Week 1 (1)
Week 1 (1)
Have you ever heard a crow cry 'kkuwee-e-eek' instead of 'kkaak'?
No idea if you have, but I heard it here for the first time.
Their flock flapping around puddeuk puddeuk looks less like birds and more like winged monsters in size—you can't help but be convinced they ate something seriously fucked up.
But ask around, and they're crows.
Damn, wings spread wide they'd be bigger than me, and they're crows.
Sigh. I stared blankly out the window before letting out a sigh.
Nitpicking at crow chicks flying around starts creeping in a sense of disillusionment with life.
If I gotta pinpoint where it all went wrong, the answer's simple.
My only shot at seeing this bleak-ass scenery was inside a monitor, and no verification needed—I knew it right away.
It's blatantly because of that goddamn rage-inducing game.
Saying it now, but I didn't have to play that game, and sure as hell shouldn't have.
Even if I concede and say I did, honestly it wasn't worth sinking thousands of hours into.
Sure, with its unique-but-not-overdone cartoon graphics and quirky, appealing combat system design, it perfectly melted life-or-death deathmatches and inescapable terror, snagging critic raves and fan frenzy as a generational god game—but thinking back, maybe not that god.
Nah, screw all that, if I hadn't fucked around with that mod from the start, none of this shit would've happened.
After seeing all there was to see, I should've bounced clean, not cling like a pathetic loser pulling bunny duo bullshit.
"Ughh, hic! Ah... Master-nim, what're you doing there again?"
"Shut the fuck up, seriously—I'm thinking hard right now."
Without even glancing back, I halt the woman doubtlessly shuffling over swinging a booze bottle with a bored look.
She's the only one I can have a proper convo with, but that's only true if you stretch the definition of 'conversation' super, super wide.
From when I first dropped into this world—frantically denying reality, bellowing I'd burn the whole damn thing down—to now, fully resigned, her attitude toward me never changed once.
Making my cool shutdown look lame, the butler totally ignores my warning and thud thud marches right up in front of me.
"Heh, the Master-nim does thinking too, huh. Soon as you got here, days on end rolling around screaming... hic, I figured you'd already been gobbled by the Labyrinth, hee-hic."
As she spews that nonsense and grins dopily right in my face, I snap my head around like I'm reciting an actual haiku.
Wasn't 'cause she's so butt-ugly or horrific sober it's unbearable or anything.
Actually... the total opposite.
Platinum blonde tossed loose, golden eyes drenched in booze gazing lazily my way—way too seductive for a pathetic single no-game-virgin loser like me.
That was the problem.
How many times had those terrifying eyes nearly made me lose my shit without a rat or bird knowing?
Hell, just spotting a pretty girl freezes my neck up, but deep-plunging crop shirt baring full cleavage, hot pants flashing long sleek legs—over-the-top slutty getup on my drunk ideal-type stunner.
And that object of my ulterior-motive-packed description—the 'butler' herself—was the 'second-most' shocking catastrophe to hit me.
For the record, first place goes without saying: me ending up here.
—There's this fucking trash heap of a game called 'Tombstone'.
Wondered what unspeakable charm those fantasy black mages obsess over with voodoo dolls—slaughtering folks and thriftily using 'em everywhere—and now it turns out I'm no different, courtesy of this gracious game.
I chewed, ripped, tasted, savored that piss-off-maximized game till I memorized every last stat, ending up knowing it more granular than the goddamn planners.
Picture it like a restaurant: regular customer shows up so much, now cooks better than the owner.
Anyway, Tombstone demon that I became, that day too I was gallery-deep throating obvious dogshit and shitting out guides like 'How to Chow Shit Like Curry'.
Makes sense—this game needs zero physical skill (unless you count luck), so even as a grizzled vet, no flashy pro-god moves to show off.
Other game vets get "whoa that guy's doing that ㄷㄷ"; Tombstone vets get "whoa (why tf) doing that ㄷㄷ".
Packed tight like a mega dumpling volume-wise, but after devouring every big mod and guide-dumping 'em all, nada left to do.
Bored writhing led to 'Thx Bloodmoon Hell-Mode No-Rules Concept 500x Perma-Death Feast', and the final taboo I poked was that infamous mod.
Even diehard loliboo weebs'd shake their heads—the one turning Tombstone's deep-dark-fantasy vibe into cheap-ass eroge, a.k.a. 'X-stone'.
Y'see, early on I learned it existed, took massive mental damage, and babbled off fleeing 'SexXtone'—then hugged inexplicable depraved heart-pounding and waltzed right in.
Swap one mid-word to 'voodoo' and it's no diff from that psycho black mage example.
Overdo voodoo immersion, problems brew; overdo Tombstone, problems anyway—I learned that the worst possible way.
"Uh... Master-nim? Hoo, where you looking?"
"Can you please just fuck off for a sec?"
This butler nosing in with drunkard's zero personal space, actually means she's not this kinda big sis.
Butler's a balding middle-aged batshit drunk uncle character—tutorial finisher tells newbies: "yo this our game's vibe~"
Gigantic clan territory below slumbers terrifying formless evil.
Started sane, aiding prior Masters-nim, but crept in, mercilessly mind-raped him mad—now can't stay sane sans booze... that's the lore.
I crank my neck ramrod-stiffer to avoid even glimpsing her milky skin by accident.
Butler ain't no sex-appeal character, y'know.
Not just me being creeped—there's reasons here too.
"Hic, hehe... Just give up and loan me that body, Master-nim. Haven't I held out forever? Hit."
