'I, Pissed Off' – Han Daeri's Eternal Debuff
Han Daeri's unique passive skill, the ever-present debuff called 'I, Pissed Off', often triggered over the pettiest shit. Like having to climb several flights of stairs in a building with no elevator, or the goddamn ink stench soaked deep into the thin pages of a Bible, or... "Open sesame, you motherfucking son-of-a-bitch door!" Even when I'd shove that cursed thing with all my might and it still wouldn't budge, my rage gauge filled right up. What pissed me off even more was spotting the faded "PULL" sign under the worn-out doorknob after wrestling with it for ages. I tugged carefully, and the door swung open smooth as butter, basically flushing all my blood, sweat, and tears down the shitter like they were nothing.
The sharp alcohol disinfectant smell wafting from the crack was way too harsh for my pure nostrils. And with that bitter tang mixed in, they must've used a shit-ton of bleach too. In the end, my nasal membranes couldn't take it, and snot started pouring out like a faucet. Just from sniffing the air, it felt like foreign particles had invaded—meaning the air quality was fucking abysmal.
Inside the massive glass jars filled with formalin solution I'd seen back in school science class floated all sorts of human spare parts. A cute little dissection display with half an ear sliced off, connected straight through to the semicircular canals and eardrum. An eyeball dangling its optic nerve bundle like a jellyfish, a wrist carved so meticulously it looked like sculpted tendons, muscles, and veins.
"If you hit 'em with a memory so intense it steals their gaze without mercy, it carves deep trauma into their fragile minds. We call that an imprint."
A side narration voice popped into the empty air outta nowhere. What if some nerd who only knows his own bullshit got hyped up as a museum guide? Yeah, it'd sound just like that. Under the faint green glow of the fluorescent lights, who those formalin-soaked parts belonged to or what they were used for didn't matter. Lord Jesus our Father doesn't discriminate against the ugly, after all. Blind, deaf, crippled—no law says they can't enter heaven.
"If you're gonna decorate your room anyway, at least use trophies to stroke your intellectual ego and fragile self-esteem."
I'd never even gotten a perfect attendance award in school, so I got it—the vibe of plastering every room with trophies, plaques, and certificates. Humans crave what they lack even more, and once they've tasted abundance, they hunger for even greater piles. Like morbidly obese patients who keep stuffing their faces no matter how full they are; honors and vanity are bottomless pits that gotta be filled forever.
Sadly, these weird formalin-pickled decorations took a backseat to looks and couldn't boast any real glory or achievement.
"Looks like your parents' home education was pretty shitty. Didn't even teach you the basics, like don't play with your food?"
A guy who chows down on human flesh, offers blood-filled goblets on altars built from bones and meat chunks—and he's messing around with his grub? Worse than a picky kid whining about side dishes. Hell's family education? Generous grading puts it at B-movie trash-tier.
By the time I'd clocked that, bright white lights flicked on, revealing the far end of the room tiled wall-to-wall in pristine white. Unpleasant facts: dark sludge had oozed, stopped, and stained some tiles black. And a guy sprawled on the operating table, carving into his own body with a scalpel and bone saw. Which bugged me more? ...Fuck if I know. I can't stand bullshit injustice, so all I can say is my hands were shaking with rage.
"Shed all worldly burdens to purify the soul, refill with His grace, humbly accept your fate."
Yeah, and that "shed" worldly junk wasn't just dripping—it was clotting up the tile floor, clogging the drain. Hope they notice that. Someone's gonna have to rip out the whole sewer line or scrub with industrial bleach for hours later. No guilt, huh?
"No, not literally stab your heart with a scalpel."
If conscience lives in the heart, it spirals into brain-housing-the-soul debates. I approached the sinner gutting his own belly like a fish, casually spectating the organ show.
"Goo goo."
Inside, chopped to bits, was a watermelon-sized fetus. If it'd been normal, that babble from its shredded mouth might've been kinda cute. But this grotesque cooing from a prize-winning giant baby? Not even remotely intriguing. Why? 'Cause the guy slicing his gut open was a man. Whispering "It's a healthy baby boy, congrats!" in his ear now wouldn't make him jump for joy. Screw Korea's shitty birth rate contributions—dude clearly lacked the cash to raise a beast like that anyway.
