The silence was deceiving—soft, warm, and almost divine.
But beneath that veil, there was rot. Leroy knew it. He could feel it.
Everyone was determined to win this thing. To win, succeed, and go home. Everyone had that hope that they could actually beat the game.. It was just naivety though..
You could've thought everyone was just brave, and was full of great spirit. But they're just naive. You don't enter a hellish game like this and expect to win. Its colors scream of beauty but its intentions cry of evil. A sadistic evil. The kind of evil that gained pleasure off of people's downfalls, or even death.
But for some reason…No one saw it like that. And right now, only Leroy seemed to see it that way. Some would call it a negative look at the game. Others would call it realistic. That didn't matter though. What did matter, was living. And Leroy was going to do just that.
The voice though..
That voice, smooth like polished silver, pierced him deeper than any blade. That face—those sapphire eyes, that ghost-white hair, that ethereal skin that denied all mortal flaws.
She was real. She was here.
"How the hell... how the hell is this even possible?"
The girl from his dreams—those dreams. The ones that haunted the edges of his sanity like fog at the edge of a cliff.
A hush fell over the gathering, like a holy vision descending among sinners.
"Yeah, why not," Horace said, appearing behind with a nonchalance only ignorance could afford. "We were one member short anyway."
Ken leaned close, his breath brushing against Leroy's ear like an unwanted draft. "Bro, stop standing there like a statue. You're making it weird."
Leroy blinked. Once. Twice. His mind crawled its way back to reality, limbs stiff like they'd been chained in time.
"Y-Y-yeah," he stammered. "We need a member. You're... welcome to join."
The girl—Celestina—nodded slowly, confused by the weight in their gazes. "Thanks... I guess."
<
<
A stillness lingered. The air was heavy. Leroy could feel it—destiny crawling across his spine like a whisper from something old and cruel.
"Ditch the mask," Ken muttered. "You look like some forgotten god waiting to be unsealed."
"It's for my protection," Leroy replied flatly, his voice the rustle of dry leaves. "Let me walk my own damn path."
Then came the options. Not a choice. A test.
<
[The Unknown Desert]
[The Forest of Demons]
[The Land of Elsmort]
[The Land of Coldness]
[???]
Leroy stared at the options, thinking each one over silently in his head.
Kennard grumbled, crossing his arms, "We're seriously choosing our own grave now? What kind of lazy-ass dev did this?"
Horace shrugged. "Lazy devs are my favorite kind. They give you loopholes."
Celestina's voice was calm. Calculating. "So we're choosing the easiest one?"
"Not exactly," Leroy replied, his gaze never leaving the list. "Names have meanings. Even in death games."
She furrowed her brow. "The Forest and the Cold one are obvious. But Elsmort? The Desert? The question marks?"
"Desert's undead," Leroy said. "Elsmort's a fallen kingdom, probably cursed. And that last one... we don't touch that."
Everyone nodded.
Then he spoke:
"We go to the Land of Elsmort."
Time stopped.
"What?!" Kennard nearly shouted. "That's suicide."
Horace was pale. "You do realize cursed kingdoms aren't just set dressing, right?"
"They're dead," Ken said. "Whispering, hidden-trap, get-possessed-by-your-shadow kind of death."
Leroy's voice was a whisper. Cold. Certain. "High risk. High return."
"No. That's high risk and high corpse count."
Leroy stared at them. There was no fear in his eyes. Just conviction—raw and hollow like the inside of a grave.
"I don't speak without thinking," he said. "You know that."
The others hesitated, then nodded, their fates sealed not by logic—but by loyalty.
<
The sky opened like a painted scroll.
Colors bled across the clouds—golden honey, rose-pink, and soft amethyst—each hue folding gently into the next like a lullaby made visual. Sunlight filtered through in golden shafts, catching the edges of floating pollen that drifted like celestial dust.
The second was the silence, but not the kind born from fear or ruin. No. This silence was reverent.
Leroy stood alone in a city long forgotten by the living but remembered by the world.
He stood on a hill paved with white stone, cracked yet somehow still elegant. In every direction, marble towers leaned gently, half-broken by time, yet covered in flowering vines that shimmered with a faint blue glow. Architecture was not merely stonework—it was sculpture. Marble buildings with spires that reached toward the heavens like frozen prayers. Columns twisted like vines, and bridges curved like the strokes of an artist's brush.
"This place feels... familiar. Like déjà vu dressed in royalty."
Statues of forgotten monarchs and knights lined the roads, moss crawling over their visages like slow tears. Broken archways framed courtyards where crystalline water still trickled through shattered fountains.
