Morning didn't come with light. It arrived with silence. A kind of silence that wrapped around the bones, thick and unmoving, as if even sound had started to evacuate the world. Elias sat at the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the baseball bat like it was the last thread connecting him to the waking world. His other hand pressed against his temple, fingers twitching now and then as if trying to rub out a headache that came from too deep inside. The noise in his head had changed. It wasn't just static anymore. It had rhythm now. A pulsing, steady beat, slow and buried beneath his conscious thought. It wasn't painful—it was just there, like a second heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
The apartment was still intact. The traps he laid yesterday remained untouched. The hallway outside hadn't echoed with footsteps, no screams had risen through the vents. But Elias could feel the change in the air. Something out there had begun to move differently. The scent of the world had shifted. The electricity hadn't come back. His phone was still dead. His building still dark. But there was an invisible shift in the wind outside, and his body knew before his mind did: the world had started to die louder.
Then the system returned. It didn't knock, didn't announce itself like a god with thunder or glory. It just whispered—calm, cold, unfeeling.
[New Quest Available: Read the Manual.]
[Reward: 100 Coins + Skill: Creation (Unlocked)]
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't move immediately. He just sat there, staring at the far wall like it might offer a better deal. Then the object appeared—no noise, no flash, just there. A leather-bound book, heavy in his hands, old but untouched. No dust. No scratches. It looked like something pulled from an archive sealed before he was born. No title on the front. No markings. Just weight and silence and warning.
He opened it.
The first page didn't offer comfort. It offered the kind of truth that made people stop believing in happy endings.
"Welcome to the System. You have been selected. Not by merit. Not by fate. But by design. You are the experiment."
"Your world has entered collapse. Civilization will fail. Governments will dissolve. Trust will be shattered. What remains is survival."
"Your tasks will come in waves. Your strength will grow slowly. And your choices will cut deeper than any weapon."
"Do not seek fairness. Do not wait for heroes. You are alone."
"This manual will not teach you how to save others. It will only teach you how to outlive them."
"That is the first lesson."
The page dissolved the moment his eyes left it. Not burned. Not torn. Just turned to dust and vanished, like the truth had never been meant to stay long. The rest of the book followed, disintegrating silently in his hands until he was left staring at his palms, empty and still.
He sat there for a while.
Not in panic.
Not even in fear.
Just absorbing.
Outlive them.
He wasn't surprised. Not anymore. The rules of the old world were already gone. What this system offered wasn't salvation—it was a bargain. You live, they die. You listen, you adapt, you outlast. Or you don't.
He got up slowly, knees cracking under the weight of no sleep, and walked to the window. Morning sunlight had returned, but it didn't warm anything. It spilled over the buildings like pale oil, cold and yellow, touching everything but bringing nothing with it. Down below, the street was empty. No cars moved. No voices echoed. No traffic buzzed. But three blocks down, a pillar of black smoke was curling toward the sky. Something had burned during the night. Not an accident. That smoke was deliberate. And wherever fire burned in silence, people had either made a last stand—or a first move.
He stayed there, watching that black spiral rise, the bat still in his hand.
[Skill Unlocked: Creation Lv. 1]
[You may now create simple tools, weapons, or traps using existing materials.]
He didn't react. He didn't say anything. He just looked at his apartment—bare, quiet, full of old tools and forgotten junk. And now, with this skill, every broken chair leg or rusted screw had become something else. Something valuable. A piece of survival.
He moved.
He didn't rush. He took his time, searching drawers, checking the utility box near the window, organizing wires, nails, and cloth. The first trap he made was primitive. A plank of wood with nails drilled through, placed beneath the welcome mat by the front door. If something stepped inside without looking, it wouldn't kill them—but it would make them fall. And sometimes, that's all you need.
Then the windows. He tied broken chair legs together with kitchen rope and wedged them against the sliding glass. If something climbed to the fifth floor, it wouldn't be able to break through without causing noise. If it pushed hard enough, the whole mess would fall off the ledge, crashing into the alley below and making enough racket to warn him. It wasn't elegant. But it was smart.
He worked quietly, efficiently. His hands moved on instinct. His mind didn't race—it calculated. He checked the corners, tested the locks again, slid glass shards beneath the crack of the doorway, just in case.
Every movement was a promise to himself: I'm not going to die again.
By the time he was done, the air inside had turned warm with sweat and effort. He took a step back and examined the room. Nothing beautiful. Nothing perfect. Just functional traps. Silent defenses.
[Skill: Creation – XP: 45/100]
He exhaled slowly. It was working. He was learning. The system wasn't cheating for him—it was nudging him forward, rewarding cleverness with possibility. And that was fine. He didn't want to be handed power. He wanted to earn it. No shortcuts. No sudden superhuman strength. Just steps. Measured, earned, understood.
Outside, a scream cut through the city.
Not loud. Not close.
But real.
He counted. That was the sixth today. Or maybe the seventh. He wasn't sure anymore. One of them had been a gunshot. Just one. That sound had echoed longer than the scream that followed it.
Somewhere out there, someone had hope and a weapon. That made them dangerous. That made them unpredictable. And it meant that this city wasn't empty yet.
He couldn't stay here forever.
Comfort had killed him once already.
And this time, he wouldn't die in a bed waiting for someone else to fall apart first.
He picked up the bag again. Slid the new utility belt around his waist. Strapped the knife to his hip with duct tape and tucked a flashlight into the side pouch. One can of food. One bottle of water. Two granola bars. Not enough. But it would keep him upright for the next twelve hours.
He looked in the mirror.
Still him.
Same messy medium-length hair. Still too skinny. Still too pale. But the boy in the glass didn't blink this time. He didn't flinch when he adjusted the grip on his bat. There was something calmer in his eyes. Not colder—but focused. Like a thought had settled and taken root, growing deeper each hour.
This isn't about being a hero. It's about not being the corpse someone else steps over tomorrow.
He opened the door.
No hesitation this time.
The hallway didn't feel as heavy.
His steps didn't sound as loud.
And his heart, while still fragile, had stopped begging for peace.
It had started asking for time.
Time to prepare.
Time to move.
Time to win.