Today began like any other for the Silver family—seemingly mundane, perfectly normal, and deceptively peaceful. Nestled in a modest apartment complex in the heart of South Korea, the Silver family lived the classic foreigner's life: navigating cultural quirks, slurping kimchi stew with cautious gusto, and secretly resenting the impossible beauty standards plastered across every bus stop.
Two parents. Three children. One boiling pot of barely-contained chaos behind closed doors.
And in the eye of this domestic storm stood Atlas Silver—an 18-year-old high school student with unkempt hair, a dangerously sarcastic mouth, and the emotional stability of a raccoon on espresso.
If the Silver family had roles, Atlas was the "problem child," but in that weird, funny way that made people hesitate before deciding if they liked him or not.
As a kid, Atlas had been adored. Everyone loved him. Teachers found his antics amusing, neighbors ruffled his hair in passing, and other kids looked to him as the one who made dull days interesting. His smile lit up rooms—until the light behind it died.
It started with Lior.
Lior Silver—the firstborn. The golden boy. The dependable one. A quiet hero who never needed recognition.
He had just turned 18 when the mandatory draft snatched him up. A rite of passage for every Korean male. Nothing unusual. No ceremony. No tears. Just a stern goodbye at the bus station and a forced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Unlike Atlas, Lior wasn't wild or vibrant. He was...fragile. Not in mind, but in body. Tall but thin. Always sick during winter. The kind of kid who coughed blood during flu season and told no one because he didn't want to burden the family.
The army didn't care.
During a routine training session, Lior's body gave out. No warning. No heroics. Just a quiet collapse mid-jog as others sprinted past.
By the time the Silver family reached the hospital, doctors only offered statistics: a one-digit chance of waking up, no time frame, and no guarantees.
Lior became a breathing corpse hooked to beeping machines and tubes, eyes closed as if in deep thought. A coma. Not dead, not alive—just paused.
That broke Atlas.
Lior had raised him. Changed his diapers. Defended him from bullies. Stayed up late helping with math homework. When their parents worked double shifts, Lior became the light that filled the room. The warmth that made cold winters bearable.
Losing him—even halfway—left a canyon in Atlas's chest.
But Atlas didn't cry. Not in public. Not at the hospital. Not at home.
Instead, he put on a mask.
He joked.
He laughed too loud. Pulled stunts that got him suspended. Drenched the principal's car in glitter once just because it "felt poetic." His pain became performance, and his grief transformed into theatrical trolling.
People laughed—at first.
Then they stopped. Friends ghosted. Teachers lost patience. Even his parents began to speak to him like he was a ticking time bomb.
Not that he cared.
Or maybe he cared too much.
12.12.20XX.
A date branded into history. The day humanity's script was ripped in half and rewritten in blood.
Atlas woke up groggy but functional. He staggered into the shower, muttering curses at the world while shampooing too aggressively. Checked the mirror. Smirked at himself. Tall, lean, and barely holding it together—just his style.
In the kitchen, he cracked some eggs, burned half of them, then wolfed down the rest. Threw on his uniform—crumpled and slightly coffee-stained. Late, but who cared?
(Well, his homeroom teacher cared. Immensely.)
He sprinted to class like he was being chased by death itself, practically shoulder-tackling the door open.
The moment he stepped in, a wave of smug grins greeted him. The usual suspects. Desk jocks and gossip queens.
Their eyes said: "Late again, huh?"
He flipped them a mock salute and dropped into his usual throne—back row, window seat, maximum daydream potential. Physics began, full of equations that meant nothing to him. The teacher droned on about kinetic energy, unaware he was about to be violently upstaged by the universe.
Atlas yawned and blinked.
And then—
He wasn't in the classroom anymore.
He stood on a glowing platform of pure white light. Smooth. Infinite. The ground radiated a low hum like the surface of a star, yet it wasn't hot. It was surreal.
All around him, stretching into the distance, were people. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe millions. Shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to back. Pressed like sardines, wide-eyed and pale-faced.
Atlas turned in circles. No edge to the platform. No sun. Just white light and confused humanity.
And then—the sky cracked.
A jagged rift tore across the heavens like broken glass. From it descended a figure—elegant, alien, and deeply wrong.
It looked human. Almost.
Draped in ethereal white robes that shimmered like morning frost, it floated downward, silver hair flowing weightlessly. Its skin was porcelain-smooth, its lips painted with a smile far too wide. Its eyes were like transparent marbles, hollow and curious.
It looked like a cosmic entity drawn by a child—beautiful but unsettling.
The silence was suffocating.
Then it spoke.
The voice didn't just echo—it resonated, as if vibrating inside every skull.
"Welcome, human race. Your species has been selected."
Its eyes pulsed red.
The smile twisted, stretching unnaturally.
"To simplify for your simple brains: Earth is now a battleground. Expect invasions. Monsters. Mutants. Aliens. Heroes. Villains. Think of your wildest stories. Now imagine them with teeth."
A girl near Atlas screamed, voice laced with rage and terror.
"What kind of twisted joke is this?! We're not playing your sick fantasy!"
