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## **Chapter 1: A Message in the Static**
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Yanluo wasn't a dreamer.
Dreams are for people who think the world plays fair. People with support systems, safety nets, and morning routines that don't start with the taste of blood in their mouths.
No, Yanluo had long since buried his dreams beneath the weight of reality. Fate? Luck? God? Justice? Those were bedtime stories for children who hadn't been chewed up and spit out by life yet.
His days ran like a scratched tape—
Wake up in pain.
Observe the world in silence.
Write it down.
Sleep.
Repeat.
No friends. No family. Not anymore. Just faces he'd memorized and discarded—users, liars, cowards.
He lived in a basement apartment that felt more like a grave. The rent was cheap, but the air smelled like wet dust and forgotten memories. The paint peeled off the walls like sunburnt skin, and the rusted water tank outside his only window filtered light into a dull, sickly gray.
The only thing that made the space feel alive was the corkboard nailed to the wall.
A hunter's web.
Lines of red string connected photos, names, behaviors. Scribbled notes clung to the corners like whispers desperate to be heard. It was chaos. But to him, it made sense. It was all that ever had.
And below it, always at arm's reach—
His black notebook.
Worn, frayed at the edges, swollen with pages. Thick with truths no one wanted to hear.
For years, he'd chronicled the world like it was a disease, and he the quiet doctor taking notes on every symptom.
> **"Nam Gung Jae – Scratches wrist when lying. Compulsive tell?"**
> **"Kim Hana – Smiles when insulted. Self-worth issues."**
> **"Professor Lee – Looks at women's legs before answering questions. Creep. Watch him."**
Stalker?
Detective?
Psychopath?
Maybe all three.
Maybe none.
He didn't care what people thought anymore.
---
He had been born broken.
A brittle body. A failing immune system. A childhood filled with hospital beds and murmured apologies from nurses who never remembered his name.
Running winded him.
Falling meant blood.
Fighting back? Impossible.
Bullies loved him for it.
He was their stress ball.
But the bruises weren't the worst part.
Hope was.
Hope that college would be different.
That maybe, just maybe, people grew up.
They didn't.
They just learned how to hide their cruelty behind fake concern and social media filters.
And then came *her*.
She laughed at his dry jokes. Listened to his theories. Defended him when the professors got cruel. She was kind. Gentle. And, for a while, she was everything.
He let her in.
Told her everything.
And she sold him.
To the same monsters he'd tried to escape.
After they were done with him, his spine was cracked in two places. He spent graduation week staring at a hospital ceiling. The doctors said he was lucky. The way they said it made him want to scream.
She never came to visit.
Never even sent a message.
That was the day he stopped believing in redemption.
---
Now he drifted through life like a shadow. Not living. Not dead. Just… observing.
One cold evening, he sat alone on a battered park bench, tucked away between two dead trees and a broken lamppost. He wasn't there for the fresh air. He didn't feel anything anymore.
He was there to watch.
To document.
A teenager faked a limp to avoid taking groceries.
A mother told her daughter to shut up, then smiled sweetly at strangers.
A man spat on the ground when a woman ignored him.
Rot.
Everywhere.
So much rot.
He didn't flinch. Didn't sigh. Just let the pen in his hand move across paper like a blade. He'd long stopped expecting the world to change. All that was left was the truth.
And then—
**Buzz.**
His old, half-broken phone vibrated. The kind you'd find in a clearance bin, held together by scratches and sheer will. He barely used it—no calls, no SIM card, just Wi-Fi for research.
But there it was:
> **[1 New Message – Unknown Sender]**
> **Subject: If you had power, what would you do with it?**
His eyes narrowed.
No number. No profile picture. Just that question.
He tapped it. The message expanded:
> **Would you save the world… or rule it?**
A dry chuckle escaped him. "Scam texts are getting poetic now."
And yet…
Something about it felt *off*. Too direct. Too *real*.
Not like a prank.
Not like spam.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he typed:
> **"You want to know what I'd do with power?"**
> **"I'd rule. No mercy. No heroes. Just me at the top."**
**Send.**
---
The moment he hit the button, his phone glitched.
Not just the screen—the air around him seemed to warp. The reflection on the screen twisted, showing not his face, but something *else*. Something wrong.
Then—
**HONK!**
**SCREECH!**
A horn.
A flash of red.
A truck.
And silence.
He never saw the second half of the road.
---
No pain.
No blood.
No body.
Just darkness.
He floated—if you could call it that—in a space that didn't feel like space at all. No sound. No breath. No heartbeat.
Just the awareness that he *existed*.
And then… a flicker.
A soft, glowing **"?"** hovered in the distance. It pulsed—slow, deliberate. Like it was waiting. Watching. Breathing.
There was no voice. But it *spoke*.
> **"Now, Yanluo… what do you want?"**
His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
He wasn't sure if he could speak. Or if he should.
"…What… is this?" he rasped.
Or thought he rasped.
The symbol pulsed brighter.
> **"I know what they did to you."**
> **"I know what you became."**
> **"So I'm giving you a second chance."**
Yanluo stared. Cold filled him from the inside out.
> **"A new world. Full of power, and rules meant to be broken."**
> **"Do whatever you want."**
> **"Rise. Burn. Rebuild. Lie. Kill. It's your call."**
His breath—if he even had one—hitched.
And then the final words came.
> **"But after death, your soul is mine."**
> **"No heaven. No peace. Just pain. Eternal."**
Yanluo didn't blink.
"…That's still better than the life I had."
The light cracked like glass under pressure.
> **"Welcome, Seeker."**
And he fell.
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### *End of Chapter 1: A Message in the Static*
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