The shadows crept like spilled ink across the stone floor—slow at first, slithering between fallen books and broken chairs, then faster, reaching like hands. Noah's breath hitched. He wasn't sure what terrified him more: the way the library lights dimmed into a dusky red... or the fact that something was whispering in a voice that sounded suspiciously like it was chewing glass.
He clenched the cane tighter, backing up slowly as the black tendrils unfurled from the mage's hood like living smoke.
System Alert: Unknown anomaly detected.
Warning: Prolonged exposure to Shadow Weave may result in spiritual corrosion.
Noah's voice cracked into the stillness.
"Oh, great. Corrosion. I've been here one day and I'm already catching fucking magical mold."
His boot scraped the ground as he inched backward, eyes darting across the ruins of the library, but the maze of shelves was now a forest of swaying silhouettes—nothing but dead ends and cursed knowledge.
Then he saw it.
A corridor. Narrow. Half-collapsed. But still open.
Still away.
"Fuck it, we're running."
He turned on his heel and bolted, robes snapping around his legs, the cane clutched like a third arm. Behind him, the library shuddered. A low groan echoed as if the stone itself were about to vomit him out. He chanced a glance over his shoulder.
Big mistake.
The black mage hadn't moved. But the shadows? They had.
A screaming wave of ink-black tendrils surged forward—grabbing at books, tearing wood, melting lanterns. And they were fast.
Too fast.
"Oh fuck me, this is not fair—this is not even a normal kind of unfair!" he shouted, sprinting harder. "I was promised hot guys and divine missions! Not whatever hentai-horror-magic this is!"
The corridor twisted, narrowed, the air colder with every step. Behind him, the shadows howled.
And still—they gained.
He ran.
The corridor ended.
Noah's heart sank and his legs screamed, but up ahead—a door. Massive. Iron-wrought. Streaked in tarnish and dust, but there.
His eyes flared with hope and panic.
"System—can I use Draw One again?" he gasped between ragged breaths.
System Alert: "Draw One" on cooldown. Time remaining: 4 hours, 23 minutes.
"Four hours?! What is this, a fucking gacha scam?!"
He threw himself forward, digging deep into whatever reserves of adrenaline his half-starved, post-death body still had. The cane slammed against his back with every stride, an awkward metronome to his oncoming doom.
Behind him, the darkness surged.
Not just shadows—absence. A devouring blackness that swallowed light itself. Noah didn't even need to look anymore. He could feel it, hear the sizzling as torches were consumed one by one, smell the rot and burnt silk of reality unraveling.
Tendrils lashed down the corridor like spears of tar.
He reached the door. Slammed into it with his whole body.
It didn't budge.
"What the fuck—open!" he howled, ramming his shoulder into it again. It groaned under pressure. Just barely.
"This is what I get for skipping arm day for twenty years—goddamnit, why didn't I put a single stat into Strength?!"
He heaved, muscles tearing, lungs burning, cane wedged between his hip and the wall for leverage. The tendrils were right behind him now, licking at the floor with hunger. The air crackled with malignant cold.
With one last scream—half fury, half terror—Noah threw himself at the door. It burst open just wide enough for his body to slam through. He spun around, grabbed the edge, and pulled. The door scraped shut.
A millisecond later, something hit the other side with such force it bowed the metal inward. Tendrils slammed into it again, then again, a low screech following from something inhuman. Not just angry—denied.
The sounds stopped.
But Noah stayed frozen, back pressed to the cold steel, breath ragged, heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.
"Jesus... fucking... Christ," he muttered, sliding down until he was slumped against the wall, the cane still clutched in one trembling hand.
System Notification: Event Outcome – Escaped encounter with one of the Black Mages.
New Status Effect: "Exhausted." All physical actions halved until rest is taken.
Noah let his head fall back with a dull thud.
"Yup. Called it. Elden Ring with flesh trees and no saving graces. Still no harem in sight."
Noah had no idea how long he sat there, slumped against the metallic door, breath ragged, chest burning. Every heartbeat was a hammer-blow in his ears. The cane in his hand felt heavier than it had ever been. His legs trembled, and when he finally forced himself upright, it was with the grace of a drunk stumbling off a battlefield.
He looked around with bleary eyes, bracing for another horror. But instead of shadow tendrils or screeching blood-vines, he found… silver trays. Pots. Ancient hanging pans. Enormous ovens, hearths, and rusted ladles suspended from copper hooks.
"A kitchen?" he muttered aloud. "Seriously? All that—just to get yeeted into Gordon Ramsay's fever dream?"
