章節 1: Chapter 1: TRUCK-KUN'S VICTIM
Inky blackness. A vise clamped around Mark's skull, squeezing out the edges of consciousness. A groan escaped his lips, a rusty hinge protesting its duty. His eyelids cracked open, battling against the heavy curtain of sleep. Stillness. Only an endless void of the deepest, darkest ember greeted his blurry vision.
Then, a voice. Angelic, yet devoid of warmth, it echoed in the cavernous space within his mind. "[Conditions have been met]," it boomed, the pronunciation sharp and inhuman.
"What the actual hell?" Mark thought, his mind a tangled mess. The voice continued, unfazed by his internal chaos. "[Class conversion has been applied: Ascendant]," it declared, a metallic echo following each word. A pause, then, "[Initiating host distribution...] [Unique Skill obtained... 'Eternal Gluttony']..."
Gluttony? What the hell was going on? A strangled cry, half question, half plea, ripped from Mark's throat. "Who's there?! Stop screwing with me!" His head throbbed, a rhythmic counterpoint to his rising panic. He needed to wake up, grab some goddamn painkillers. But his body refused to obey, a dead weight tethered to an unyielding bed.
As if sensing his mounting panic, the voice dropped another bombshell. "[Bonus skill acquired... Mystic Skill: Celestial Wheel']."
Just as abruptly as it began, the voice vanished. Silence. Eerie, suffocating silence. With a surge of defiant energy, Mark forced his eyes open wider. The blurry void sharpened, revealing the familiar silhouette of a bed frame above him. Memories flooded back, a torrent of images culminating in the blinding flash of headlights and the sickening crunch of metal.
"The van... I got hit by a van," he whispered, a tremor of fear running through him. "Am I in the hospital?" Panic clawed at his throat. "My insurance card... expired! Shit, I gotta get out of here!" He strained against the invisible bonds holding him captive, his muscles screaming in protest. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
"Did they turn me into a fucking quadriplegic?!" Despair settled in his chest like a lead weight. Then, a new thought struck him. "Since when are hospital beds this fancy?" He could clearly see the intricate design on the ceiling, impossible if he wasn't flat on his back. A cold dread snaked its way down his spine. This wasn't a hospital room. This was something... else entirely.
Mark forced a shaky breath through clenched teeth. "Alright, alright," he muttered, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. "Chill the hell out, buddy. Figure out where you are first."
The weight of his situation pressed down on him. Was he dead? Stuck in some bizarre afterlife purgatory? A whimper escaped his lips as his mind conjured images of his beloved video game collection and the meticulously painted figurines he'd spent years collecting. Gone. All of it. No family to inherit his nerdy treasures, just him and the vast, unsettling silence.
Then, a whisper. A murmur that snagged on the edges of his awareness. Mark's head snapped towards the sound, his muscles screaming in protest. There, in the dim corner of the room, a sight that defied logic materialized. "Cosplay convention in the afterlife?" he mumbled, his voice raspy.
Two figures stood bathed in a pool of muted light, their attire seemingly ripped straight from a high-class maid cafe. The uniforms were a stark contrast of black and white, the crisp white aprons highlighting the elegance of the long-sleeved black dresses. Frilly detailing adorned the aprons, adding a touch of whimsy to the otherwise formal attire. The high-necked dresses hugged their figures before flowing into full skirts that danced just above their ankles. White stockings, a stark counterpoint to the dark fabric, completed the ensemble.
But the women themselves were as different as night and day. One possessed a voluptuous figure, her ample curves straining against the confines of the uniform. The other, in stark contrast, was a vision of delicate features and a slender frame. Both, however, shared the same perfectly polished air, like porcelain dolls brought to life.
Mark's throat felt like sandpaper. Swallowing did little to ease the dryness as he gaped at the two women. Were they real? Had someone rigged some elaborate afterlife fantasy for him? Each one possessed a beauty that belonged on the cover of a magazine, their maid uniforms like a twisted dream. He needed to get a grip.
Focusing on his hearing, a sliver of awareness returned. The maids were whispering, their voices barely above a murmur. "It's karma, Vivian," the petite one hissed, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Karma for the General's humiliation washing over that brat!" She clasped her hands together, glee sparkling in her eyes.
The voluptuous maid, seemingly the leader, hushed her instantly. "Quiet, you fool! Didn't Head Maid warn us about walls having ears?" Her voice, a low purr, sent shivers down Mark's spine despite his confusion. The petite maid flinched, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Then, they landed on him.
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. The petite maid's eyes widened, her face draining of color as a shriek tore from her throat. "GHOST! GHOST!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched and frantic.
Vivian jolted, fear replacing her earlier smugness. Their screams echoed, bouncing off the opulent walls. A horrifying realization flickered in the voluptuous maid's eyes before she bolted, disappearing through the grand double oak doors with a slam.
Mark, left in the wake of their panicked escape, felt a strange surge of strength. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, intending to calm the hyperventilating maid. But as he shifted, his eyes caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-body mirror across the room. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. Staring back at him was a face he didn't recognize. A face that sent a chilling whisper through his mind: "Who the f**k is that?"
章節 2: Chapter 2: TRIALS OF VALOR
Mark couldn't tear his gaze from the mirror. His reflection lay sprawled on a unique bed - black and red sheets adorned the sumptuous mattress, framed by luxurious black curtains tied at each corner. But the bed itself wasn't the captivating element. It was the face staring back at him.
A boy, with a body that seemed spun from gossamer, and a face that could be mistaken for a beautiful girl's. Ash-white hair cascaded down his shoulders, framing eyes the colour of the twilight ocean. Surprise mirrored in those eyes, mirroring his own bewilderment. Before Mark could stammer out a single word, the grand oak doors burst open with a bang.
