They now stood in the courtyard of the haunted house.
The structure loomed over them like a silent corpse that had long since forgotten the warmth of life. Its towering walls were dark and weathered, and its windows stared down like hollow eyes clouded by age and dust.
"Come on," Val said, extending a hand toward Amon. "We need to determine whether any living beings remain inside. We cannot afford assumptions. Assumptions are the slow and inevitable path to a man's death. Once a man is dead, there are no regrets, and no opportunity to return and verify what he once believed to be true."
His tone remained calm, steady, and instructive.
"Certainty built upon assumptions is the mother of ignorance and foolishness."
Amon listened carefully. The words settled into his mind with quiet weight. He reflected on them for a moment, committing the lesson to memory.
Then he stepped forward and joined Val.
Together, they approached the massive entrance doors of the haunted house. They were enormous slabs of dark wood reinforced with black iron, their surfaces scarred by time, neglect, and something that felt older than either. When they pushed against them, the hinges groaned in protest, releasing a long, hollow creak that echoed into the darkness beyond.
The interior was suffocatingly dark.
For several seconds, Amon could see nothing at all. The darkness swallowed every corner of the room and pressed in from every direction, thick and smothering, as though it possessed weight of its own.
Then Val raised a hand.
With a simple flick of his fingers, a small candle appeared in the air before them. Its flame burned softly, suspended in empty space as if held aloft by some unseen force.
The dim light spread outward.
Slowly, the interior of the house began to reveal itself.
Cobwebs clung to the upper corners of the room like fragile veils left untouched for years. Thin strands stretched between beams and walls, trembling faintly as the candle's warmth brushed the stale air.
Small mice scurried across the dusty floorboards, fleeing from the sudden glow. Tiny insects crawled along the ground and disappeared into the cracks between the warped wooden planks.
The windows were covered by heavy curtains that had once been elegant, but were now grey with dust and decay. The fabric hung unevenly, blocking most of the weak daylight outside.
Not far from the entrance stood several faded red sofas arranged around a glass table. The furniture had clearly been abandoned for years. Dust coated every surface, and the cushions had sunk inward beneath the weight of time and neglect.
The whole room felt still.
Not peaceful, not empty, but still in the way a place becomes when it has spent too long holding its breath.
Above them, mounted high upon the wall, hung a large black television. Its screen reflected nothing except darkness.
Several chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Their crystal frames still retained a faint, elegant beauty, but no light burned within them. They swayed ever so slightly, as though stirred by a breath no living person had taken.
Very little life remained inside the house.
Only cockroaches crawled across the floors and walls, while rats rustled through scattered debris. Mosquitoes drifted lazily through the stale air, buzzing faintly around the weak candlelight.
Amon wrinkled his nose.
"Oh, dear. It stinks in here," he said sharply, drawing in a breath and immediately regretting it.
Val glanced around the room with calm indifference.
"Yes. This is the scent of erosion and decay. The structure has begun to deteriorate. The walls are cracking, and the animals that have taken shelter here have left their marks behind."
He pointed toward the corner of the room.
A small mouse crouched there, gnawing slowly at a piece of rotten cheese. Nearby, several small piles of droppings lay scattered across the dusty floor.
"Rats have likely been living here for quite some time," Val concluded.
They continued deeper into the house.
As Amon moved through the dim room, a memory surfaced in his mind. One of the Thrones had spoken to him earlier.
Check your quests.
The words echoed clearly in his thoughts, repeating softly as he walked.
Curious, Amon decided to try it.
"Quests," he said.
The moment the word left his lips, the air before him shimmered. A translucent window formed in front of him, emerging from thin air like ripples spreading across invisible water.
== << [| QUEST |] >> ==
Objective 1: Retrieve the sealed artefact and submit it to the Ancients
Objective 2: Fight and kill all half-corrupted beings with no help
Rewards: 1000 SWI | The power of Discerning |
== << [|---------|] >> ==
"So, this is what he meant when he said, 'Check your quests,'" Amon murmured.
His eyes moved down the list again.
What does it mean by all? And how many are there anyway? Fifty perhaps? No, hell no. Let it be ten, Amon prayed inwardly.
But before they could explore any further, something rose from the ground ahead of them.
A darkened being.
