There was now only Death and Decay...
As The world was now in utter ruin.
Everywhere you looked, the air was thick with ghosts — spirits wailing like broken instruments, demons crawling over the bones of skyscrapers, and the undead staggering through the ash-choked streets. The sky itself was a wound, torn open and bleeding black fire. Humanity wasn't dying anymore. It was already dead — a whisper that refused to fade.
He had failed.
No — they had failed.
No, humanity had failed.
Half of his body was gone, ripped clean apart by something too fast, too monstrous to remember. His intestines glistened on the ground like red serpents, steaming against the cold earth. His waist and legs lay somewhere behind him, thrown like discarded parts of a broken doll.
The only reason he was still conscious was because of that single, pathetic skill—
GLITCH.
A useless, cursed little spark that let him nudge reality by a hair's width. Twist the seams a bit. Bend what should not bend. But only when he was terrified—only when his heart wanted to crawl out of his chest. It never came when he needed it most, only when fear turned him into a child again.
What use was that now?
What use was a trembling trick in a world already shattered?
He laughed — or maybe coughed — and it came out wet, bubbling with blood. The sound was half human, half static.
He was a failure. A literal glitch in the divine code of life.
The underworld had won.
And heaven? Heaven was silent.
Arin spat blood, thick and dark, like rusted oil spilling from a dying machine. His vision pulsed in and out, the world dissolving into static snow. He could taste iron and rot.
His fingers twitched, reaching for the wound that wasn't even there anymore. His own body was just… data corruption. Torn meat flickering between existence and nothing. His ability couldn't save him — not this time. It couldn't glitch him life.
He was going to die.
The realization didn't come as fear at first. It came as stillness. A strange, cold acceptance that slid under his skin.
Then the fear came.
It clawed up his throat, burning like frost. His chest convulsed. He wanted to scream, but his lungs were already drowning in blood.
"Grandpa…" he whispered, the word fragile, almost a prayer. "I'm scared. I don't… I don't wanna die."
The world blurred. The demons' laughter faded into the distance. He couldn't tell if it was real anymore, or just the echoes in his head.
"Why…" he coughed, crimson spilling down his chin. "Why did I have to go through all that… just to die a fucking miserable death…"
He blinked through the blur, through the tears that burned like acid. The sky above him fractured again — another ripple of reality, or maybe just the end.
"Why'd you have to die, Grandpa… leaving me alone…"
The words faded into the wind.
His heartbeat slowed.
His breath shallowed.
Cold crept into his bones, slow and merciless, like a shadow filling an empty vessel.
His last thought was of a small hand gripping his own — a memory of warmth, of being safe for once. Then even that slipped away.
His head grew light. Lighter. The world dimmed around him, colors bleeding into gray.
And then — just silence.
No angels. No demons.
No glitch left to save him.
Only the quiet, endless hum of nothing.
.
.
The room was still. Too still.
A lone fan rotated lazily above, its hum steady—but something felt wrong.
Arin lay on his side, half-awake, half-trapped in the fog of a dream that wouldn't end. His fingers twitched, then trembled. A faint whisper slipped past his lips, so soft he almost didn't hear it himself.
The air thickened, damp and metallic, clinging to his skin. Then, suddenly—his chest collapsed and expanded at once. Pain bloomed deep in his ribs. His breath hitched.
"Don't… come near me! Don't!!" His voice cracked, raw and broken, like an old recording warped by time.
His body jerked violently. Fear coursed through him—'not new fear', but something ancient, remembered. The kind that burned through him once before… at the moment of his death.
[Error!] [Error!] [Error!]
The same message. The same glitching sound that echoed before everything went black.
His breaths came short and shallow, panic clawing up his throat. The world around him pulsed faintly, the air rippling like water disturbed.
Then silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
His eyes snapped open.
For a heartbeat, he thought he was still dying—still in that church, that white light, that shattering pain.
But the ceiling above him wasn't scorched metal. It was plaster. The fan was old. The walls—familiar.
His old room.
""…What the—" He shot upright, heart hammering. His hands dug into the mattress, trembling.
"These sheets… this smell…" His voice faltered. "This is my room. My… childhood room?"
A wave of dizziness hit him, and he gripped the edge of the bed to stay upright. His fingers brushed over his arm—smooth skin, no scars, no burns, no bioports. Younger. Weaker. Alive.