Vivian, her face a mask of terror, scurried back into the room, followed by an old man with a shock of iron-grey hair. Her voice, shaky with fear, pointed at Mark. "Master David... he's... he's alive!"
"Who the hell is David?" Mark thought, a bewildered echo of Vivian's declaration. The old man, clad in a cloak the colour of moss, approached him with an unsettling stillness. His weathered face, though composed, seemed to crease further upon closer inspection. He reached out, a surprisingly strong hand gripping Mark's shoulder.
"Young Master," the old man spoke, his voice gravelly like stones rolling down a mountainside. "Please, lie down." He gently but firmly guided Mark back to the soft, inviting bed. Mark sank back, his mind reeling. The luxurious room, the bizarre women, the strange old man, and most importantly, the face in the mirror - none of it made any sense. A million questions bubbled up within him, threatening to erupt. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash the torrent, but a strange sense of exhaustion washed over him, urging him back into a confused silence.
The old man's gaze snapped towards the petite maid, who remained frozen in a tableau of terror. "Shay," he barked, his voice firm but laced with concern. "Fetch the Lord now." Shay, jolted from her paralysis, let out a strangled gasp and a vigorous nod. Her legs, finally regaining some semblance of function, propelled her out of the room like a startled rabbit.
Mark was a cauldron of questions. Who was this 'Lord'? What was going on in this bizarre, opulent room? A tidal wave of confusion threatened to drown him, but the old man's next action cut through the chaos.
He began to mutter words that flowed like an ancient, forgotten language. The air crackled with a faint energy as Mark watched, mesmerized. Suddenly, a sphere of pure light materialized in the room, hovering effortlessly before them. His eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets. Magic! It was the only explanation. He wasn't naive; he knew the difference between parlor tricks and genuine magic, and this... this was the real deal.
"Young Master," the old man said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "please follow the light with your eyes." It took a moment for Mark to register that he was being addressed. He gave a hesitant nod, his mind still reeling. The orb of light began to drift, its path slow and deliberate. Mark's eyes instinctively followed its ethereal dance, the room seeming to fade away at the periphery of his vision. Once the orb settled in the center of the room, it burst in a dazzling display of tiny, twinkling lights that scattered and then winked out of existence.
"Amazing," Mark whispered, the awe barely contained.
"Pardon, Young Master?" the old man inquired, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Uh... nothing," Mark stammered, desperately trying to regain his composure. How could he be calm after witnessing such an incredible display? The old man sighed, a deep rumble that seemed to come from the very floorboards. He retreated a few steps, his hand disappearing into the folds of his cloak as he cupped his chin in thought. Wrinkles etched themselves deeper on his weathered face, a testament to years spent pondering weighty matters. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Mark and the old man awaited the arrival of this mysterious 'Lord'.
Vivian remained rooted by the door, a tremor running through her like a faulty chandelier. The old man, Mage Marvel, sighed at regular intervals, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "What is wrong with everyone in this room?" Mark thought, frustration gnawing at him. Why did Vivian call him David, and why the dramatics about him being alive? If he hadn't just witnessed magic materialize at Mage Marvel's fingertips, he would've written this entire situation off as a twisted prank.
But David, Vivian, Shay... the names echoed in his mind, a chilling familiarity prickling his skin. Something wasn't right, but before he could unravel the tangled thread of his thoughts, a wave of icy air swept through the room. It crawled down Mark's spine and sent shivers erupting across his skin.
A figure materialized in the center of the room, his arrival so sudden it defied logic. He exuded power and mystery, dressed in an elaborate dark Victorian-esque ensemble. A high-collared shirt and richly detailed waistcoat, adorned with intricate buttons, spoke of a refined taste. A long coat flowed dramatically around him, adding to his already imposing presence. His face, framed by a thick beard and a mane of dark hair, held an air of contemplation. Sharp, chiselled features hinted at a life filled with experience and an undeniable sense of power. Ice-blue eyes, cold and piercing, bore into Mark, seemingly trying to see straight into his soul.
Before Mark could react, Vivian and Mage Marvel bowed low, their heads scraping the plush carpet. The Lord, as Mark gathered, turned his attention to the old man. "Have you confirmed any signs of possession, Mage Marvel?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble that somehow commanded attention.
"Yes, my Lord," Mage Marvel replied, a hint of relief in his voice. "The boy... he lives." The revelation hung in the air like a bombshell. Vivian swayed, clutching at the wall for support, on the verge of fainting.
"Hmm, interesting. Boy? " The Lord mused as he called out, still not turning around. It took several excruciating minutes before Mark realized he was the "boy" being addressed. "Yes?" he croaked out, his voice barely a whisper. The air in the room felt thick and suffocating under the Lord's gaze.
Without a word, the Lord issued a soft command. "Lift your shirt." Mark, feeling like prey under a predator's scrutiny, wasted no time. He tossed the red sheets aside and obeyed. The Lord finally turned, his icy blue eyes scrutinizing Mark's frail body with a predatory intensity. "Strange," he finally commented, his voice devoid of warmth.
He turned back to Mage Marvel. "Take care of my son," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And bring me a report to my office tomorrow." Without even a backward glance at Mark, the Lord vanished from the room as silently as he had appeared.
Mage Marvel bowed deeply. "Of course, Lord Hilton," he confirmed, but the Lord was already gone. Left alone with the bewildered Mage Marvel, Mark couldn't help but wonder: who was Lord Hilton? And more importantly, who was David, and was he, Mark, possibly connected to him? Of course, he was, these were the names of the characters in the shitty novel 'Trials of Valor'.
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