to see. Even if the game wasn't real life, the beauty the Neutral Zone contained was as real as ever.
Everyone stood in a great plain under the golden sun. A field of grass all around them with some gorgeous mountains in the far off distance. Some orange flowers bloomed from the ground as well as some fern amongst the grass. Clouds danced in the sun-filled sky while the wind swam through the troposphere. Some birds could be heard singing and chirping within the tall pine trees. The smell of the land consisted of a nice, pine sap smell mixed with the sound of tree leaves rustling from the wind.
Leroy stood there—sweat-soaked, blood-splattered, gaze half-lost to things no sane man should recall. He watched the view of the plains and listened to the sounds of mother nature as well as the other players beside him. They all whispered about the beauty of the plain but to Leroy, everything was just fake. He wanted to relax and just enjoy the moment properly, but everything in his mind wouldn't let him. Everything people would say about the scenery would just bother him. All of it being somewhat disturbing. Seeing how everyone was able to just gawk at the view instead of worrying about their life or what could happen to them was just ridiculous. It was naive. They were naive.
He continued to stare at the sight in front of him with slight detest until the moment of false peace shattered as two voices called out his name.
"Yeah, yeah, it's me…" He mumbled, voice hoarse, as though pulled from a thousand-yard void.
Horace and Kennard slammed into him like warhounds on leash-loose affection. A group hug—not the warm kind, but the 'we missed you and thought you were dead' kind.
"Okay, get off. I'm not your childhood teddy bear that came back from war."
They backed off, awkward laughter hiding the cracks in their hearts. Silence settled again, tight like a noose.
Horace sniffed. "So, uh… how was Impossible Mode?"
Leroy blinked like someone waking up to a gun barrel.
"Nothing much," he said, his voice as flat as broken glass.
Kennard raised an eyebrow. "Which floor are you on?"
"Floor Three."
Both boys paused, expecting sarcasm. Laughter tried to escape—then stalled.
"Wait… for real?"
Leroy nodded. "Yeah."
Kennard squinted, offended. "Bro. It's been a week. You're telling me you're still rotting on Floor Three?"
That word struck Leroy like a bell tolling doom.
"…A week?"
His thoughts scattered. In his mind, time was a blur. Pain and fear had turned days into dust.
Horace leaned forward, eyes scanning him like a bloodhound. "Okay, serious question: what's your class?"
"You mean like… Warrior, Mage?"
Kennard snapped. "Why are you asking like it's your first day in tutorial mode?!"
"Because it is?" Leroy shrugged.
They stared at him. No laughter now. Just raw, primal dread.
"You don't… have a class?"
"No."
"What about a constellation? Wait, never mind; without constellation, you can't get class also," Horace asked slowly, as if saying 'bomb' too loudly might set him off.
"A what-now?"
"Constellations. Divine sponsors. Sky gods. Sugar daddies of cosmic power?"
"I've got jack squat."
Silence hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
"You're kidding…"
Leroy raised an eyebrow. "Should I be?"
"You're in danger, bro," Horace whispered. "Like, not game danger—existential danger."
"I'll be fine," Leroy replied, bluffing like a drunk gambler at his final hand.
Horace shook his head. "You seriously pissed someone off upstairs?"
"Maybe…" Leroy frowned. "Actually—yeah."
[Something Along the Lines]
Screams tore through the crowd. Panic. Confusion. The birth cries of a doomed people.
Leroy stood still, eyes raised to the void above. His hand shielded half his face. Then he laughed. Loud. Broken. Mad.
"Death? You expect me to cry like a puppy?" he spat at the sky. "Screw you. I'm not afraid. I'm the glitch you can't patch. I'll break your game. And then I'll break you."
The world shifted around him. That curse, that defiance—it echoed.
"…So yeah. That happened," Leroy said.
Kennard blinked. "You're lucky you're not a pile of ash."
"Or cursed to be a slime."
Before they could roast him further, the ground groaned—a low, tectonic warning.
