Hours dragged by, each second stretched taut by the relentless roar of fighter jets and the thunder of tanks above. Explosions rattled the tunnels in unending waves, making the ground vibrate beneath the huddled masses. Sleep was impossible. The concrete floor pressed into aching limbs, the cold seeping into bones, and fatigue turned every thought sluggish. The air itself seemed poisoned—a suffocating stench of sweat, blood, fear, and death that clung to every breath.
Cries of the wounded filled the station like a chorus of agony. Some prayed. Some wept. Others sat in silence, staring at nothing, their spirits hollowed by despair. The cavernous space reeked not only of bodies, but of hopelessness itself.
Then, suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the oppressive murmur.
"Ahh!" A man staggered to his feet, eyes wide and wild. "What is this?!"
Heads turned. His chest heaved, and his gaze locked on the empty air before him, transfixed by something no one else could see.
"Oi, sit down lah!" another man snapped, his voice low and tense. He darted nervous glances toward the stairwell, as though the sound alone might summon the monsters. "You want them to hear us and come in here ah?"
The first man shook his head, almost frantic. "Wait… you mean you don't see this? You really cannot see the blue screen in front of me meh?" He jabbed a trembling finger at nothing, his words tumbling out in a mix of fear and awe.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, sharp and restless, like sparks crackling on dry grass. People craned their necks, whispering. For the first time in hours, their attention shifted from survival to something stranger, something unknown.
"What nonsense is this? He thinks it's a game or what?" someone muttered. "Blue screen? Don't bluff lah."
Before doubt could settle, another voice cut through, shrill and horrified.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" A woman in her forties stood trembling, her finger stabbing at empty air. Her face was drained of blood, her pupils wide with shock. "He's right. Got a screen in front of me also! It's saying I'm a hunter… and my class is a mage. What the hell is this supposed to mean?"
The whispers turned to clamor.
From where he sat, Jagger stirred against his father's chest. His father's heartbeat was steady, unshaken, a drum that anchored him against the madness. Jagger tilted his head, searching his father's face, hoping for recognition, for some sign that this bizarre revelation made sense. But Clark's expression remained unreadable, his calm unwavering despite the chaos.
Around them, more people rose unsteadily to their feet. Some gasped. Others laughed in disbelief. Fingers pointed at invisible texts only they could see.
"I—I got one too. Says I'm a knight!" a man exclaimed, his voice quivering between confusion and excitement.
A cacophony followed. Murmurs turned to shouts, shouts to arguments, the station alive now with questions, theories, speculation.
-
A translucent screen shimmered into existence before man in a military uniform, Mohammad Fiza. His eyes widened, fixated on the strange display only he could see.
[Congratulations, you are a hunter!]
[Class: Warrior]
Fiza blinked, his lips moving as he read the words. Then, with a tentative breath, he whispered, "This… this is like an RPG game." Excitement crept into his voice, overtaking the fear. "Stats."
At his command, the first window dissolved, and another unfurled in its place, lines of information scrawled across the glowing blue pane.
-
Name: Mohammad Fiza
Race: Human
Class: Warrior
Level: 1 [0/50xp]
HP: 100/100
MP: 100
[Stats]
STRENGTH: 10
AGILITY: 10
STAMINA: 10
DEXTERITY: 10
INTELLIGENCE: 12
(Stat distribution points: 0)
[Passive]
Mental Stability: Level 1 [10% Increase in mental fortitude.]
Beginner Swordsmanship: Level 1 [0%]
[Skills]
Cross-slash: Level 1 [Perform a horizontal and vertical slash attack.] [Cooldown: 1 minute]
Quickstep: Level 1 [Move in an instant a short distance in any direction.] [Cooldown: 20 seconds]
Shield bash: Level 1 [Use your shield to bash an opponent, stunning him for 1-3 seconds.] [Cooldown: 1 minute]
-
Fiza's pulse quickened as he scanned the details. "This is… different from what I usually play," he muttered, half to himself, half to the crowd. "But… I'll give it a try. Inventory."