It had no face, no mouth, and no ears. Only eyes.
Eyes covered its body, staring in every direction and none at all, scattered across the dark flesh like a sickness given form.
Amon turned his head, ready to look to Val for guidance, on the verge of asking what the thing before them was and what exactly they were supposed to do.
Val was gone.
He had vanished without a sound.
Amon's expression shifted at once. He quickly searched for a way out, his gaze sweeping across the room as his mind raced. He tilted his head slightly, scanning for hidden openings, cracks, anything he might have missed.
Then he saw the open door.
A brief wave of relief touched him.
Then the door slammed shut.
"Shit!" Amon gasped, instinctively stumbling several steps backward.
Thankfully, the candle still burned, its faint light giving him a clearer view of the disfigured, darkened being.
"Is that a corruption?" Amon shouted before he could stop himself.
The creature's countless eyes shifted toward him at once.
Yes, it is. Now fight it.
The voice echoed suddenly in his head.
Before Amon could even process the voice, or what it had said, the corruption lunged at him with blinding speed.
"Shit," Amon growled.
It struck him in the abdomen and sent him flying into the wall.
The impact shattered the wood and plaster behind him, and the wall collapsed in a violent crash, crumbling down over Amon's head.
"Urghh!"
Amon forced himself upright, pushing the debris off his body. He quickly checked his head for blood, only to freeze in surprise.
There was none.
Not a single drop had touched the floor. Only dirt and dust clung to his skin.
Use your Alter Ego.
The voice echoed in his mind again.
"Alter Ego? Ah, yes, that's right, my Alter Ego is supposed to help me!"
A brief wave of relief washed over him. Some of the panic that had gripped him moments earlier eased at once.
He shut his eyes and focused sharply, trying to picture his Alter Ego and force it into existence. His expression tightened under the strain. It was not simple. It was not natural. But he had no time to hesitate. Thinking too long, daydreaming, imagining what it was supposed to be, who it once was, or drowning in useless reflection would get him killed in less than a second.
So he called it.
"Flaw," Amon commanded.
Even as he spoke the name, a grave unease settled in his chest.
He was not certain it would work.
The Alter Ego he had once possessed had long since faded from his memory. Its true identity had vanished into obscurity, leaving him with nothing but fragments. In desperation, he had renamed it, though whatever it truly was had not changed.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, bracing himself for the consequences of that reckless assumption.
Then something appeared.
A being formed before him, placing itself between Amon and the darkened creature.
Its existence seemed unstable, as though reality itself struggled to contain it. Its body flickered with irregular distortions, patches of darkness and fragments of pale light shifting constantly across its form. Glitches rippled through its silhouette, warping the air around it like fractured reflections in shattered glass.
It possessed no fixed shape.
Its frame was slender, yet strangely immense, as though its true size extended far beyond the limits of the visible world. It was narrow and vast, defined and undefined, all at once.
Light and shadow.
Form and absence.
Order and collapse.
All of it was etched into the entity called Flaw.
It did not turn toward Amon. It offered no greeting, no acknowledgement.
And yet it stood directly in front of him, shielding him from the corruption as though the act were instinctive.
"It worked!" Amon exclaimed.
The corruption did not hesitate.
With a violent burst of motion, it lunged again. This time it moved even faster than before, its many eyes twisting toward Amon as it raised its arm to strike.
The blow never reached him.
Flaw lifted a hand and stopped it effortlessly.
The moment the corruption's arm touched Flaw's body, something horrifying happened.
The limb collapsed.
Its solid form melted instantly into a stream of black liquid, spilling uselessly toward the floor like rotting ink.
Before the corruption could even react, Flaw seized its head and hurled it across the room.
The creature slammed into the floor with a deep, crushing thud. The impact shook the already fragile house, sending fragments of stone and wood raining down from the damaged walls. Loose bricks and broken planks scattered across the floor as the structure groaned under the strain.
The corruption did not rise again.
Dead, Amon assumed.
But he barely had time to process what had happened.
Before he could thank Flaw, dismiss it, or even fully register what he had just seen, the air inside the ruined house twisted again.
More figures rose from the ground.
Corruptions.
But these were different.
Some had wide, gaping mouths where their eyes should have been. Others possessed ears without mouths, eyes without ears, limbs twisted into grotesque shapes that belonged to no natural creature.