A rift tore open the heavens. A portal—vast, luminous, dripping malice.
"What now?" Leroy whispered.
"You tell us, Mr. Doom Magnet," Horace muttered.
A figure descended. Wings radiant. Robes pristine. Eyes… hollow.
An angel—but not the choir-boy kind. More like a smiling executioner in white.
[Welcome, dear players.]
People tensed upon seeing the angel. The memitim watched the people with graceful eyes, but cursed intentions.
One soul, braver or dumber than the rest, barked, "Get to the point already, white boy!"
He exploded.
Literally.
Blood mist. Skull fragments. Screams. Chaos.
[I didn't say you could speak.]
The angel's voice was calm, motherly. That made it worse; it was a pure blade of deceit.
Leroy swallowed. 'This isn't an angel. This is a divine hitman.'
[Where was I…? Ah, yes. A new game.]
Murmurs swirled. Confusion folded over itself.
"A new mode?"
"We're already in one!"
"Why now?"
Kennard leaned close. "Think it's PvP?"
Leroy didn't answer. Pain ignited behind his eyes.
It was another memory of his that he never did.
It began with fire.
Not warmth. Not the crackling hearths of home. No, this was hellfire—angry, screaming, alive. It clawed through the cities like a starving god, consuming stone, wood, and bone without mercy. The sky? Forgotten. The stars? Fled. The moon? Shattered—a gaping wound in the heavens. Its fragments tore through the firmament like the fangs of an ancient beast, gouging the earth and dragging screams from throats that would never speak again.
And in the ashes that followed… danced the shadows.
They did not walk. They danced. Twisted shapes writhing in the smoke, swaying to the rhythm of despair. They wore the faces of the dead—mocking, leering, and weeping in turn.
They howled lullabies to children who no longer had bodies to cling to. Dreams died smothered in soot. Amidst the carnage, the broken towers, and the melting stone—stood Leroy.
But not as you know him.
No awkward laughter. No shaky courage behind tired sarcasm. No. This was Vanix the Black Omen. A monolith clad in obsidian armor forged in the furnaces of agony. Its plates bore the etched screams of a thousand damned souls, wailing silently with every step he took. His blade? A leviathan of steel, etched in ancient runes, dripping not with blood—but with memory. It screamed when it killed, because it remembered every life it devoured.
Leroy marched not as a savior. Not even as a villain. He marched as judgment.
And judgment was blind.
He betrayed the Elven Guard—his sworn brothers and sisters. Once, they laughed with him under the cherry blossoms. Once, they lifted mugs of bitterroot ale and toasted to peace. Now? Their blood painted the walls of forgotten keeps. Their prince—barefoot, broken, choking on ash—knelt before him with outstretched hands. "Please…" he'd said. "You were one of us…"
Leroy slit his throat.
No hesitation. No remorse. Just the cold, mechanical execution of a soul sold long ago.
He wore the scars of every lie he ever told—each one branded into flesh by the cost of ambition. He had bartered truth for power, trust for dominion, love for silence. And when the girl—the only one who once looked at him like he wasn't already lost—offered her heart, he took it.
All she could say was "I just… wanted you to be free… why are you stuck in your own hell alone…" She tried her best to understand Leroy but it was just a consumed being.
And gave it to the shadows.
In return, they made him mighty. In return, they unmade him. He was still yearning for the greatest.
The rebellion came like a storm—young warriors, old legends, desperate fools. They rose with blades, banners, and belief. And one by one, he broke them. He shattered their hopes like glass beneath a boot. No hesitation. No flourish. Just duty.
He became a graveyard of names.
Until at last… silence. It was only the sound of flames fuming on the blood and the ashes of his loved people. A final breath of stillness, bitter and sharp like winter's edge. Only the wind spoke now, and it spoke in tongues of grief.
But there was one more.
A boy. An elf. No older than the age when dreams still taste sweet. He staggered forward, limping on legs too small for vengeance.