The fetus, mangled ugly by scalpel and saw, eventually grabbed the belly skin with its tiny hand and crawled out worm-like. It wrapped the umbilical cord around its neck, flung itself off the table, and hanged. Crack—fragile cervical vertebrae snapped, and it went still in a flash. Ironically, Christianity deems killing innocent kids and suicide the gravest sins. So if a pure, sinless child suicides before judgment, would our Lord Jesus hold it against them?
"Fine contradiction. Lesson learned."
I memorized the fetus's gutsy final stand, dangling by its cord. Your body-sacrificed philosophical jab would make Aristotle flip, Nietzsche wail every direction, Kant nut-tap-level on-point. Poor Kim Hitler. Torched his own flesh to poke holes in the One God's logic before even drawing breath.
"In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen."
But I believe you'll hit heaven too, no doubt. So I'll gladly cross myself and kiss your forehead. Time for the spent protein lumps to exit stage left—I shoved the surgery table aside and opened the next door.
This massive cavern, at least ten times bigger than the OR, crawled with naked wretches clawing and ripping their own flesh. They smeared the bloody chunks on walls and floors like paint, bodies shuddering in ecstasy. Floor teeming with maggots, roaches, rat pups—all ignoring each other to feast amiably on human meat and blood. To mere vermin, endless gluttony fest. The psychos feeding 'em firsthand got drunk on god-complex bliss. This is my body, this is my blood. Jesus said that sharing crappy bread and wine at a humble supper—maybe humanity's first cannibal gig? Trinity or not, born fully human from a woman's womb, DNA-perfect man. No arguments.
Anyway, watching these clowns outdo each other spilling flesh and blood? Clear jealousy of Jesus casually feeding his body to disciples.
"Envy—one of the oldest deadly sins."
But half-ass aping history's icons without the nails-and-cross commitment? Can't praise that. Wanna talk naval battles? Eclipse Yi Sun-sin's records. Absolute power? Catch Xiang Yu. Mass-producing knockoff Jesuses won't snag SSR 12 Apostles on a 10-pull. Duh, 12 means no 10-pull anyway.
"'New wine in new wineskins,' He said. You think this outdated dump is 'new'? At least dry-clean it first before bullshitting."
Unlike Jesus' infinite wine, their blood wasn't bottomless. Veins squeezed out the last drops, and fake Christs keeled over one by one. Resurrection in three days? I'd buy the Second Coming. But these corpses? Three hours tops before rot sets in. Jesus rose fresh-pierced-side intact.
I clambered toward the altar's heart—piled high with countless humans' skins, flesh, bone shards. Cross-legged dude at center. Clattering shards stabbed and scraped my skin—no biggie. Rolling eyeballs in the squishy meat? We weren't close enough for soulful stares, so ignored.
The lotus dude, eyes shut, index and middle fingers extended, mouth cracked silently. Thousands of roaches spewed out, avalanching down the flesh mountain at me. I slammed sharp bone shards through both palms like stakes—landslide-proof.
Next: merciless locust swarms hungry for my meat. Not a hair or chunk spared—pure savage predation. Sliced, torn, ripped, gnawed, shattered—I kept climbing. Summit reached, I shook off the swarm. Ones in my pants? Real pain to evict.
"No balls to show your face, squatting in some weakling's body claiming lordship."
I spat that, and the lotus guy snapped his eyes open. No-whites black orbs glared up at me point-blank.
"Wretched seed, discarded unworthy in the wilderness without salvation. The redemption you crave ain't in this pit—why shine false light here?"
"Your mom's stir-fry, chapter 12 verse 5: right and wrong don't matter. Fits the masses? That's justice, good, salvation. Luring a shut-in otaku virgin who's never sinned in life onto this freaky altar? Utter bullshit, zero meaning."
"This one suffered endless torment from chaotic, sin-filled humans. Didn't crave full salvation—just a sliver of hope to live out his days faithfully, poor lamb. But heaven ignored his pleas; hope's light passed him by. So I saved him. Who's the true 'god' now?"
"For this dude, whoever lets him bang 2D waifu trash is the real god."
I know the type. Placed my hand on the still-smug lotus prick's head, murmuring low.
"Heaven's got real 2D waifu trash. Exclusive paid service up there only. Miss heaven now, kiss that fuck-fest goodbye forever. Jesus digs it hard too."
You... sins piling up, huh?