The moment Mr. Chalk vanished, the air thinned. The classroom fell silent, save for the faint hiss of the candle slowly dying out.
I watched James clench his fists, eyes closed. He was scanning the world with his telepathy. Still trying to be the protagonist.
He didn't know.
Didn't know the story had changed.
Didn't know he wasn't alone anymore.
Because of me.
Before he could speak, the walls of the classroom shimmered, like heat rising from concrete. A low hum—vibrating, pulsing—spread across the floor.
Ryan stumbled backward. "Uh, guys—?"
Reality cracked.
We weren't in the classroom anymore.
…
When the light returned, we stood in a massive chamber, dimly lit by rows of cracked chandeliers swinging from a ceiling that stretched into shadows. The Main Room.
Stone floors. No windows. No doors.
But we weren't alone.
Hundreds of students stood across the space, clumped together in scattered circles. Each group looked like they'd been through hell—ripped uniforms, haunted eyes, injuries both physical and deeper.
Some groups had four or five survivors.
Most had two.
Some had only one.
And more than a few... stood alone.
One boy in a corner whispered to himself over and over, eyes hollow. Another girl wept silently, covered in ash, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Whatever trial they had faced, it hadn't ended cleanly.
We had twenty students in our class. Nineteen of us stood now, backs straight, breathing.
Only one had died.
Only the bully — Christopher Dell— the one mocked Mr. Chalk. The only one I didn't warn.
Because I couldn't save them all.
And because, in the original story, only four survived.
Me.
James.
Sophie.
Tommy.
But I wasn't part of this story.
Not originally.
I shouldn't be here.
But alas here I am.
….
A figure stood at the center of the chamber, atop a jagged black platform. No one had noticed him arrive. One moment there was nothing, and the next—he were simply there.
The Teller.
Tall and thin, robed in something too dark to be cloth. The Teller face was hidden behind a smooth mask — white porcelain, with a single black line running from the top to the chin. Genderless. Ageless. The Teller voice echoed as if spoken from behind glass.
(I'm just gonna call him a male for now)
"Congratulations, survivors."
The voice was calm, even polite. But no warmth lingered in the tone.
"You have endured the First Story. You have survived your classroom's ghost."
Whispers rippled across the chamber. Some cried. Some cursed. One boy from another class screamed, "I thought it would be over!"
The Teller's mask turned toward him. "No. You assumed it would be over."
The boy collapsed to his knees.
James leaned in toward me, whispering low. "What is this place? And who is that?"
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
Not until the rest was said.
…
The Teller raised a hand. A pale, skeletal thing. Long fingers curled like bone branches.
"You're not special. You're merely a survivor."
They paused.
"Listen carefully. The stories are not over. In truth, they have just begun."
The silence turned to dread.
"Each of you has completed your classroom's tale. A trial, nothing more. A mere prologue. But the true stories begin now. Stories that do not follow your logic. That do not pause for your comfort. Stories that dig deeper. That test you."
A girl in front of us whispered, "Test us how?"
The Teller turned toward her.
"Your mind. Your body. Your soul."
Then the teller moved, floating more than walking, circling the students like a shark in water.
"Your first ghost was a trial. Structured. Bound. Predictable. The next? Will be dangerous than the trial"
Some guy stepped forward, his voice is serious. "But—why? What's the point?"
The Teller's mask tilted, as if amused. "Why do people read horror stories?"
No one answered. Not a breath.
"To be afraid," the Teller said. "To see others suffer. To feel the thrill of survival — or the satisfaction of demise. That is your reality now. You are no longer students. You are characters."
I swallowed hard.
Because that's what I already knew.
Then, someone broke.
"Bullshit!" a voice roared.
A boy I didn't recognize from another class charged forward. Anger twisted his face as he shouted, "You kidding me?! What is this, a joke?! You think we'll just stand here and listen to this creep?!"
He sprinted straight at the Teller with his fist cocked back.
The room collectively inhaled.
The Teller didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
The Teller only smiled.
And then, with a lazy flick of his finger—
SLASH.
The boy split clean in half.
Like a blade of wind had passed through him.
No sound, no effort. One half fell to the left, the other to the right. Blood sprayed onto the cold stone. His eyes were still moving when they hit the floor.
Screams erupted.
Several students staggered back. One girl fell, sobbing into her knees. Another vomited on the floor. Tommy gagged, Sophie covered her mouth.
And I?
I watched.
Because I needed to remember this wasn't fiction anymore.
The Teller's voice boomed across the room, louder than thunder.
"SHUT UP."
Everyone did.
Silence descended like fog.
The fear was real now. The threat wasn't subtle.
The Teller clapped once.
A single, resonating sound.
It was like the crack of thunder behind closed doors — loud, final, and cold.
And then it happened.
Above each student's head, black sigils burned into the air like brands from some ancient, forbidden script. Glowing red letters shimmered in the air, shifting as if alive, reconfiguring themselves into something legible. Words emerged from chaos.
