Liam Archer woke to the sound of his own heartbeat.
The familiar scent of birthday cake frosting was gone. So were the off-key harmonies of his parents' surprise song, and the flickering star-projector in his bedroom ceiling. Instead, the air hung thick with a cloying sweetness—rusted iron and rotting meat steeped in spoiled honey.
He jolted upright, his spine cracking against a headboard carved from ice-cold stone. The room defied logic: ceilings slanted at impossible angles, wallpaper bulged like blistered skin, and dark stains oozed across the walls, moving with sinister purpose in the shadows.
"This isn't happening…" Liam dug his nails into his thigh. Pain flared, sharp and undeniable.
Not a dream.
His gaze locked onto his left wrist. A bronze watch he'd never seen before clamped onto his pulse point. No brand, no markings—just glowing crimson digits burning in the dark:
23:59:58
As the seconds bled away, a mechanical voice drilled into his skull:
[Welcome to the Domain of Rules]
[Survival countdown activated]
[Loading Novice Trial: Decaying Manor—]
Cold sweat drenched his shirt. He knew. The urban legend whispered in darknet forums, the one governments denied but everyone feared. The "Rule Aberration"—a death game that snatched humans on their eighteenth birthday. Today was his.
He swung his legs over the bed. The floorboards, icy under his bare feet, were veined with dark, flaky residue that smelled like old blood. The room's only door was heavy oak, but its handle was a skeletal human finger bone curled around the lock.
Breathe. Just breathe. Liam forced air past the sickly-sweet rot coating his throat. He scanned his prison:
A fractured floor-length mirror, fogged with grime, dominated the left wall.
Bookshelves to the right overflowed with leather-bound horrors titled Hymns of Flesh and Bone Flute Etudes in gnarled script.
Opposite the bed, a cold fireplace held a pile of ash molded into a fetal human shape.
His eyes skimmed the fireplace shadows—
THROB!
White-hot pain split his temples! A fractured vision flooded his mind:
The shadows beside the fireplace boiled. A skeletal hand, dripping with putrid wax and caked with black-red filth, slid from the darkness.
It reached for the nape of his neck.
Future Fragment!
Liam threw himself forward.
SWISH— Air hissed where his head had been. He rolled across the floor, twisting to see the hand hanging mid-air, fingers splayed like knives. Droplets of viscous liquid fell, hissing as they burned holes in the wood.
The hand paused, then retracted into the shadow. The darkness swallowed it whole.
Liam's sweat dripped onto the scarred floor. Not a hallucination. Precognition? The watch flickered: 23:57:31. Blood-red numbers mocked him.
He scrambled to the door and gripped the bone handle.
CLICK.
The lock held. The finger bone bent backwards with a sickening SNAP, severing its own ring finger. Gears and copper wires glinted in the break.
The detached finger hit the floor, a slit opening on its tip:
[Error: Rulebook not detected]
[Door access: LOCKED]
Rulebook. Liam's eyes flew to the bookshelves. The leather-bound volumes shifted subtly, like sleeping beasts. He grabbed Dining with Shadows—its cover contracted, emitting an infant's whimper!
He flung it away. Pages fanned open , revealing text printed in bloody handprints:
Rule 1: Never refuse a shadow's invitation
Rule 2: The mirror never lies. Your eyes do.
Rule 3: When hungry, the ashes in the hearth are most delicious…
The words squirmed. The period at the end of Rule 3 split into a screaming mouth: "EAT ME! NOW!"
Liam kicked the shrieking book aside, retreating to the room's center. The watch read 23:52:44. Everything was warping—letters crawled like slugs across book spines, the ashen figure in the fireplace crumbled, its pinky finger vanishing.
DING! The watch vibrated. New text bled onto the dial:
[Novice Hint: Talent 'Future Fragment (F-rank)' activated]
[Cooldown: 00:04:59]
Precognition. Liam's heart hammered. That vision saved him.
He forced himself to analyze:
1. Door needs a "Rulebook"
2. Books are predatory
3. Killer lurks in the fireplace shadows
4. Precognition usable every 4 minutes 59 seconds
His eyes fixed on the grime-coated mirror. The only passive object. He tore a strip from his shirt and wiped the glass.
Dust fell away. A pale, dark-haired boy in dinosaur pajamas stared back—himself. But when Liam raised his hand, the reflection lagged, its lips twisting into a smirk.
Rule 2: The mirror never lies. Your eyes do.
As the rule echoed in his mind, the reflection froze. The dinosaur's eyes on his pajamas snapped open, becoming whirring gears. The mirror's surface rippled. Two hands shot through the glass, clawing for his throat!
Precognitive pain stabbed Liam's nerves 0.1 seconds early! He jerked back. The clawing hands missed, melting into the glass and reforming as bloody text:
Find the Codex
Before it is eaten
Beneath the words, something glinted in the mirror frame's shadow. Liam hooked it out with his foot—a brass book clasp engraved "Decaying Manor Survival Codex."
The clasp burned in his palm, pointing toward the fireplace. Liam looked up, blood freezing in his veins. The shadow above the hearth had doubled, dripping like crude oil. The ashen figure was melting, revealing a half-burnt eyeball embedded in the cinders. Its pupil fixed on the clasp.
The skeletal hand tore from the shadows again—faster, screaming through the air!
"23:48:03"—Crimson digits reflected in Liam's widened eyes.
Precognition cooldown: 2 minutes 41 seconds.
The clasp scorched his palm.
Death's shadow fell over him.
As the killing wind stirred his hair, Liam did something insane—
He hurled the clasp at the melting eyeball in the ashes!
SQUELCH! Viscous fluid burst. The skeletal hand froze mid-lunge. The room convulsed. Books shrieked on their shelves. Shadows churned in the fireplace. The brass clasp dissolved in the ooze, but a slender volume bound in what looked like skin rose from the cinders—
Decaying Manor Survival Codex
Liam lunged, snatching the book! The skeletal hand sliced through the air where he'd stood, cracking stone.
CLUNK. The door lock disengaged.
He slammed through the door into a corridor! Behind him, a choir of books wailed: "Rule One! Never refuse a shadow's invitation—!"
The rotting door thudded shut, sealing the screams inside. A dim hallway stretched ahead, walls weeping with the same living stains. The watch showed 23:45:17, its face oozing fresh blood-text:
[Novice Trial Commenced]
[Location: Decaying Manor]
[Primary Objective: Survive until countdown ends]
Liam pressed against the door, gasping. The Codex's cover felt warm, like freshly peeled skin. From the darkness at the corridor's end came a new sound:
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
High heels stepping in shallow water.
Getting closer.
He gripped the Codex, eyes darting right—
A door hung slightly ajar, a "Safe Room" plaque nailed to it. Warm candlelight spilled through the gap.
Precognitive agony exploded in his skull!
A vision, ten times more vivid, shattered his thoughts:
He pushes the "Safe Room" door open. Candles snuff out.
Thousands of near-invisible threads crisscross the blackness, each strung with desiccated eyeballs.
> Every pupil swivels toward him. The threads lash out like vipers!
His sweat-soaked pajamas clung, icy against his skin.
The heel-taps stopped ten meters away.
Safe Room candlelight beckoned.
Liam edged backward toward a darkened stairwell on his left.
The Codex's first page glowed faintly in the gloom, revealing a freshly inscribed line in blood:
Rule 4: There are no safe rooms in the manor