Daemon's Mansion
The room was drenched in afternoon light, golden beams cutting through the expensive curtains and painting stripes across the premium Egyptian cotton sheets. Daemon lay sprawled on his king-sized bed, one arm flung over his face, the other dangling off the edge, fingers brushing against the polished hardwood floor.
My head is empty right now.
He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist. His bare chest caught the light, the definition of someone who trained religiously but never thought about it. He ran a hand through disheveled dark hair and blinked at the translucent blue screen still hovering patiently at the edge of his vision.
Wait, how can I see more about myself?
His fingers reached out, almost hesitantly, and touched his name on the interface. The screen shimmered, then expanded, details blooming like digital flowers.
Well, it's comfy enough— His gaze drifted to the pillow beside him, the one that had cost more than most people's monthly rent. What if I use this as a pillow? Even these 5000 dollar pillows that I bought don't give me the comfy feel I want. He picked it up, squeezed it, then let it fall back with a sigh of pure, existential disappointment.
"Wait." His eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. "How did it change?"
The screen had transformed while he wasn't looking:
```
[Personal Profile]
[Name: Daemon Alternate]
[Gender: Male]
[Age: 25]
[Race: Anomalous Hybrid - Veiled Human]
[Level: 1]
[Essence: Transcendent]
[Innate Personal Abilities: Silent Resilience]
[Innate Bloodline Abilities: (VEILED) — get stronger to access]
[Unique Abilities: (Apotheosis locked) — get stronger to access]
[Abilities: Hunting]
[Stats]
[Strength: 30]
[Agility: 30]
[Intellect: 30]
[Willpower: 80]
[Constitution: 80]
[Vitality: 80]
[Dexterity: 50]
[Sense: 50 (suppressed)]
[Luck: 50 (suppressed)]
```
"Hmm..." A slow smirk crawled across his features, transforming his handsome face into something almost predatory. "It seems more like stat windows I find in games." He shrugged, the smirk widening. "I rarely play games anyway."
The thought evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by something far more urgent.
"Time to eat, hehe." He rubbed his palms together with the gleeful anticipation of a man who had discovered a new pleasure. His entire face lit up as if he'd just stumbled upon gold bars in his backyard.
He swung his legs off the bed, bare feet meeting the cool floor, and padded out of the bedroom wearing only his sleeping pants. The mansion was quiet around him, expensive and empty—except for the divine presence in the guest room.
What do I eat today? He stared at the ceiling as he walked, his face scrunching in genuine philosophical contemplation. Whatever. Let's just eat quality.
The kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design—stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, a center island that could have served as an operating table. He opened the cupboard with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the contents. Three eggs came out first, cradled carefully in one hand. Then other ingredients—butter, milk, cheese—joined them on the counter. He moved to the store room and emerged with a bag of premium flour.
The sounds of cooking soon filled the space: the hiss of butter melting, the crack of eggs breaking, the rhythmic whisk of batter coming together.
---
Nariel's Room
The guest room faced east, and through its window, Nariel watched the sky with eyes that had witnessed the birth and death of galaxies. Her golden irises reflected the light outside, but her expression was carved from centuries of celestial disappointment.
The worst has happened, and this chaos is not a coincidence. Her wings were folded tight against her back, their golden feathers catching the light like molten metal. She stood perfectly still, a statue of divine contemplation, her form silhouetted against the glass.
Then her nose twitched.
What is that smell?
She sniffed again, unable to control the reflexive action. The scent was unlike anything in her celestial experience—warm, savory, impossibly mortal. It drifted under the door, curled through the cracks, and invaded her ancient senses with the audacity of something completely new.
Her stomach made a sound that had no place in the body of an archangel.
---
The Chaotic Road
The street had become a graveyard of ambition. Cars lay crumpled like discarded toys, their metal bodies twisted into impossible angles. Corpses dotted the pavement—some human, some decidedly not. Nearby buildings had surrendered to gravity, their facades collapsed inward, exposing the private spaces where people had once lived, loved, and dreamed.
Kate and Jane walked at the edge of this apocalypse, keeping to the sidewalk where the debris was thinnest. Kate's pristine white short gown had surrendered to reality—now a sad, sweat-stained brown that clung unpleasantly to her skin. Jane fared no better; her blue long-sleeve shirt and jean trousers were layered with grime, her silver hair—so like her brother's—tangled and dull.
"We were curious, but yet why did we even leave the house in the first place?" Jane's voice was quiet, the question hanging in the smoke-filled air.
Kate didn't look at her sister, her eyes scanning the wreckage ahead. "It's as you said. We were curious, and that made us leave the house."
They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching over broken glass.
"I need to call Derrick." Jane's voice dropped lower, worry threading through each syllable. She reached into her pocket and produced a high-end phone—the screen was miraculously uncracked. Her fingers found his contact, pressed dial.
SWITCHED OFF.
The automated voice was cold, indifferent to her rising panic.
"That's strange. He can't be in a dungeon." Kate finally looked at her sister, taking in the worry etched on features so similar to their brother's.
Jane pocketed the phone, her jaw setting with determination. Beside her, Kate had already turned down the street. "I think we need to go to his house." Jane fell into step behind her.
---
In Front of a Dungeon Portal
The portal pulsed like a wound in reality, its blue surface rippling with otherworldly light. Before it stood Irene, her red dress a slash of color against the grey devastation. And before her stood the monster—a creature of nightmare given form.
A dungeon break is about to unfold. Her golden-amber eyes never left the creature, studying its confused expression, the way its multiple appendages twitched with uncertainty. It should have been attacking. It should have been the beginning of an apocalypse.
Instead, it spoke.
"Lady Irene?"
The word hit her like a physical blow. Her expression didn't change—ten thousand years of existence had perfected her mask—but something shifted in the air around her.
"You seem to know me. Who are you?"
The monster dropped. Its knees hit the cracked asphalt with a wet thud, its head bowing until its misshapen forehead touched the ground. The posture was absolute, abject submission.
"I am but a humble ghoul."
Looking at how neat the skin of this ghoul is, it seems to be a high-ranked ghoul. Her gaze traveled over the creature's form, noting the almost healthy sheen of its grey flesh, the quality of its simple garments. It's been a long time since I've felt this honored—too bad it's coming from a servant.
"Why are you here?"
"I don't even know how I got here." The ghoul's voice was muffled against the pavement. "I was preparing the room of my master's guest, and the next I found myself here."
The head remained bowed. The posture never broke.
"Follow me."
Irene walked past him, her red heels clicking against the ruined street with the precision of a metronome. She didn't look back to see if he obeyed.
The ghoul rose to his feet—slowly, reverently—and followed. Together, they approached the pulsing blue portal. Together, they stepped through, the surface rippling once to accept them before settling back into its eternal, patient throb.
---
Outside Lily's Bungalow
The house was exactly as Lily had left it—a high-end bungalow of white stucco and blue accents, surrounded by a garden that had somehow survived the chaos. The black and blue gate stood sentinel before it, wrought iron twisted into artistic patterns.
She stood outside, her strawberry-blonde hair catching the light that now streamed from above. Her eyes, bright hazel with those distinctive golden flecks, lifted to the sky.
"The dark sky has cleared up."
A smile brushed through her chin—soft, surprised, almost childlike in its genuine pleasure. "Hah. It's already noon."
Her hand found the gate's handle, the metal warm from the sun. She pushed inward. The hinges squeaked once—a sound she made a mental note to oil—and then the gate swung open.
She stepped inside.
The garden welcomed her home.