SYSTEM INITIALIZED.
Gasps echoed across the Main Room. Whispers broke out.
Some students screamed. Others staggered backward, hands in the air, as if expecting the floating symbols to burn them. A few brave souls reached up and swatted at their glowing interfaces, their fingers going right through.
The floating screens remained, flickering with ominous red light.
James narrowed his eyes at his screen. Tommy leaned in too close to his own, muttering, "It's like... some sci-fi RPG interface."
I, of course, was already familiar with mine.
But the Teller—he stood tall beneath the lightless chandelier above, his expression unreadable, his presence making the shadows curl unnaturally.
He raised one skeletal hand.
And everyone went silent.
Again.
"This... is your System," he intoned, voice cold and smooth like oil running down glass. "A framework that now binds you to the rules of this new world. Think of it as... the last gift you'll ever receive."
He let the words hang in the air.
A few students exchanged terrified glances.
"The System is not a toy. It is not your friend. It is your only hope of survival." His grin was sharp. "And trust me... survival will not come easy."
More murmurs.
Lena asked, "Is it magic?"
Another whispered, "Are we in a game?"
Tommy said, "Whoa... it's like a video game or something."
The Teller chuckled — not kindly.
"Your attributes are simple...." The Teller began pacing in front of them like a cruel headmaster. "You each begin with six core traits."
He held out a hand, and glowing red words appeared in the air behind him like a chalkboard carved from blood and mist:
[SYSTEM ATTRIBUTES]
Endurance – The measure of how much physical or mental strain you can endure. When you collapse... this decides if you get back up.
Perception – Determines what you see, hear, feel... and what you miss. Clues. Curses. Footsteps behind you in the dark.
Mental Fortitude – Protects your mind. Shields you from the whispers. The hallucinations. The truths you wish you never knew.
Strength – Physical might. How hard you hit. How far you can run. Whether you can break a door down... or get dragged through it.
Agility – Speed. Reflexes. The difference between dodging a claw, or decorating the hallway with your insides.
Luck – Unpredictable. Unreliable. And utterly crucial. Sometimes... it's the only thing that saves you.
The words shimmered, seared into every mind.
"You may not improve all of them. Choose wisely." the Teller said. "When a decision means death, it will not be your courage that saves you. It will be your stats."
James stood stiffly, reading over the list like he'd seen something similar before.
Tommy scratched his head. "So it is a game... kinda."
The Teller turned sharply toward him. "No. Games let you restart. This does not."
Tommy paled and shut up.
I smirked. Honestly, I'd give the Teller a solid 9 out of 10 on his dramatic delivery.
He wasn't done.
"Each of you begins at Level 1. Some will grow. Others... will die before leveling up at all. But if—" he raised a finger, "IF you survive long enough... you will gain the opportunity to make two wishes."
The air shifted.
Wishes?
People perked up.
"These are no ordinary gifts. You may ask for power, freedom, memories, resurrection, anything..." His grin widened like a gash.
A girl in the back stammered, "W-Why would anyone agree to this?! Why are we here?!"
The Teller then stepped forward — slow, deliberate, almost like he was gliding.
And then, every light in the Main Room flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then all at once — plunging the room into dim, pulsing red light.
He tilted his head toward the trembling girl in the back and smiled like someone who enjoyed unraveling sanity.
"Who knows..." he said casually, with a shrug that somehow made the words ten times worse.
Like he didn't care.
Like even he didn't know — or worse, did, and just didn't think she mattered enough to explain it to.
I blinked.
I mean… who says that?!
I muttered under my breath:
"(Whoah. What a scumbag.)"
Seriously. Imagine someone dragging you into a supernatural death gauntlet and when you ask why, the guy just goes "lol who knows 🤷♂️."
Top-tier villain gaslighting energy.
Lucas clenched his fists.
Lena looked down at her screen, pale.
Anyway, their systems were uniform — basic stat templates based on survival traits. I watched them mutter aloud, reading their attributes.
"Endurance..."
"Perception?"
"Luck?"
I sighed.
Yes, that was their system.
But mine?
Mine was different.
I looked toward my screen, mentally calling it up.
And it obeyed instantly — familiar, colorful, and chaotic.
….
[Attention-Seeker System]
Name:Jake Coleman.
Title: The Joker
Level: 2
Stamina:200
Attention points:20
Attributes
Shop
I stared at the screen and let out a small laugh.
"Seriously... who else gets this?" I whispered to myself.
I didn't know who gave me this system — maybe the same being that let me transmigrate or reincarnate into this novel. Maybe something older. They maybe said, "Let's give this dude a system based on being the loudest guy in the room."
But I was thankful, in a twisted way. This wasn't some weak attribute-only template like the others had. Mine had style. Mechanics. Narrative influence.
Cause I had a shop. I could buy skills. Real ones. With ATTENTION POINTS.
