humanize it , make it look like written by a human write r
Absolutely — let's rewrite **Chapter One** with a more natural, human-written flow, keeping the serious tone,
The fog had teeth.
Kazuo Mori couldn't see them, but he could hear the way the air moved—wet, heavy, predatory. Every sound died just a few meters beyond his boots. The world here didn't echo. It swallowed.
He tightened his grip on the small obsidian disk in his palm and stepped forward, boots gliding silently over fractured asphalt. Broken street lamps leaned like crooked tombstones; fungal cords pulsed along gutters and disappeared into the dark.
The city had been Yokomura, once.
Now it was just another Red Zone—a place the maps no longer named.
Kazuo exhaled. The warm breath against his rebreather was the only proof he was still alive. Or something like it.
He crouched beside a skeletal body half-submerged in moss. Tattered scavenger gear, melted boots, a chest cavity open like a cracked vault. The thing standing over it looked like a woman—until it smiled with the wrong number of teeth.
Mimic.
Not the clever kind. This one still moved like a puppet under foggy strings.
Kazuo whispered under his breath, "Let's see if 001 still bites."
He bent down and pressed the black coin into the ground. Nothing dramatic—no flash of light, no pulse of energy.
Just silence.
Complete and flawless. The sound of the mimic's breath vanished. The fretting hiss of the mist was gone. Even Kazuo's own pulse seemed to fall mute in his ears.
> **Rule Object 001: _Silence Anchor_**
> **Effect**: Cancels all sound within a 10-meter radius.
> **Side Effect**: User slowly begins to lose their sense of internal voice.
>
> *Kazuo don't suffered side effect , He was the Maker.*
The mimic paused mid-step. Its long, twitching neck slowly turned toward him. It tried to speak—but of course, nothing came.
Then it ran.
Kazuo didn't chase it.
Instead, he walked toward the corpse it had been hovering over. He could feel the Object on it—faint heat radiating from where memory lingered.
The scavenger's dead hand still clutched a glassy prism. Hexagonal. Familiar.
As his fingers closed around it, he saw the inscription near the ridge, painted in half-faded black:
> **Do not trust the ones who still look human.**
Kazuo stared at it, frowning. The lettering was precise. The cut angles — his method. The Rule logic was... intimate. This was something he had made.
But he hadn't made this one. Not that he remembered.
He stood slowly, palm tightening around the prism.
If this was his... and he didn't remember creating it... then either he was losing time, or someone else had figured out how to do what he could do.
Both possibilities were dangerous in very different ways.
Kazuo turned back toward the fog—toward the bones of Yokomura.
It was time. No one was coming to save this world. That had stopped being an option a long time ago.
So he would do it his way.
Even if that meant rewriting the rules from the ground up.
## **Eight Days Later — Ashfall Market**
It was a miracle anything still lived here. The buildings were crooked skeletons of prefab high-rises, their metal skin buckling under time and rot. The rail lines were twisted, dead veins. Power came in flickers. Rations came scavenged.
And yet, Ashfall Market thrived.
Humanity was stubborn like fungus—especially when dying.
Kazuo wandered the market streets in deliberate silence, his face half-obscured under a cracked technician's visor. Grease-smudged gloves, worn jacket, posture slouched just enough to be forgettable. Invisibility wasn't always about shadows. Sometimes it was about being the kind of person no one looked at twice.
He wasn't here to trade.
Not aloud, anyway.
Beneath his jacket: a bag containing four Rule-bent Artifacts. Real ones. Dangerous ones.
He left the first behind in a tool crate at a dying solar hub. The second, he slipped into the pocket of a courier mid-shift. The third, carefully hidden in the wiring box of a public radio terminal.
The fourth wasn't for strangers.
Up above, inside the moss-crawled ruins of an old university satellite dome, Clara Voss waited for him, arms folded tight across her burned lab coat. The mirrored plating along her jaw clicked with thought as she studied him.
"You dropped three active Rule objects in a place held together by string and superstitions," she said.
Kazuo set down his bag. "They're learning. Fear teaches faster than kindness."
"You're not worried one of these people will misuse it and blow three blocks off the map?"
"If they do, they were unworthy recipients." He walked past her, picking up a rusted relay plate from the table. "This city isn't held together. It's waiting to collapse."
She grunted. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"It is," Kazuo murmured.
On the table, he placed a new sigil. Flat, iron. Shaped like an anvil with a single mark burned into its center: ∇
> **Rule Object ω-0: _Grey Anvil Relay Sigil_**
> **Effect**: Links the bearer's perception to others marked with the same symbol.
> **Side Effect**: Prolonged exposure slowly erodes self-driven instincts—users begin acting like members of a hive mind.
Clara took a step back. "You know what that'll do to them."
"I know exactly what it'll do."
"And you're still going to use it?"
Kazuo looked at her with the faintest flicker of emotion — something like sorrow, buried deep under resolve.
"Do you know what happens to people who lose faith in the world?" he asked. "They look for structure. Meaning. Rules to follow."
He lifted the sigil.
"I intend to give them one."
Far below, three words passed in whispered breath between market stalls and crawlspaces, between flickering terminals and coded graffiti.
The same three words, said in awe and fear:
> "The Maker lives."
**End of Chapter One**