I bolt with wild flailing from the butler's hand slyly snuggling up to pet my shoulder.
Mod influence for sure.
Dunno why, but she keeps egging me on for a go.
Ask if I'm dodging dude-fights coming my way? Yup.
My brain ain't on my dick.
Give in to butler's tease here, Labyrinth darkness eats me faster.
Not bullshit—actual setting.
This mod? Original's 'inescapable terror', swapped just 'terror' to 'sex'.
I.e., 'inescapable sex'.
Means: skin with cuties for kyaa-kyaa ufufu maybe, but this doom-sim core gameplay/settings? Untouched.
Blissfully powerbang sex? Same as waltzing into territory-below terror zone yourself.
'Course I barely know the mod. Instinct just screams: guard that bod.
Living proof? This lady—butler.
Was terror-mad; now lust-mad, ain't she?
Gander those desire-glinting golden peepers.
Cool-headed threat-dodge, I sigh relief.
Helpless thumb-sucking Tombtard croaked ages ago.
Tomb the fuckstone is that game.
Grateful fucker drilling home bone-deep: survive? Never sway to temptation, anytime.
"No way. Go nuts cleanly—why drag sane folk under?"
"Hee-hit, nuts? I'm totes sa... sane? Yesss..."
Butler brazen-blurts utter bullshit.
Drunk off her ass, judgment fucked.
Sigh auto-rises—then she cuts laugh dead, speaks.
"I know how filthy this place... Territory's cursed now. Breathe air, no human stays sane, hic, nope."
"Doesn't scream sane, yeah."
Snark-test: zero damage. Tilts bottle, puha exhales.
Nose-stings from afar—how potent?
Lighter to that breath? Instant fire-breath.
"Hoo, how many years you think I've been here? Not beast-shifting already? Miracle."
"Hold up—beast?"
"Yesss. Didn't see coming in? Lose reason full to this magi... hic, folks turn that."
The fuck.
Now 'member, yeah sorta.
Fresh-possessed sanity-gone rolling everywhere, spotted freakish shit.
Anyway, human.
High-exposure barely-dressed woman even.
Figured skin-mod, but key: moves zilch human.
Worse than junkie—straight zombie shuffle.
Back then too busy pity-party to dwell, but yeah, was a thing.
"Hic. Gals stop there-ish, guys way worse. Most, keh, rage-mad then plop dead. Master-nim might too."
"Quit jinxing, bitch."
Curse me proper why don'tcha.
Glare daggers; she hik hik creepy-chuckles.
"Aha... Wanna check yourself?"
Butler drops that outta nowhere.
Eyes hook mine reflex—bam, freaky scene.
Our office corner: massive mirror bubbles foam-mongle.
Gawking unheard-of shit, butler explains rear, booze-fog rolling.
"Perfect—someone hitting territory... hic, peek?"
No shit, Surveillance System.
Not real CCTV—magic whatever—but Master's office, monitors all.
Territory trashed, still runs? Wild.
Or death-grip defended this?
Anyway, sidle up per her: dingy forest sprawls instant.
"People...?"
"Just back, no clue huh. Hoo... Manor auto-posts Ark City Mercenary Guild periodic. Mercs heard that prolly..."
"...Gotcha."
Moth-to-flame vibes.
Kinda twig: those peeps? Chars I joystick'd to perma-death grinding Tombstone infinity.
Mind snaps alert.
Cold-water dunk feel.
Yeah—world of weird, but core same.
Me, raid Tombstone Labyrinth—endgame.
That's my gig, basically another run of my countless loops.
Resolve steel, I pop up.
No laze-time. Greet 'em personal. Go—
"Hic, hiik. Ah, hits the fun bit, Master-nim."
"Huh."
But resolve fizzles—butler hollow-chuckles, jabs mirror.
Inside? Literal blood-guts spray slaughterfest.
"That's it. Males can't hold sanity here."
Two savaged by other two. Rippers: chicks. Rippees: dudes.
Brain-freeze brutal beyond dreams, dazed stare—ex-comrades blitz-'em, strip dead gear pronto.
"Males charged mad first, but reason-gone vs equal skill? Fucked. Hik. Plus survivors frontliners..."
Spot-on: one plate-armor tanked warrior.
Other lighter, but dagger-carving flesh? Pro knife bitch.
Dudes buff-ish, but frailer vibe than front duo—so yeah, makes sense.
"Gal front, guy back? Rare pair."
"Rare? Whaa... hic. Only chicks explore here anyway, whatever..."
Head-tilt her off-vibe, but hustle coat on.
No slack.
Bounce out, greet 'em.
Plus shit to handle.
Butler bottle-blasts, eyeing my rush weird:
"Where fire-hurry, keh, off to?"
"Check those folks."
"No need hassle... wha, suit yourself."
Flops sofa arbitrary.
Booze-crash drowsy now.
Drunk-uncle? Sofa yeeted window. Cute gal nodding off? Nah mood—so ignore, door out.
Then—back: butler voice.
"Ah, Master-nim... that."
"Hm?"
Whip 'round: she's arm-stretched pointing from flop.
Follow finger: wallside mega fireplace.
Wtf, since when?
"Grab torch."
Meh, simple.
Saunter, torch-tip to flames (sat obvious beside)—lick instant blaze.
"That guards mind."
Weird calm from her—odd vibe—but warmth ain't normal, dawns me.
Bit there, rings bell.
Labyrinth mind-pollute offset item—yep, 'Embers'.
Sucks gamer-brain kills romance cold, but yeah.