He sat alone on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands folded under his chin.
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the building's old ventilation system. Outside, traffic murmured in the distance. Inside, everything felt... still.
The system's blue screen floated in front of him like an invitation he hadn't decided whether to accept or burn.
Quest Complete: [Save the World]
Claim Reward?
[Yes] / [No]
Ren stared at the glowing options. It was a simple prompt, the kind that made sense in a video game. Clean. Polished. Direct.
But he'd learned enough by now to know nothing about this system was simple.
Save the world. Right.
He pressed the [Yes] button.
System Notification
Quest [Save the World] — Complete
Reward Claimed:
🩸 The Body of Pure Horror
Domain: Absolute Horror
Effect: Conceptual Authority, Positive Negation,Horror Sovereign
Status: Hidden Terror
You have become the Embodiment of Horror.
You are not a wielder of fear…you are its final shape.
The origin, culmination, and inevitable collapse of all horror.
Yet unlike the abominations that twist the air with dread, you carry no visible taint.
You do not reek of blood.
You do not radiate killing intent.
You do not inspire fear.
You look normal. Almost serene.
And that is the most terrifying thing of all.
Ren blinked.
"What the fuck is this?" he muttered, eyes scanning the floating text box. "Can I refuse this?"
System:
No.
He didn't get to argue.
Because something inside him cracked.
The world didn't shift. No aura flared. There were no screams, no howls of pain echoing through space-time like the usual eldritch upgrades. Just an internal snap like a bone being dislocated without warning.
Then came the pain.
It wasn't sharp or stabbing. It was explode. Like his nervous system had been manually adjusted to feel better. Not better as it has improved. Better as in clearer. Sharper. Louder.
Like someone had taken a photo of pain, upscaled it to 8K, and injected it directly into his spinal cord.
"Ah fuck okay, okay, that's enough," he rasped, collapsing onto the floor. He writhed, muscles spasming without rhythm. The floor was cold. The air wasn't moving. But his body felt like it was being boiled, restructured atom by atom.
His fingernails scraped against the floor as he tried to find something anything to brace against. His eyes rolled back once. Then again.
Time blurred.
By the time he realized he was still alive, five hours had passed.
The pain stopped. Just stopped. Like it had never been there. Which made the memory worse.
He lay there in silence, flat on the carpet, drenched in sweat. A small puddle had formed around him. It soaked through the fabric. His breath was hoarse, and for a moment, he just watched the ceiling and tried to remember how lungs worked.
"What the fuck…" he mumbled again, half hissing, half laughing.
He peeled his soaked shirt off his chest and dragged himself up, wobbling toward the bathroom mirror. The light flicked on. Dim, yellow.
He stared.
And frowned.
He looked the same.
Exactly the same.
No third eye. No tentacles bursting from his chest. No halo of writhing shadows. No monstrous reflection smiling back at him. Just… Ren.
He leaned in closer. Eyed the subtle changes.
His shoulders looked sharper. Not broader, but defined like someone had brushed contour onto muscle with careful precision. His body had leaned out, the ghost of old surgical stress now replaced with something almost modelesque. His skin was still pale, and the dark half moons under his eyes still made him look like he hadn't slept since med school. But his face—
It was different. Barely. Just enough to make him look like he'd been through a rebranding.
A little more symmetrical. A little more… handsome.
Still tired. Still deadpan. But now? He looked like the kind of person who wouldn't even need to scream to make you run.
"Great," he muttered, raising an eyebrow at himself. "I look like a depressed runway model."
He turned sideways, checked again. No obvious changes. No signs of abomination. No pulsating symbols on his chest. Not even a damn vein bulge.
"So what the hell does this body do?" he said out loud.
"The name sounds like it should come with cultists and a matching throne. But I look like I belong in a prescription ad for seasonal depression."
System:
You will have to figure that out, host.
Ren flipped the mirror off.
"Helpful as always," he muttered.
There was no use trying to overanalyze it. Whatever the Body of Pure Horror was, it didn't come with a user manual or even a noticeable effect. For all he knew, it was another passive stat boost dressed up in pretentious horror branding. Or maybe it was a death sentence with good marketing.
He exhaled and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit him like a sigh, washing away the sweat, the lingering ache, and the half formed terror curled beneath his ribs.
He didn't think. Didn't try to feel triumphant. Didn't check his status screen again.
Just stood there, eyes closed, arms pressed against the wall, letting steam fill the bathroom until he couldn't see anything but gray.
By the time he finished, the mirror had fogged completely.
He dried off, threw on a T-shirt, and padded out barefoot to grab his phone. His fingers hovered over a few food options before settling on one. He ordered enough to feed three people.
Not because he was hungry.
But because he needed to remind himself he was still human enough to get bloated and sleepy after eating too much curry.
He sat on the floor in front of the couch, wrapped in a towel like a post operative ghost, and waited.
For the food. For fear. For the next thing.
Whatever the hell that would be.