"Good job, Tilus."
Make no mistake.
"Great word today as well Tilus"
Done work with precise and efficient on deadline
"You too, thank you all for your hard work"'
How many times had he repeat these words ?
A friendly, model employee, a cog in the company machine. After long sighs, endless overtime, and sleepless nights, he finally heads home.
The streets of Ho Chi Minh City pulsed like a living organism, its arteries clogged with motorcycles and pedestrians locked in an unspoken battle for space. The air shimmered with the heat of overworked engines, carrying the tang of sizzling meat from roadside grills and the acrid bite of exhaust fumes.
Beneath the din of honking horns, Tilus Chu caught fragments of conversations—a fruit vendor haggling over jackfruit prices, students debating the latest K-drama plot twists, the metallic clang of a repairman beating dents out of an aluminum pot. He wove through the congestion on his motorcycle, a nameless specter slipping through cracks of reality. His reflection flickered in a passing shop window between advertisements for Samsung phones and Dutch Lady milk—hollow-eyed, skin pale under the fluorescent glow. Not sickly, not frail. Just… thinned out, like a man halfway between being and disappearing.
The rented house welcomed him with its familiar smells of mildew and jasmine air freshener. Tilus navigated past his roommates' abandoned flip-flops in the entryway, the ceiling fan's lazy rotation doing little to disperse the day's trapped heat.
His own space is a sanctuary of escapism: shelves of books stacked high, an unsteady fortress of stories that offered everything reality never could. Power, adventure, purpose.
Tilus collapses on his bed and begins his usual doom-scrolling on the phone. Headlines flash by:
"Mysterious 'C-Virus' cases detected in several cities.""Experts say it's not serious, just another flu.""Quarantine measures suggested—but no need to panic."
In the comments, voices murmur:
"Another media scare.""It's fake news.""My cousin works in a hospital—this is worse than they say."
Then his phone buzzes—it's Dad.
Tilus hesitates for a moment before answering.
"Hello, son. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, Dad."
"Good, good. Take care of yourself over there. Oh, by the way, you coming home this Tet? It's been four years, you know. Your mom keeps—"
"I'll try my best." His voice cracks slightly. He's been saying that for years.
After a brief pause, Dad sighs. "Yeah. We can travel, you know. Life is short; enjoy it while you can."
Tilus glances over at the orange pill bottles peeking out from beneath a well-worn Romance of Three Kingdoms book. "Yeah. Short."
"Oh, and guess what? Your brother's having a kid soon. You're going to be an uncle!"
The news hits him like a sucker punch. Somewhere back home, life goes on—family dinners, newborn giggles, incense burning on ancestral altars. A life if he had not make these mistakes
"Find a nice girl," Dad adds. "Don't wait until—"
"A wife won't fall from the sky," Tilus cuts in.
"You won't know unless you look up."
They talk a bit longer, filled with small talk and comfortable silences until a nurse calls Dad back to work. But just before hanging up, his father's tone grows firm.
"One last thing—stock up on supplies. The news says this C-Virus is spreading fast. Get food, water, medicine—whatever you can. And wear a mask when you go out."
Tilus sighs. "Dad, I know. You've told me ten times already."
"And I'll say it an eleventh if I have to! You always forget these things."
A faint smile tugs at his lips. Some things never change.
"Alright, alright. I'll take care of it."
"Stay safe, son."
The call ends, leaving silence in its wake. But Tilus isn't alone in the quiet—the buzz of his phone on the nightstand breaks the stillness. Its screen glows, illuminating a mess of scattered papers and an untouched cup of instant noodles from last night. He groans, rubs sleep from his eyes, and answers.
"Yo, you awake?"
William's voice crackled through the phone, steady as ever—but there was a tremor underneath, like a thread pulled taut.
Tilus rubbed his face, blinking at the glow of the ceiling. "Barely. What's up?"
"You really need to stop sleeping like a corpse," William teased.
Tilus managed a weak chuckle. "You didn't call just to roast my sleep habits."
A pause.
"No," William said, tone flattening into something more brittle. "Something weird's happening."
Tilus sat up, heartbeat picking up. William wasn't the type to use vague words like weird. If he said it, he meant wrong. He reached for the walkie's volume dial without thinking, fingers tighter than they should've been. "What do you mean?"
