Dirga sat in silence. The air in his new apartnt felt too sterile, too still—as if the world was holding its breath. The white walls, once a symbol of a new beginning, now closed in on him like the padded cell of a madhouse. He held the envelope in his trembling hands. The only thing he could think to do was follow the rule.
The rule.
That cursed instruction from a rabbit-headed monstrosity that handed him a winning lottery ticket and a death sentence in the sa breath.
Harvest the soul.
But how?
Swallowing hard, Dirga finally tore the envelope open.
Inside was a single sheet of thick, blood-red paper. On it, scrawled in bold, almost calligraphic letters, was a na:
Domiscus Vantasio.
Below the na, a black seal was stamped with a single word:
DEAD.
Dirga’s pulse quickened. He knew that na. Who didn’t? Domiscus Vantasio was a titan in the tech world—CEO of Vantasio Technologies, a billionaire, and one of the most powerful n in the country. A man with influence, connections, and enough private security to rival a third-world dictator.
"How the hell am I supposed to harvest his soul?"
The thought slamd into his mind like a freight train. Did he have to kill him? Was that the only way? Could there be... another thod?
Dirga groaned and clutched his head, squeezing it as if trying to wring out the answer. "Arghhhhhhh!"
His thoughts were spiraling. Nothing made sense. He had no experience in this—no manual, no guide, no ntor. He was an ordinary man caught in a nightmare that rewrote the laws of the world.
He scoured the apartnt for answers, flipping the envelope, rereading the letter, inspecting the rabbit card he had received. Then, a mory flashed.
His eyes—that strange change when he first used the card.
Dirga fished it out of his pocket. The card’s surface shimred unnaturally under the light. The swirling red and black patterns moved like ink in water, hypnotic and alien. There was a whisper in the back of his mind—an instinct.
He held the card tightly.
"Open," he whispered.
The world changed.
A deep red hue washed over the apartnt. The light dimd unnaturally, and the hum of the air conditioner twisted into sothing else—sothing grotesque. Faint whispers and screeches echoed from every direction, like the cries of tornted souls from behind invisible walls.
Dirga’s heart slamd against his ribcage as he ran to the window.
Outside, the city had transford. The streets were bathed in crimson, and monstrous forms road freely. So creatures clung to unsuspecting pedestrians like parasites, invisible in the normal world but all too real in this twisted realm. In the sky, the sun had turned into a massive, unblinking eye—its gaze falling directly upon Dirga.
He gasped, falling backward. The visions burned into his mind—images of people screaming, writhing, being torn apart by unseen forces. He broke out in cold sweat, his shirt clinging to his back.
"What the fuck was that..." he muttered, barely able to breathe.
Still, fear or not, he had to figure this out. He returned to the envelope, flipping it over and over, and finally noticed sothing scribbled faintly on the back of the card in red ink:
"Nice one. Keep learning."
"Fuck you, rabbit," Dirga hissed.
But he obeyed.
The card held power. And with power, ca information. Dirga stood in front of the mirror, holding the card again. He whispered the word.
"Open."
The mirror shimred.
Above his head, glowing red text appeared.
Na: Dirgantara
Age: 21
Karma Points: 1
Grade: F–
Skill: –
Item: –
Ti Remaining: 6 Days, 12 Hours
A system.
He bolted out of his apartnt, racing down the hallway. Outside, people strolled past casually, oblivious. But above each of their heads, floating like a status label in a video ga, was one word: [LOCKED]
Dirga narrowed his eyes. They weren’t his targets. That’s why.
He needed to find Domiscus Vantasio.
It didn’t take long. Using the last of his sanity and what remained of his winnings, Dirga contacted Vantasio Technologies, claiming to be a new investor—a recent lottery winner eager to put his newfound wealth into visionary leadership. He attached photos of his winning ticket, bank transfer proofs, everything to make it seem legitimate.
Two days passed.
The reply ca: an invitation to a private masked party hosted by Domiscus himself.
He had four days left.
The invitation was vague—an exclusive affair held at the billionaire’s estate. No plus-one. Tuxedo required. Mask mandatory.
Dirga stood in the costu shop, browsing through the options. He reached for a simple black mask... then froze.
There it was.
A white rabbit mask.
Just like his.
He clenched it tightly, his stomach churning with revulsion. "You son of a bitch..."
He bought it anyway.
The next evening, Dirga stood tall in a rented tuxedo, his reflection staring back at him. For a fleeting mont, he didn’t recognize himself. He looked powerful. Rich. Soone who belonged.
But inside, he was still that desperate man trying to save his wife.
Before heading to the mansion, he made one stop—his real reason for all of this.
The hospital.
"How’s Naya?" he asked the nurse quietly.
"We’re doing everything we can, sir," she replied kindly. "The treatnt is still experintal. It may take ti... or it might not work at all."
Dirga stared through the window at Naya’s sleeping form, tubes running across her fragile fra. Her face, once so full of life, now lay still, pale beneath the hospital lights. Rage and sorrow bubbled inside him.
Why her? Why not ?
He closed his eyes. "I’ll win. I’ll survive. And I’ll bring her back."
With renewed resolve, he entered the waiting limousine and made his way to the mansion.
The Vantasio estate was unlike anything he had ever seen. Massive iron gates gave way to a winding road that led up to a towering villa surrounded by marble fountains and gardens so well-trimd they looked unnatural.
Dirga stepped out of the limousine, his rabbit mask in place.
Dozens of others were already there—n and won in tailored suits and designer dresses, each wearing an animal mask. A lion, an eagle, a pig. The staff moved gracefully through the crowd, each one wearing a gray mouse mask.
It unsettled him.
Was that how the elite saw the working class? As rats to serve them?
A woman in a sleek black dress and a wolf mask approached him.
"Dirgantara, I presu?" she asked.
"Yes," Dirga answered, voice low.
"Our CEO has been expecting you. Please, follow ."
She led him through the massive foyer, past glittering chandeliers and priceless art, into a lavishly decorated dining room. But unlike the grotesque den he expected—no drugs, no strippers—this room radiated elegance.
And power.
"Co, co. Dirga, is it?"
The man who greeted him wore no mask.
Domiscus Vantasio stood with a wine glass in hand. He was built like a boulder—thick arms, bald head, a row of gold teeth gleaming as he smiled. His hands were adorned with rings, each one more extravagant than the last. Wealth hung on him like armor.
Dirga gripped the card tightly in his pocket.
He didn’t hesitate.
"Open," he whispered under his breath.
The world shifted again.
The elegant dining room twisted into a horrific parody of itself. The walls bled, and every piece of art and furniture now hosted a monster—faces that blinked, growled, and wept. The chandelier above dripped what looked like molten gold... or bile.
Dirga wanted to scream.
He didn’t.
He stared at Vantasio, whose true form now shimred beneath the surface of reality.
And above his head, a prompt appeared:
...
[Target Detected]
Na: Domiscus Vantasio
Age: 52
Grade: FF
Ritual: GREED
Requirent: Tempt him with your wealth. Let his greed consu him. Make him take from you. And then, in the mont he seizes everything—
—Kill him.
...
Dirga’s heart slowed.
He had his answer.
This wasn’t just about death.
This was about judgnt.
He didn’t have to murder Domiscus in cold blood. He just had to let him fall—lure him with wealth, bait him into excess, let his avarice crack his own soul open like a ripe fruit.
And then strike.
Dirga clenched his fists beneath the table.
So be it.
The ga had begun.
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