The being tilted its head.
Then snapped.
The girl's head evaporated into a red mist. Her body hit the floor like a puppet without strings.
Atlas didn't scream. He blinked, mentally updated his list of 'Top 10 Ways to Die,' and placed 'being demo'd by an eldritch game show host' at #1.
Screams erupted like a tidal wave. Panic. Hysteria. A few in the crowd grinned manically—clearly the delusional type who wanted this.
The being didn't flinch.
"Each of you will now receive a System. A personalized algorithm of survival. Or torment. Based on your soul, your sins, and your sense of humor."
"Use it well. Or die spectacularly."
It clapped once.
"Good luck, meatbags."
Snap.
And everything vanished.
Atlas blinked.
Back in class.
No one moved.
Then the whispers started.
"System…"
A purple holographic screen blinked into existence in front of Atlas.
[Troll System Activated]
Name: Atlas Silver
Traits: None
Skills: Random Box – Summon a box every 24 hours. Contents unknown.
Class: Unfunny Clown
"…what the hell is this garbage?" Atlas muttered.
Around him, students were glowing. Literally. Suits of magical armor. Flaming swords. A guy near the front was levitating while chanting something in Latin.
Atlas scanned the chaos—and then froze.
Lucian.
Golden hair. White armor. Sword in hand. Radiating light like some anime protagonist blessed by a celestial algorithm.
The universe really had a type.
"Even here? Seriously?" Atlas grumbled.
"Also, what's this class? Do I look like a clown?"
The System pinged.
[Yes. You do look like a clown. lol.]
"…You little—" He swiped at the screen. It dodged with a cheeky spin.
[Now you're being a bit funny. Hehe.]
Atlas exhaled hard. "Okay. Fine. System—when does the first wave hit?"
[Why should I tell you? Go ask someone else, Mr. Clown.]
A vein twitched on his temple.
"Pretty please? Oh great, powerful algorithm?"
[Aww, manners! 10 minutes.]
And then they were gone. The other students didn't wait—they moved. Organized. Teamed up. Ran to warn families.
Atlas froze.
"My family. My brother."
He bolted.
He didn't even think. He just ran—toward the hospital. Toward Lior.
Lior was still in a coma. Still unable to move. Still trapped in a body that wouldn't respond.
But maybe—just maybe—with a System, their parents and little sister could survive. Maybe they got something. Something strong enough to hold off what was coming. Maybe the Systems would give them a fighting chance.
Because Lior couldn't defend himself. But if Atlas could reach them—just once—he could make sure they knew what was happening. What was coming.
He had to believe that was enough.
The streets were mayhem. Cars abandoned. Windows shattered. People shouting, crying, arming themselves with kitchen knives or baseball bats.
And then the sky thundered.
"First Wave begins in 10 seconds."Enemy Type: Killer Clowns.
Red portals tore open across the city like wounds.
Out poured creatures—menacing, grotesque, and howling with laughter. Bloody grins. Twisted faces. Red noses. Eyes like dying embers.
Killer clowns. Knife-wielding monsters in party shoes.
The massacre began instantly.
Screams. Blood. Children pulled from parents. Limbs hacked. Corpses trampled.
And Atlas?
He was hiding in a trash can.
"SHIT!" he screamed internally.
"They can't be serious. They look like murder machines!"
He peeked out.
"The wave clears if humans kill all clowns, right?"
[Let's hope so.]
He groaned. "Maybe I can sprint to the hospital?"
[You'll get stabbed, lunatic.]
He eyed his only skill.
"Pretty System, how do I summon the box?" he said sweetly.
[Just say 'Summon Random Box, Donkey.]
Atlas rolled his eyes. Then shouted:
"Summon Random Box!"
PFFFFT.
A fart noise. A glowing box slammed into his hands.
"…Even the sound effects are a joke." He began to open it, heart racing.
Inside?
A glowing green stick.
He stared. Silently.
"Is this a weapon or a party favor from hell's rave night?"
"...I want to cry."
"System, does this have a use?"
[It looks interesting. And possibly radioactive.]
"…I meant in combat, you sadistic algorithm."
[0 damage. But excellent knockback.]
That was enough.
Atlas leaped from the trash, green stick in hand, and bolted down the street.
Clowns screamed behind him. Blood-drenched. Eyes glowing red.
Three of them gave chase. Fast. Giggling. Hungry.
Ahead, the hospital was in sight—but a fourth clown emerged from an alley, laughing in anticipation.
"Great. Four of them."
Atlas didn't think—he acted. Ducking low, he sprinted past, catching a cut to the arm.
He spun.
WHACK.
The stick connected with one clown's gut—launched it like a missile. It collided with another clown. Both slammed into a wall, bones snapping.
Ping.
[Two kills confirmed. Level up. Stat point gained.]
[Troll System: Atlas Silver]
HP: 8/10
Strength: 5
Agility: 5
Luck: 5
Intelligence: 5
Stat Points: 1
Atlas panted, knuckles white on the stick.
The world had gone mad.
But he wasn't out yet.
And his brother was still waiting.