'But… I died. I saw it happen. The fire… the impact… my body—' His chest tightened, breath catching as the memory clawed at him. 'And now… I'm here. I'm… alive?
He swallowed hard. His pulse raced faster. Something was off—not just the room, but reality itself.'
The fan above him slowed, then reversed direction. The hum deepened, distorted, each rotation echoing like a whisper.
The wall clock glared at him—12:00. The second hand ticked irregularly, scraping through the silence.
The pillow beside him sank slightly, as if someone had lain there moments ago.
He remembered this moment, the moment when he...
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
Then he heard it—his own voice, faint and warped, whispering from the walls:
"....Don't come near me….."
It wasn't coming from his mouth.
The whisper twisted, merging with the fan's hum, until every sound in the room carried a hint of him. Like the house itself was mimicking his voice.
His heart pounded. Was this a dream? Did he really come back to the most traumatic moment of his life?
The fan's blades slowed again. Each rotation seemed to carry his name, stretched into static.
"A—rin… A—rin…"
A shadow flickered on the far wall, bending where light should have fallen straight. It wasn't the fan's shadow.
it ...moved wrong.
Its shape twisted, long and thin, then wide and crawling, as if alive.
The room warped subtly. Corners stretched. The air wavered. His mind screamed glitch.
He had seen this before—when data corrupted in the Simulation Archives.
But this wasn't a simulation.
Was it?
His legs shook violently as he pushed himself off the bed. His hands scraped wood, trembling.
His body felt heavy, delayed—like moving underwater. Every breath burned in his lungs.
He looked toward the door.
The shadow stood there, limbs crooked, head tilted. Watching.
No, this was reality, he really did came back. Came back to his worst nightmare.
He swallowed.
"Move… please…" His voice was barely a whisper. But it didn't. His trauma kicking in. Oh curse his leg, his goddame leg.
The shadow twitched—then began to slide along the wall, its movements fluid and unnatural.
The fan's hum deepened to a low, vibrating growl, resonating through his bones. The house breathed.
Arin's body refused to respond. His nerves screamed in delay. He forced himself to crawl, nails scraping the floor.
The air was cold, damp, metallic—like the smell of the reactor room just before the explosion.
Each breath was agony.
'wait....then grandpa...grandpa is still alive.'
He reached the door, fingers brushing the handle. His throat burned as he screamed:
"GRANDPA!"
The echo came back wrong—deep, guttural, distorted:
"…GRaNDPa…"
It wasn't his grandfather's voice, but it knew that name. It remembered what it meant to him.
The shadow recoiled, then lurched forward again, limbs bending at impossible angles, mocking his movements.
Arin's heart slammed—thump, thump. His breaths heaved, ragged and uneven. This was the start of his demise. His fall had begun.
[Error Error Error]
[Emotion instability detected]
The room twisted around him, furniture groaning under unseen pressure. Lights flickered in rhythm with his pulse.
The shadow flickered once—gone—then reappeared, inches from him. A chill crept along his spine. He wasn't alone.
Its faceless form tilted, curious. A voice whispered, cracked and hollow, sending shivers down his spine:
"aRiN… why… heRe?"
His heart stopped.
Cold terror flooded through him.
The last words he'd heard before dying in the future echoed through his mind:
"...HoLy ..bLood..MuSt...DIeeeee ."
Yet here he was.
The room groaned. The shadow froze mid-motion, then dissipated like smoke.
The lights steadied. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
Arin collapsed to his knees, gasping, drenched in sweat. His body trembling hands gripped the doorframe as he stared blankly ahead.
Then—something flickered in the corner of his vision.
A faint blue glow.
[ERROR! SYSTEM MALFUNCTION DETECTED]
[Fear Index Overload — Reward Multiplier x10]
[Caution: Emotional Instability Detected in Host]
[ERROR!]
[ERROR!]
[ERROR!]
[ERROR!]
[Fear Index: 100%]
[Reward conditions Met.]
[Skill: Holy Touch Acquired.]
[Holy Touch]
[A skill that calms the mind and heart for temporary measure.]
His breath caught. His mind reeled.
He was feeling alive ... finally Alive, as he felt his legs. ..