William began listing off what he saw:
A man coughing violently in a café—ignored. People only stared, lips pressed thin.A woman in a mask, muttering about safety—glared at like a lunatic.Empty shelves at Big C. Rice, noodles, water. Gone. Someone got into a fistfight over canned food.
"It just feels off," William murmured.
Tilus's eyes narrowed. "You're not usually the paranoid type."
"I'm not," William said quietly. "But my gut says something big is coming."
A dry knot formed in Tilus's throat. William isn't the type rely on instinct—he trusted logic, routine, timing. If his gut was acting up, then maybe Tilus's own unease wasn't just leftover adrenaline from yesterday's incident. The weight in his chest hadn't left since dawn. He'd ignored it. Labeled it fatigue. But now?
Bang.A loud thud rang out from the front door, sharp and jarring.
Tilus flinched hard, breath catching. His heart slammed once, then pounded steadily like a drum. "What the hell—"
"Shit," came William's voice again. "I forgot my key."
"You forgot something?" Tilus echoed, half-laughing out of reflex. "You?"
But it wasn't funny. Not really. William never forgot. His life was a checklist, always precise. That slip told Tilus more than William's words. He swung his legs over the bed, still barefoot, and padded toward the door. The wooden floor felt colder than usual.
Buzz.
His phone lit up. Unknown number.
Frowning, Tilus tapped the notification.
"A catastrophe is coming. Prepare yourself."
He stared at the words, unreadable in tone but clear in intent. His thumb hovered, then dropped the phone to the desk with a soft clack.He wanted to say it was a prank. A scam. The kind of message that made conspiracy theorists salivate and reasonable people roll their eyes.
He opened the door to William in
Darkness swallows the house, and the city—usually alive with the sounds of traffic and chatter—falls eerily silent. Tilus's breath catches as the air suddenly feels wrong.
William's jokes "Hey, did you forget to pay the bill?"
Tilus swallowed hard.His voice came out quieter than he meant. "No. I did."
Then, a holographic screen flickers to life, its edges crackling with static. Tilus jerks back when he sees glyphs forming across the void. A figure hovers on the screen.
Not a human.
It's about four feet tall, its body made of cracked porcelain. Its face wears a grotesque jester's mask—one side blood-red, the other an endless black void. Hollow eyes gleam with something sinister. Dressed in a harlequin outfit, its bells ring out an unnerving, low hum, as if even reality shudders at its presence.
The figure moves—too smooth, too lifelike for a broken puppet. Then, it speaks.
"Greetings, everyone."
Its voice slithers into the room, warped and inhuman.
"My name is Verismon. Right now, I broadcast across Vietnam. There are others like me, all over the world, with the same message. The guardian God who protected this world is gone. Now, we must activate the Self-Selection Sequence for a new guardian God. You humans will face trials that push you to despair."
The figure pauses, then continues with a cheerless grin.
"Now—let the Stage begin."
A floating window appears before Tilus:
[Stage 0: Survive the Corrosion Disaster
The world is being hit by a mysterious virus called C-Virus. It's airborne, and it spreads fast. Once people catch it, they go berserk and turn violent. Their eyes glow red, a clear sign something's wrong. At first, the change is subtle, but soon their bodies begin to decay. Their skin starts to peel like old wallpaper, and a foul smell of rot hangs in the air. Muscles slacken, making movements clumsy and jerky. It's not a quick death—it's a slow, unsettling breakdown that leaves nothing but a withered, lifeless shell behind.
Every person gets one antidote pill per day. After that, you're on your own, facing a race against time.
Type: Main
Difficulty: F
Clear Conditions: Survive for 7 days
Time Limit: 7 days
Compensation: 100 Coins
Failure: Death]
Verismon's raise his voice
"Now let's begin... HUMANITY LAST FABLE."
The words boomed, not louder, but deeper. As if reality itself vibrated at their utterance.
And when he said, "Good luck, humans. You'll need it," it wasn't encouragement. It was mockery.
The lights flicker back on. Then a holographic display updates:
[The first infected has already turned.]
He turned to William, eyes wide with realization.
And outside— The screaming began