The room stretched wide, cavernous even—far too large for a single royal stomach. This must have once served the entire ballroom. The scent of decay lingered under the weight of time: rot, mildew, old smoke. And yet, it was strangely peaceful. No ghosts. No corpses. No whispers in his ear about betrayal and love. Just dust and silence.
Dragging his feet, he started exploring—half out of curiosity, half just to stay moving. His exhaustion status weighed down every limb. The system hadn't lied. He was beyond tired. His arms ached from forcing that door shut, his throat burned from screaming, and his body wanted nothing more than to curl up and die in the corner.
But dying wasn't on the menu. Not yet.
He opened a cupboard. Moldy bread. Something once resembling cheese. A jar of something pickled that now looked like it had grown teeth.
"Appetizing," he muttered, kicking the cabinet shut.
He passed long stone counters lined with broken plates and blackened utensils, dodging the occasional collapsed shelf. On one table lay a feast of preserved horror: ancient meat turned greenish-purple, a soup that had congealed into something jello-like and malevolent.
Noah gave it a middle finger as he walked past.
Then, finally—blessedly—he found something usable. A wide, intricately-carved marble basin set into the wall, its base glowing faintly with blue runes. A magical fountain or sink, perhaps once used by the staff. From it flowed clean, clear water—cold and untouched.
He hesitated only briefly before drinking, cupping his hands. It was sharp, mineral, but... it was water. Safe. Unpoisoned. His body practically wept with gratitude as he downed gulp after gulp.
"Okay," he exhaled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Ten points to the ancient undead castle. You win this round."
Then he remembered the glass vials. He pulled them from the satchel he'd looted back in the bedchamber—thank fuck he hadn't dropped them in the ballroom chaos—and filled each one, screwing them tight with shaking hands.
[Inventory Updated]
3x Water Vials (Clean Fountain Water) — may restore minor stamina or remove mild exhaustion effects.
Status Update: Exhaustion Level 2 reduced to Level 1.
"Not a feast, but I'll take the hydration perks."
He sat beside the fountain for a moment, the cool stone seeping into his skin. He gazed around the ruined kitchen: the hanging pots, the broken cutting boards, the dust-covered rolling pins that hadn't been touched in what felt like millennia.
"Yeah, no," he muttered. "Still fucking weird that the library has a direct line to a royal kitchen. Who built this place? A schizophrenic architect with a DnD addiction?"
The silence offered no answer.
But the breath he took was just a little steadier now. And somewhere behind his exhaustion, behind the trauma and the swearing and the bone-deep irritation with the universe, there was a thin thread of focus tightening again.
He stood up. The cane still in his hand.
Wherever this cursed castle wanted to drag him next, at least he'd do it on full hydration and with a decent stick to swing.
The water had helped. Not much—but enough to make the ache in his legs slightly less apocalyptic and the ringing in his ears fade to a dull buzz. Noah paced the dusty kitchen again, eyes sharper now. The worst of the panic had settled into a weary haze.
Two exits.
Identical, moss-veiled archways yawning open like indifferent mouths.
"Great," he muttered, shifting his weight to the cane like a bitter grandfather. "A binary choice in a godforsaken ruin. Love that for me."
He stared at them a while. No hints. No signs. Just stone and silence. So, like any exhausted man-child cursed with divine responsibility and zero tactical knowledge, he closed his eyes and played a game.
"Left is death. Right is despair," he said flatly. "If my luck stat is even doing a single sit-up, I'll end up with despair. Which is... better. I guess."
He turned right.
[Luck Passive Activated]
Outcome slightly improved. +1 Avoided Catastrophe.
He blinked.
"Wait—what catastrophe?"
The corridor didn't answer.
The floor was cracked but walkable. The air was drier here, carrying the scent of burnt herbs and very old dust. Noah grunted, leaning heavily on the cane, dragging his feet like some kind of fantasy-horror pensioner.
"Day one of godhood trial and I've already evolved into a retired wizard. Fabulous."
He had no idea how long he'd been here—hours, a day, more? There was no sun. No time. Just fights and running and cursed romance rejects trying to kill him.
The corridor stretched on, lined with narrow wooden doors. Room after room. Small, uniform, undecorated—staff quarters. He didn't even glance inside.
"What am I gonna find, a haunted pillow? A toothbrush possessed by a former chambermaid?"
He kept walking.
The exhaustion didn't vanish, but his pace evened out. He was conserving energy now, like an old animal learning how not to die. And as he trudged forward, he noticed something strange.
Silence.
Not just the absence of sound—but an eerie stillness that settled in his bones. Where were the whispers? The crying? The spectral wails that had echoed through the halls earlier?
And then—he saw it.