The stat screen dissolved, replaced by another window labeled Inventory.
-
Shitty iron sword [Durability 20/100]
Shitty wooden shield [Durability 30/100]
-
He reached toward the first entry, and with a faint flash, a blade appeared in his hand. It was dull, its edge nicked and scarred. Unimpressive—but solid, real. His breath caught. He pressed another icon, and a small wooden shield strapped itself to his left arm, its metal edging pitted and cheap.
"Oh… wow," he murmured, hefting the shield and testing the weight of the sword.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Dozens of faces stared, wide-eyed with awe and disbelief.
"How did you do that?" asked a man who had introduced himself earlier as a knight, stepping forward with barely contained wonder.
"It's just like an RPG game," Fiza explained, pride creeping into his tone. "Say or think the word 'stats,' and a screen will appear. From there, open your inventory and click on what you want. The item will materialize in your hands."
The station erupted.
"Inventory!""Stats!""Inventory!"
Voices overlapped in a chaotic chorus. Some cried out in shock, others laughed in disbelief. All around, glowing screens bloomed into existence, their shimmering light reflecting in astonished eyes.
Weapons began to appear in trembling hands—rusty swords, chipped daggers, crooked staffs, splintered bows. The quality was abysmal, but the sight alone was enough to ignite something new in the hearts of those who wielded them. For a moment, the despair of the station was replaced by awe, curiosity, and the faint spark of possibility.
But not all were chosen.
Among the thousands crammed into the MRT tunnels, only a few hundred managed to summon the blue screens. The rest shouted and begged, waving their hands desperately in the empty air.
"Why can't I summon anything?!" one man demanded, panic rising in his voice.
"I don't understand…" a woman whispered, staring at the hunters with a mixture of envy and dread. "What even is a class?"
-
Suddenly, sinister laughter echoed from the train tunnels, a chorus of shrill, cackling voices, more akin to hyenas than anything human. The sound reverberated through the underground station, chilling every spine it touched. A collective shiver ran through the crowd as eyes darted toward the shadowed tunnels.
Then, the hunters' blue screens flickered to life once more.
-
[Quest: Kill 100 goblins. Reward: 100 XP.]
-
"Kill 100 goblins? Are they fucking kidding?" muttered one of the newly awakened hunters, a knight. His expression darkened, the flicker of earlier excitement drowned in dread. "This is bullshit… I don't know if I can do this…"
-
[Failure to complete the quest will result in permanent death. Time remaining: 59:59.]
-
"What do you mean, permanent death?" the knight whispered, his voice cracking. His face drained of color as panic seized him. "No… no, no, no—"
The laughter swelled, louder, closer. The ground trembled beneath their feet, dust sifting from the ceiling with each vibration.
"EVERYONE STAND UP AND MOVE TO THE MIDDLE OF THE PLATFORM! AWAY FROM THE TRAIN DOORS—NOW!" Mohammad Fiza barked, his voice cutting through the chaos with commanding authority.
The crowd obeyed in a frantic wave, scrambling, shoving, clutching loved ones as they pressed toward the platform's center. A man seized his wife's hand, urging her forward. Parents lifted children into their arms. Fear spread like wildfire, the air thick with cries and hurried prayers.
In the crush, Jagger's father gripped his wife's hand tightly. "Get up—come on!" he urged, his voice strained but steady.
Jagger seized Hannah's hand and pushed forward, the three of them forcing their way into the dense knot of terrified survivors. His father's voice cut through the din. "Jagger, stay close—and Hannah too. Don't let go."
The rumbling intensified, punctuated by sharp, mocking cackles that bounced from wall to wall. The hunters' heads snapped toward the tunnels where shadows writhed and stirred.
Fiza raised his voice again, sharper this time, like a whip cracking in the air. "HUNTERS WITH MELEE WEAPONS TAKE THE FRONT LINE NEAR THE DOORS! MAGES, RANGERS, HEALERS AND OTHER SUPPORT HUNTERS FORM UP BEHIND THEM! SUPPORT FROM THE REAR!"