Who else had that?
No one.
Their systems were like, "Hey buddy, here's a stat buff. Maybe now you won't pee yourself when a ghost breathes on your neck."
Mine was like, Rasengan… Bankai.. OPPS WRONG GENRE
While the others were still trying to figure out how to close their glowing pop-up windows, I was scrolling through mine like a kid in a candy store.
By the way let's talk about Attention points. This baby right here is my personal resource. Accumulated by being flashy, ridiculous, and narrative-seeking attention whore. Basically, I get rewarded for being... a clown guy that's why my title is a Joker.
"Is this... like a points system for being a drama queen?" I whispered.
I chuckled under my breath.
But I wasn't dumb.
The Attention-Seeker System came with risks. After all, if you're the star of the show, you also draw every monster's attention. And when you're in a ghost story, the last thing you want is to be noticed.
Unless you're me.
I live to be noticed.
Also, not everyone is as basic as the generic Attribute Gang. James Foster — our supposed "protagonist" — yeah, he's got actual powers. Telepathy. Telekinesis. Basically baby's first psychic starter kit. And he unlocks full-blown mind-control in the future.
And then there's the others. The quiet ones. The weirdly confident kids who didn't flinch when the Teller showed up. Yeah. I see them. Some have fire powers. Some move like they've trained with ghosts before. James isn't the only secret weapon.
They hid their powers in childhood. Played normal until the real stories began.
And They can upgrade that power using this system.
"Still," I muttered, tapping the screen again. "I should probably tone it down. Don't want to get eaten by a haunted desk lamp or whatever."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw James. The James Foster. Protagonist of the novel The Secret Horror Club. The guy who's supposed to make it to the end.
Except... not this time.
Not with me here.
Let me tell you again clearly …. Back in the book, only Four survived the first story — James, Sophie, and Tommy and Me.
But in our trial?
Nineteen out of twenty survived.
Because of me.
That's right.
I saved them.
...Except the one bully. But like... screw that guy. Nobody misses him. He probably had "Cursed Redshirt" written on his forehead.
Now we were in this massive space — a sort of nightmarish Hogwarts dining hall — and we weren't alone.
As I was basking in the glow of my awesome system, mentally rehearsing a cool one-liner for my next attention whore moment ("Looks like this ghost just got ghosted"—no? too cringe? I'll workshop it), when that thing spoke again.
"Your Systems will guide you... until they don't. You may gain skills. You may earn upgrades. You may even evolve. But remember—this world is ruled by stories. Ghost stories. And every tale wants your soul." Then he continued "Do not waste time with why," he said, voice booming again, echoing off the endless ceiling.
He held up two fingers.
"Survive..." he raised one finger.
"Or Die." he raised the second.
Oh boy.
There it was — the smile. That smile. The kind that said, "I read your browser history and now I control your destiny."
He smiled like he knew every nightmare that lived rent-free in our subconscious. And had already invited them to the next trial with snacks.
My smirk twitched a little.
Cool façade: slipping.
Then I looked around, slowly.
The chaos had chilled into raw anxiety. Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. Even Tommy — bless his "this is kinda like a game!" attitude — looked like he wanted to uninstall life.
And then I looked at James.
James Foster. The main character. Mr. Telepathy. Mr. Brooding. Mr. I've-Seen-Things-You-Wouldn't-Believe.
His eyes were narrowed like he was already scanning for exits in three dimensions. Classic protagonist behavior. If this were a Netflix adaptation, there'd be a slow zoom on his face and violin screeches in the background.
Good. Reliable. Main character stuff.
Then I glanced to his side.
Sophie.
And guess what?
She was looking directly at me.
Me.
Not James.
Me.
WHY.
My brain screamed. I knew that look. That "I just remembered something emotional and you're conveniently in my field of vision" look.
And then it hit me like a bus full of drama:
"(Don't look at me, you stupid girl!)"
"(Look at James!)"
"(You confessed your love to him, remember?)"
"(Sure, he rejected you like the last slice of pineapple pizza, but STILL!!)"
What was I supposed to do here? Smile? Wave? Throw a joke grenade and hope it distracts her into looking away?
I froze.
She kept looking.
My internal monologue was breakdancing in panic.
Sophie's eyes were intense. Like she was searching my soul for answers. Or maybe trying to figure out if I moisturized. (I do, thank you.)
James, of course, wasn't noticing any of this. Because he's a protagonist. He's probably sensing the next ghost already. Or planning how to sacrifice himself dramatically in Story #2.
Meanwhile, me?
I was now stuck in a bizarre triangle where one corner is dead inside, one corner is in denial, and the last corner is me, holding a sarcastic system and wondering if I could unlock a new skill called Social Dodge Roll.
Then, Suddenly a clap that split the air like a whip, the red lights cut out—
—
And the room went black.
For a full five seconds.
In that dark, I whispered again:
"Fuck this shit."
To be continue