Their bodies looked unfinished, assembled from broken ideas of anatomy.
A dozen of them emerged at once.
And every one of them lunged toward Amon.
The sudden swarm forced him back a step. His heart pounded as instinct screamed at him to run, but he clenched his teeth and forced himself to stand his ground.
No.
I need to be strong.
I cannot rely on my Alter Ego to fight everything for me.
Indeed. You are correct.
The voice returned inside his mind.
But you are adapting. Once adaptation is complete, everything will become easy.
Amon frowned.
Is that Val?
He dismissed the thought at once.
No. It cannot be. Val's voice is not that deep. And it certainly does not sound like that, rough, ancient, and crackling with authority.
Pushing the thought aside, Amon focused on the chaos unfolding before him.
Flaw surged forward once more.
With unnatural speed, it caught two corruptions at once and swung them through the air like rag dolls, smashing them into the floor and nearby walls.
But the remaining creatures did not falter.
One corruption lunged and struck Flaw with a brutal punch, forcing the glitching entity a step backward.
More followed.
The twisted things rushed in from every direction. Their bodies contorted grotesquely as they bent their limbs into jagged shapes, turning themselves into living weapons for one another.
Sharp limbs pierced forward.
Bladed arms hacked downward.
They swarmed Flaw, stabbing and tearing into its unstable form.
"Shit! Shit!" Amon choked, panic rising in his throat.
"What is my power?"
His voice cracked as the reality of the situation hit him.
In frustration, he bit down against his finger.
Then something sparked in his mind.
A sudden flash of memory struck him like lightning.
Amon froze.
He remembered.
"Ah, right," he muttered.
His thoughts began to race.
The only path I have without question marks is Writing... and my power is Narratives.
His eyes widened.
Wait. If the Path of Writing gives me understanding, knowledge, wisdom, memory, and the traits suited to writing, and the Power of Narratives allows me to bring my writing into reality... then doesn't that mean I can edit my own reality?
The thought hit him with shocking force.
Then came a violent crash nearby.
BAM!
The sound snapped him back to the present. His thoughts sped up. His adaptation was increasing, and with it, his understanding sharpened at a frightening rate.
After only a few seconds, he found his answer.
"I hope this works," he muttered.
He raised his hand, let one finger extend, and wrote into the air:
I have a gun with unlimited ammo and unlimited precision.
The words glowed for a brief instant.
Then reality obeyed.
From that moment on, the Gunman was born.
A weapon of gold and silver appeared in Amon's hand, wrapped in a formless white aura. The instant his fingers closed around it, memories flooded his mind and body in a violent rush.
He knew how to hold it.
How to aim.
How to breathe.
How to adjust his stance.
How to align posture, muscle, focus, and intent.
How to fire.
Every detail, every motion, every instinct of the gunman had been etched into him, as though he had lived a thousand lifetimes with the weapon already in hand.
"Urgh!"
Amon growled and pressed a hand briefly against his head.
The rush was overwhelming.
But beneath the strain, joy spread through him.
Yes. It worked.
He straightened at once, allowing the gun to settle naturally into his hands. His grip was firm, fluid, and precise. His breathing steadied. His eyes narrowed.
He aimed at one of the corruptions.
BAM!
The first shot tore through the air with a shrill whistle and struck the creature with impossible precision. Its chest burst open in a spray of dark crimson as a jagged hole tore through the place where flesh should have been. It collapsed with a heavy thud, its limbs splaying at unnatural angles while a foul stench rose from the corpse.
Amon did not pause.
Another corruption lunged.
He fired again.
BAM!
The bullet tore through its arm.
BAM!
Another shattered its jaw.
The creatures recoiled, screeching and twisting, but they were no match for his unnatural accuracy.
With every passing second, Amon became faster.
His movements sharpened.
His breathing grew steadier.
His eyes grew colder.
His muscles moved in perfect synchronization with the weapon in his hand.
He fired in rapid bursts, each shot timed with lethal precision, striking the vital point of every corruption before it could reach him.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
The house echoed with gunfire. Dark bodies fell one after another, crashing onto the bloodied floor.
At last, the final corruption collapsed.
Silence followed.
"Hah..."
Amon let out a long breath of relief.