Weapons scraped free of inventories, dull blades and warped shields flashing in the dim fluorescent light. The hunters moved, shaky and uncertain, but moved all the same, forming a jagged line between the civilians and the oncoming threat.
Jagger clutched Hannah's hand tighter, pressing with his mother into the center of the crowd as his father spread his body protectively in front of them.
-
"You're a hunter, aren't you? Go—protect us!" A desperate man shoved a boy forward. Seventeen, barely more than a child, the boy stumbled toward the front lines. His hands shook, his knees nearly buckled, but still he forced his trembling body to move. Terror burned in his wide eyes.
The station's atmosphere turned suffocating. Civilians shoved and clawed for space, all desperate not to be the ones nearest the doors.
"SHUT UP! STOP SHOVING!" Fiza's voice thundered through the chamber, sharp and commanding. "IF YOU DON'T FIGHT, WE ALL DIE HERE! I'LL FIGHT FOR YOU, BUT I CAN'T PROTECT EVERYONE!"
His words cut through the chaos like a blade. The crowd froze, breaths ragged, eyes darting.
"He's right!" another hunter shouted—a man in his thirties with a bow slung across his back and a quiver bristling with arrows. His face was taut with fear, but his voice rang with iron. "WE FIGHT, OR WE ALL DIE!"
That call galvanized the hunters. One by one, they stepped toward the front, weapons drawn, bodies tense. The station grew still—oppressive silence, broken only by the hum of failing lights.
The fluorescent bulbs above flickered erratically, throwing long, jagged shadows against the steel walls. The air shook with the low tremor of approaching footsteps, and the shrill laughter returned, ricocheting through the tunnels like a chorus of demons.
Clack… clack…
The metallic rhythm grew louder, closer, then—silence. Heavy, smothering silence. Every breath seemed deafening. Every heartbeat thundered.
A scream shattered it.
"AAAAHHHH!" A spear-wielding hunter pointed with a trembling hand toward the tunnels.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of red eyes gleamed in the dark, glowing with animal hunger.
Then, the monsters came.
CRASH! Glass exploded as goblins hurled themselves through the train windows. Shards scattered like glittering rain. One of the creatures lunged at the screaming youth, its rusted dagger plunging into his neck. Blood fountained across the platform, painting the tiles red.
"AAAGGGH!" Another hunter crumpled, his throat opened by a jagged blade. The goblins swarmed in, pouring through windows and doors alike, grotesque silhouettes illuminated by the flickering lights.
They were nightmares made flesh—small, twisted bodies with mottled green skin, hunched backs, and faces carved into cruel sneers. Rows of yellow teeth gleamed behind feral grins, their crude weapons dripping rust and gore. Their beady eyes burned with malevolence as they shrieked and cackled.
"ATTACK THEM BACK!" Fiza roared, voice breaking through the chaos like thunder.
The hunters surged forward, desperation fueling their charge. Blades clashed, sparks flying as steel met rust. Screams tore the air as fireballs and jagged ice bolts streaked from the rear lines, exploding among the goblin ranks. Dozens fell, burned and frozen, but still they came in waves, shrieking with bloodlust.
The stench of iron and death grew thick. Healers scrambled to patch wounds, but their skills faltered under long cooldowns. Each second cost lives.
Through the chaos, some goblins slipped past the front lines, their shrieks cutting through the civilians' panicked cries.
"AAAAH!" A woman's scream split the air. A goblin slashed her stomach open, her intestines spilling in a wet, steaming heap onto the floor. She crumpled, hands clawing desperately to hold in what could not be contained.
The platform became a slaughterhouse. Blood slicked the tiles, bodies fell like broken dolls, and the air was choked with the sounds of death—screams, roars, and the unending, mocking laughter of goblins.
It was a nightmare. A massacre. A hellscape of carnage and despair.