At the end of the corridor, another chamber. Massive. Open. No doors—just a wide, arching entrance. Shadows pooled inside, but even from this distance, he recognized it. He didn't know how—but he knew.
The throne room.
Noah stopped cold. Every part of his body screamed don't. His skin prickled. A cold sweat broke over his spine. His fingers clenched tighter around the cane.
"Nope," he said, turning immediately on his heel.
No drama. No debate. Just nope.
"I've fought your daughter, thank you very much. I'm not walking into daddy's den without a fucking army, a therapist, and a full-body exorcism."
He backtracked, found the first staff bedroom that wasn't caved in, and entered. It was tiny, claustrophobic, with a straw-stuffed bed and an old shelf filled with rotting linens. But it was a bed. A place with four walls and a door he could at least shut.
He collapsed onto the mattress, not even caring about the smell or the grime. At this point, filth was just part of the costume.
He laid the cane beside him like a sleeping companion and whispered:
"Dear king... if you are in there... please stay on your royal ass and don't get the midnight munchies."
[System Alert]
Status Update: Exhaustion Level 1 → Normal.
You are now Rested (Temporary).
Noah exhaled slowly.
"Finally," he murmured. "One good fucking thing."
He closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to just... exist. Quiet. Alone. Away from tendrils and teeth and screaming daddy issues.
He wasn't asleep. Not really. Just floating somewhere between collapse and consciousness, in the brief, stolen moment of stillness he'd earned after barely outrunning living shadow.
So when he heard it—the soft, uneven breath. The muffled sound of someone trying not to cry—he didn't flinch. Not immediately.
Instead, he let his eyes stay closed and whispered, flatly:
"No. No, no, no. No more sobbing. No more ghosts. No more dead girls with daddy issues. Please. For the love of—"
He stopped. Then snorted.
"Oh, right. I'm the god now."
His lips twisted bitterly. "Or something. Who even fucking knows. That guy at the beginning certainly didn't explain shit."
With a sigh that could have come from a man three times his age, Noah sat up. The mattress creaked like it resented being touched. He grabbed the cane, fingers tightening on the handle, and turned his head slowly.
No tendrils. No flesh flowers. No grinning specters with bladed hands.
Just a girl.
Young. Maybe sixteen or seventeen, though it was hard to tell. Her entire form shimmered in that soft, translucent blue light that only the dead seemed to wear here. She was crouched in the far corner, her face hidden in her hands, weeping softly. Her form flickered with every sob, like a candle caught in a storm.
Noah didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He'd been here before.
He stood slowly, cane lifted just slightly like he might swat a particularly aggressive ghost into next week. His legs still ached. His ribs were bruised. And honestly, he didn't have the patience left for one more tragedy princess shrieking about her past trauma before trying to bite his throat out.
"…Hey," he said cautiously, voice hoarse. "You gonna try and kill me, or is this the kind of haunting where I just get to awkwardly watch you cry for five hours?"
The ghost stiffened.
She turned slowly, tear-streaked eyes wide with confusion. Her lips trembled—but not with rage. Not with that eerie, demonic static the others had made.
"You—" she whispered. "You're… alive?"
Noah blinked.
"Well. That's debatable," he muttered. "But yeah. As far as I can tell, I'm not a corpse yet. Give it an hour."
She stared at him.
Then sniffled. And wiped her cheek with the back of one glowing hand.
"How… did you get in here? No one's come through the corridors in years. Not since…" Her eyes grew haunted, gaze drifting to the door. "Not since they came."
They.
It always comes back to they.
The monsters. The black mages. The flesh-bound ghosts. The cursed paintings and living shadows. They.
Noah exhaled slowly.
"…Okay. Let's try this again," he said, adjusting his grip on the cane. "I'm Noah. I've been in this cursed dungeon theme park for, like, two days now. I've nearly died five times. I just ran from one of your delightful cloaked friends who tried to melt my soul through a wall. And I'm currently using this cane not because it's cool—but because my legs are jelly and I may or may not be turning into a magical cryptid."
She blinked at him, stunned. Her mouth opened slightly, confused… but not scared.
"Your name is Noah?" she repeated. "You're… really not one of them?"
"I'm not even one of me, at this point," he deadpanned.
Something in her shifted. She slowly stood, still partially flickering, her hands now clutched in front of her. She looked… tired. And very, very lonely.
"I'm Ilyana," she said. "I worked in the lower halls, before… before everything. Before the mages arrived. Before the king changed."
Noah tilted his head. The words made his skin crawl.
He thought of the throne room just down the corridor.
Of the king mourning his wife.
Of the paintings.
Of that crack in the story.
He narrowed his eyes.
"…You remember what happened?"
She nodded, slowly.
"I remember too much."