The Land of Elsmort was not dead.
It was currently in a sleeping state.
Crystalline streams flowed through shallow channels carved into the walkways. The water sparkled not just with clarity, but with inner light—soft blues and greens shifting like the aurora beneath its surface.
Gardens bloomed in impossible symmetry. Trees with pale silver bark and translucent leaves stood motionless, their roots woven into cobblestone paths. Lilies of every color grew between cracks in the pavement, untouched by time, as though the kingdom's soul refused to decay.
The scent was delicate—lavender, moonflower, petrichor. Not just pleasant, but designed to make hearts ache with memory.
Statues stood on every corner—knights in perfect repose, scholars lost in thought, children caught in mid-laughter—all rendered in white stone, each with expressions too lifelike to be coincidence.
But there were no voices. No footsteps but his.
He turned, expecting to see his allies.
But they were gone.
No Horace. No Ken. No Celestina. Just him and the wind that whispered across empty halls.
The system had split them apart.
He moved forward cautiously. Every step sounded louder than it should have. The wind carried memories—laughter from a time long past, the clang of swords, the distant echo of a choir that had long since faded.
He passed an abandoned cathedral, its stained-glass windows intact despite the erosion of centuries. One panel depicted a warrior kneeling before a radiant figure—a Guardian? The light from the glass filtered through vines and fell in fractured halos onto the marble floor.
Inside, the pews were broken. Dust choked the air. And yet, candles flickered on the altar.
Lit. Fresh.
Leroy didn't speak. He knew better than to disturb whatever still prayed here.
A ruined sundial lay half-buried beneath flowering ivy. Beneath it, the essence pulsed—a faint hum like the heartbeat of something not quite alive..
"You're just waiting for me to touch you, huh? Fine."
He stepped toward a round platform in the center of a sunlit square. Petals drifted down from above despite no wind. A sundial, cracked and covered in ivy, stood silently in the center. Beneath it—pulsing faintly—a dark electric glow.
Leroy crouched and touched the stone. The pulse synced with his breath, his blood, his thoughts.
'Essence...'
[Detected: Dark Lightning Essence]
'So this is Elsmort...'
He inhaled slowly.
Still no sign of Horace, Ken, or Celestina
"WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?! WHERE ARE THE ENEMIES?!"
"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU ALL?! WHERE THE HELL ARE THE ENEMIES?!"
His voice echoed across the ruined plazas. His voice didn't echo. The air was too soft for echoes. It absorbed the sound like velvet.
He turned slowly, scanning the streets, the rooftops, the gardens. No movement.
No answer.
Then—rustling.
He turned.
A statue had moved.
Or... had it?
A single flower fell from above and landed at his feet.
He looked up.
On a high balcony stood a figure—cloaked in white, unmoving. Not hostile. Not curious. Simply... present.
A statue?
"Well... that's comforting," he whispered sarcastically.
He stepped back cautiously, eyes scanning the courtyard. It was the figure beneath the flowering tree. Draped in ivy. Stone or armor—he couldn't tell.
Then the light shifted.
Eyes met his.
A pair of them, watching.
Not hostile.
But ancient.
They did not speak. They did not threaten. They simply... acknowledged.
Then they walked away.
Leroy remained still for a long time.
Eventually, he wandered further. Each street was a mural, each plaza a memory
It simply existed.
Then he noticed them—points of light, floating in the air. At first, they seemed like dust motes. But they shimmered with purpose. Leading... somewhere.
He followed.
"To Those Who Dream Beyond Mortality."
Read on a small, dead tree trunk.
He passed by a cathedral but didn't enter. Not yet.
The doors were open, the interior dim and inviting. Music—not sound, but something deeper—seemed to hum from within. But some instinct held him back.
It opened without a sound.
What lay beyond was not more ruin.
It was light.
The horizon tilted upward. A stairway into clouds. Distant bells rang, though none were visible.
He would go later.
Instead, he followed a path lined with lanterns. They weren't lit—but somehow, they glowed. Even though it was standing in broad daylight. The glow was still noticeable.
The trail ended at a great mosaic, stretched across a wall so tall it touched the sky. It depicted a kingdom not falling—but ascending. Towers turning into wings. Kings handing crowns to faceless beings of light.
And at the bottom, one figure stood alone, cloaked in black, watching it all from the shadows. Even though it was a normal mossy figure.
A name was carved beneath it.
But time had worn it smooth.
And he was back in Elsmort.
The Garden of Sleep.