The Disasters Turn Their Gaze

「Magnitude 7.2 earthquake strikes the capital region. Casualties estimated at a minimum of one hundred thousand.」 「A tower rises from the National Assembly building—is it an aftershock?」 「National disaster declared across all South Korean territory.」 「The mysterious message—what is it?」

Overnight, the world had turned into a ridiculous comedy. Whether you went online, turned on the TV, or even peeked into an XTube comment section, everyone was talking about nothing but Disaster Order. Cracks had appeared worldwide, and that inexplicable ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠message still floated in front of everyone’s eyes.

I pulled back the curtain. At the edge of my vision stood an impossibly tall black tower. Broadcast helicopters circled the unknown spire that had burst through the roof of the National Assembly in Yeouido.

The message had said exactly that.

“Mirien. That’s a game character.”

The Storm of the North Sea, Mirien. After thousands of syntheses, she was the second 5★ character I had obtained. I couldn’t recall her exact backstory, but she was supposedly a mage who had slaughtered tens of thousands in her quest to reach the end of the sky. The other three 5★ characters also carried infamy as calamities in their own right.

These in-game disasters had manifested in reality and wrought enormous destruction. The trigger was obvious: what had happened at dawn yesterday.

“…Don’t tell me they crossed into our world because I fired them?”

It sounded absurd, yet the reality before me confirmed it. Disaster Order had become real, and the catalyst was my mass firing of them yesterday. The freed calamities had come to destroy another world—my world.

“…Is this my fault?”

No. I felt no guilt. Even if the system messages were real, how could I have known? A chime rang.

Moreover, this notification that had been hovering in front of me for over half a day seemed to have been sent to the entire global population.

Public opinion on internet communities was similar. A few people were excited—understandable, given the surreal events straight out of a novel unfolding before them. Most, however, were gripped by anxiety. An unknown terror had invaded Earth. Countless deaths had already occurred worldwide. Any one of us could be next.

“…Disaster Order.”

I muttered the game’s name. Wait—game? Something suddenly clicked in my mind. I hurriedly opened the app store and searched for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Disaster Order. Nothing. Zero results. I checked community mentions too—none. If the game had become reality, perhaps the game itself ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had vanished from the world. Then why did I still remember it was a game?

“This is insane.”

My head spun. The notification at the edge of my vision kept trembling, as if urging me to choose.

If I pressed accept, I would become a player. The game’s premise was simple: the player, called the Ruler, pulled disasters from rifts, developed their base, and gathered new disasters. The system prompt was telling me to do exactly that.

“…I have to.”

Whatever the case, there was only one choice. Obtain the power to rule over the disasters. On TV, people were already babbling about an Awakened Association, new laws, guilds, and the like. None of that mattered. They had no idea how terrifying the disasters of Disaster Order truly were.

As if in response, the notification displayed new text.

“Yeah. I have to survive.”

Maybe others felt differently, but I didn’t want to die. I refused to become a sacrifice to the disasters. To do that, I had to become a Ruler—like my in-game character, commanding countless disasters.

With trembling hands, I pressed accept. A new notification appeared.

“Hah.”

Even this was identical to the game. At this point, I half-suspected a massive hidden camera prank. I started typing my real name, then shook my head. If reality had become Disaster Order, I should use the same nickname I had in the game.

I entered the familiar two characters.

Rift Eruption. I knew it well from the game. Every few days, rifts spewed disasters. Subjugating them and using them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as synthesis materials to create stronger disasters was the core of the game. Roughly a week left.

“Whatever happens, I need to do what I can now.”

If everything worked like the game, I first had to strengthen my player character to gain the ability to collect lower-tier disasters. Time was of the essence. As I hurriedly manipulated the system window, a sudden chill ran down my spine. At the same moment, notifications flooded in like mad.

“Huh…?”

For a moment, I couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then understanding hit. My current nickname was the same “Actor” I had used in the game. Naturally, the final expressions of the characters I had seen at dawn yesterday—right before I fired them—flashed through my mind. If the disasters that had come to this world retained their in-game memories… and if they recognized the nickname of their former master…

“…I think I’m screwed.”

No answer came.

*

Long ago, there was a girl revered as a saint. She yearned for stories of the divine and devoted her body to faith. God granted her power. She used it without reservation, saving all who suffered. The girl loved the world, and the world loved her back. Yet in the year she came of age, that faith was brutally shattered.

“Burn her! We’re burning the witch!”

The girl closest to God was betrayed by the malice of the very humans she had sought to protect. Drenched in boiling oil, hung upon the altar of an evil god, and forced to scream her apostasy, she became a creature of flame. She had too many regrets to accept death quietly. And with those regrets came resentment. Her resentment soon swept across the entire continent.

“Ah, she is the apostle of the evil god! The Scorched Saint!”

The words someone had cried out before dying became her epithet. The Scorched Saint toppled a kingdom in a single day. Seven days later, she set the continent ablaze. Only ashes remained where she passed. No life survived. Her flames were impartial. Neither those who revered God nor those who blasphemed could escape them. Her own body was no exception. Only after her skin had blackened and blistered into a grotesque ruin did the Scorched Saint cease her divine punishment.

“…Ah.”

On the final seventh day, just as God had abandoned everyone, the saint abandoned the world. The demon who had burned everything had no place left to stand.

…Or so she thought, until a supernatural vortex formed above her head.

Thus the Scorched Saint found a new dwelling. It was a refuge, a sanctuary for the outcast. Having grown weary of everything, Saint Selene finally came face to face with the ruler of the rift.

“Are you the master of this space?”

She felt no emotion toward the ruler. Yet Selene understood that this being was on par with the god she had once served—an existence of infinitely higher order.

“If you wish to kill me, then do so. I was born an enemy. A wicked human. My body is scarred by burns; I hold no allure even for violation.”

Selene had resigned herself. Nowhere would a burned woman be welcomed. Salvation would never come to a demon who had turned the power granted by God against God’s followers. But the ruler was different.

The ruler remained impassive, yet still provided Selene with a new home. He offered a potion that healed burns and regrew flesh. He presented a greatsword light enough for even burned hands to wield and sturdy enough to endure. The ruler commanded her to burn other worlds for the sake of his domain—and that was what Selene did best. Within her heart, a new pillar of faith had formed. Unlike the silent god, this one rewarded belief with tangible gifts—a sweet fruit of good and evil.

“I offer eternal loyalty to the Ruler.”

The Scorched Saint Selene’s new home. This place was her paradise regained.