Chapter 0
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 0
Chapter Title: Remote Atelier
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Admiration was said to be the emotion farthest from understanding.
There was a fool who knew that phrase from countless mentions online but only truly grasped it after slamming headfirst into reality.
Baek Eunha, 31-year-old artist.
A moth drawn to the brilliant world of art she glimpsed as a child, fluttering blindly into art school.
After graduation, directionless—drifting between part-time gigs.
A life clutching lost passion, chasing dreams that danced just out of reach.
And yet, unable to let go of that burning desire for art—a total idiot.
That was me.
"So, it's about time I let go of these lingering regrets."
I muttered softly, staring into the screen.
A silver-haired girl in a paint-splattered navy smock over a blouse. A cute kid in a beret, palette in hand. The tiny 140cm girl gazed up at me with an expressionless face.
"...I should let it go."
What if the world we live in was overflowing with bizarre anomalies?
What if the government managed them in secret, resorting to all sorts of shady tactics to keep it hidden?
An open-world game inspired by urban legends and conspiracy theories: Anomaly Management Bureau.
Even in a game I started just to take a break from carving a statue because my head hurt, I was foolishly picking an artist character again.
"Haa..."
I let out a light sigh and finished customizing.
With character creation done, next up: abilities.
"Stick with the artist concept like always...?"
Having sunk over 1,000 hours into this game already, picking abilities was a breeze.
Or so I thought.
[EX] [Deus Ex Machina]
Do you believe in your artistic senses?
"Huh?"
Until that moment, when a strangely irritating, never-before-seen skill scratched at me.
"Hey, I might not look it, but I graduated top of my art school class, you know?"
So, with that retort, I selected the skill without a second thought.
And the instant my character was created, darkness swallowed my vision.
"Fuck, the Management Bureau's Mobile Strike Team bastards are already...!?"
"Shut up and barricade the door! Activate anomaly filters, and if you have any 'works' left, smash them all!"
"5th Mobile Strike Team, breaching!"
"Your workshop is completely surrounded! Give up the resistance and come out, you pestilent extremist Anomalous Artist terrorists!"
"Fuck you! Would you do it if you were us!?"
In my hazy consciousness, fragmented scenes flashed by like a panorama.
A massive atelier built in a remote location.
150 Anomalous Artists huddled inside, holding out.
Management Bureau agents encircling them.
Every swing of a sculpting knife brought grotesque statues to life. Every brushstroke in the air birthed demons from paintings that devoured people.
"Ugh... where... is this...?"
Amid the chaos, I lifted my eyes—and froze.
Something was off with my viewpoint. The world looked upside down. Blood rushed to my head, as if I were inverted.
"Eh...?"
Only then did I take stock of my situation.
My body was bound to an inverted cross.
Around it, countless severed necks and indecipherable characters written in fresh blood.
The acrid stench of blood stabbed my nose.
No time to fret over my changed physique or the cascading long silver hair.
"Wha... uh...?"
Bang-!
Before I could make sense of it, the wooden door shattered. Heavy military boots echoed through the atelier.
Bureau agents stormed in, futuristic rifles trained on the room. A deep male voice cut through the din.
"Anomaly Management Control Department! You're under arrest for anomaly misuse, murder, and incitement to murder!"
"Haha, arrest?!"
From the center, an artist's rage-filled shout rang out. He raised his slashed hand high toward the sky.
"Try arresting us! The ritual is already complete—you'll never change the destined ending!"
"Anomaly usage confirmed! Kill them all!"
White flashes erupted. Dozens of rifles roared, riddling the artist's body with holes.
Yet his hand stayed raised toward the heavens.
"Gurk... you fools... listen..."
Even on his knees, he finished his words.
His mad gaze lingered last on my inverted eyes.
"Our goddess... right before your eyes... gurk... and you can't even... recognize her worth..."
Thud.
His skyward hand dropped.
And that was their end.
The man self-detonated, blinding white light engulfing the atelier.
In the ruins of the atelier, I was the sole survivor.
"[Our god must be a perfect being.]"
"[Omniscient and omnipotent.]"
"[The artists' god who rules over supernatural phenomena and anomalies.]"
"[An omnipotent existence that paints with a gesture and sculpts statues with a mere glance.]"
"[The pioneer who will one day teach us what perfect art truly is.]"
"[Thus, with the blood of 666 humans as offering...]"
"Urk...!"
Thump.
Reading the notebook those artist bastards left in the rubble, nausea surged, and I collapsed flat on the spot.
Couldn't be helped.
Anyone would end up like this reading detailed instructions for 666 ways to kill a person.
"What absolute lunatics."
Slap. I irritably tossed the notebook aside. No desire to read the elaborate murder methods that followed.
Only then did I survey my surroundings.
The atelier reduced to rubble. Corpses strewn about, shattered Anomalous Artist works. The space thick with ominous energy.
A place ripe for anomalies to strike come nightfall.
"...For now, get out of here and think?"
Staying longer felt like a bad idea. I hauled myself up.
A naked body with no possessions—and a frail, muscle-less little girl's frame.
Still, I'd picked an EX-grade skill before possession hit, and those artists called me 'goddess'... so maybe I had something powerful.
"If only I knew what that power was."
Thankfully, there was a kind institution that safely housed and fed lost anomalies like me.
Anomaly Management Control Department.
Abbreviation: Management Bureau.
The government agency that manages, contains, and controls anomalous entities.
Head there, pull the 'baby anomaly needs protection' card, and I'd get food and a bed.
What, you ask? Guarantees the Bureau is safe? What if they try to kill or dissect me?
Worry not. It's not called 'Control' for nothing.
Their top priority is always management and control. Killing is reserved for uncontrollables.
What if the facility gets compromised?
Pfft... it's a government agency, after all. As if a containment breach would happen there.
Besides, nowhere else to go. Didn't fancy dying to an anomaly.
With such naive thoughts, I draped a straw mat over myself and stepped out from the ruins.