"You…" he coughed, blood slipping from cracked lips. "I trusted you…"
Leroy looked down. Eyes dulled. Hands raised. Not with fury. But purpose.
Fingers closed around the boy's throat.
Not in hatred. Not even in pity.
In acceptance.
"I will… cough… kill you… even if it takes… a thousand lives…" the boy whispered.
And then—
Silence.
No scream. No final resistance.
Just a soft, horrible crack.
And Leroy… laughed.
Not the laughter of triumph. No. That was gone.
Not even the hollow laugh of madness. That would be a mercy.
It was the laugh of someone who finally understood: The curse didn't die with the boy.
It chose him.
And he would carry it now.
Every lie.
Every soul.
Every scream swallowed by flame.
Forever.
And worst of all? He didn't even know why.
He never did it to be evil. Never to destroy.
He just kept saying:
"I had no choice. It was the only way to end."
But he did. At the same time he never did it.
Oh, he did.
And the world would never let him forget that again. His curse will follow him. The nightmares will never end for him. Even though the blood was not spread by him. It was still him. The him he never knew of.
He gasped awake. Sweat clung to his skin like ghost hands.
"Leroy, man? You alright?" Horace asked.
He blinked. "Yeah… Just a headache."
[This mode is called the Survival Battle. Form a party of four. Or go solo. You will be dropped on one of four islands. The last team or person standing… wins. Alliances allowed. Betrayals expected.]
The angel left. Just like that. Like dropping a nuke and walking off-stage.
<
Vanix
[Empty]
[Empty]
[Empty]
"Did you get the prompt too?" Kennard asked.
Leroy and Horace nodded.
"Let's team," Horace said. "Obvious choice."
"Sure."
<
Vanix
Leonarex
Lynch
[Empty]
"Wait, Lynch and Leonarex?" Leroy squinted.
Kennard coughed. "That's me. Don't ask. I just thought Sken kind of sounds weird, you know…"
Leroy deadpanned. "You sound like a rejected Batman villain. Wait—how did you two even change your usernames?"
"Oh, you didn't know? You can change your name-tag. After paying some, ahem ahem, gold. It was not really that cheap, but we can bear with it." Horace informed.
"Have you not been exploring the game's mechanics...? Not choosing a class, stuck on Floor Three, not even aware of the game's store," Kennard listed, looking at Leroy dumbfounded.
"Give me a break. I was trying to save my own ass, not go on a damn shopping spree. I'm barely on Floor Three…"
"Anyway- We need one more member in the team," Horace said, looking around. "Before the good ones are taken."
They scattered, searching.
An hour passed. Horace and Kennard looked for a fourth team member, while Leroy just took a few glances around. He didn't feel like looking for anyone to be in their team, especially since he wasn't really in the mood. But nonetheless, he made some effort. Though even with some effort or not, none of them could find a fourth team member. Meeting back where they were originally.
Empty-handed.
"No one?"
"Nada."
Behind them they heard a small, gentle voice. Speaking hesitantly and softly.
"Um… Do you have a spot left in your party?"
It was a female voice.
Leroy turned.
And time… broke.
The world lost all color.
She stood there like a ghost wearing the skin of memory. Her eyes held warmth, no recollection. But to Leroy, it was like being stabbed in every timeline at once.
Her presence was a curse carved from past sins.
His lips trembled. Not from love. Not from fear.
But from recognition.
From guilt.
He had killed her.
Not in this life.
Not in this world.
But somewhere far behind the veil, in the ruins of a forgotten cycle—he had strangled her, left her to rot, cursed her name, and buried her smile. Even though it was not him. He remembers doing it even though he didn't do it.
Yet here she stood, living.
Unaware.
Her existence was merely for the sole purpose of Leroy's victory.
And that, more than any demon, broke him.
Fate did not forgive.
It only waited to devour.
And so it began again. With a smile... and a knife yet unseen. Waiting to strike him again