They say a child's laughter might just be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
... but not when it's three in the morning and you live alone.
A child's giggle echoed through the room, waking Mikel from his shallow sleep. Footsteps followed, loud and erratic, just outside his bedroom door.
"For crying out loud… not again," he grumbled, reaching for the small lamp on the bedside table.
Click… click…
Nothing.
Mikel clicked his tongue and sat up, yanking the string again with more irritation. When the light finally blinked on, a small white face leaned over the side of his face.
"Boo!"
"Hiss!" Startled, Mikel flinched and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath through gritted teeth.
He let himself fall back onto the mattress, and the bed creaked under his weight. He exhaled slowly, eyes still shut.
When he reopened his mismatched eyes — one red and one brown — Mikel slipped a hand beneath his pillow. He sat up, spinning a small, old knife in his hand as he glared at the door. The ink on his arm had faded, but faint traces still clung to his skin.
Thud, thud, thud…
Footsteps outside were heard again. This time, more than one.
Mikel exhaled slowly, his left eye glowing with a faint red hue.
"Doom," he whispered.
A screen blinked into view at the edge of his vision.
[Scanning…]
[A rise of spiritual energy within the talisman boundary detected.]
He skimmed the message, then stood. But before his hand even touched the knob, the door creaked open on its own.
His brow twitched.
"This is what happens when you let ghosts rebuild your home," he muttered. "Of course it ends up haunted."
He stepped out onto the cramped second floor. Just two rooms faced each other across a narrow landing and stairwell. No one was in sight. His gaze drifted to the door opposite his.
He shut his right eye, keeping the red one open.
It had been months since the surgery — months since he'd gained this cursed eye. Eventually, he learned, through trial and error (and trauma), how to use it. Especially when dealing with the not-so-dead.
Through the wall, he scanned the room.
It was empty.
And yet, the sound of footsteps echoed from within.
"Really…"
He dragged his feet over and yanked the door open. Inside, what he saw were swaying curtains and a creaky window, nothing else.
He sighed, walked in, shut the window tight, and walked out. The moment he stepped out of the second room, he turned toward the stairs. This time, it wasn't just footsteps. It sounded like someone was tearing the whole damn house apart.
"Told them already…" he growled, rushing down the stairs, knife still in hand.
But then, a short playful giggle whispered behind him.
"Hihi."
Small hands pressed against his back, giving a light push.
"Shi—!" Mikel missed a step, almost making him fall over the stairs.
His arm lashed out on instinct, and the beaded bracelet on his wrist snapped into motion and extended like a chain. It shot out, wrapping around the stair railing.
Mikel held on to his Blood Chain (his first cursed relic — an inheritance he never asked for from the system), dangled from the final step, ribs slamming into wood.
He gritted his teeth, peeking up at the child. "Little shit…"
Mikel glared at the small figure on the steps. The ghost kid froze, then bolted up the stairs.
He didn't chase it.
Instead, his eyes shifted to the front door.
"That's it," he growled, yanking his arm free from the chain that was still holding him back.
With a metallic snap, the Blood Chain slithered back and wrapped itself neatly around his wrist, once again pretending to be a beaded bracelet.
He stomped to the front door and threw it open.
"How many times do I have to say…" he hissed, breath flaring—
"LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"
Outside, dozens of figures stood. Men, women, children, elderly — all silent. Sunken eyes. Pale faces. Mist clinging to their skin like mold. Some stared straight through him. Others tilted their heads like broken dolls.
Running to the front was that little shit that just pushed him off the stair, joining the group.
"Damn it," Mikel muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. "I told you guys. Tomorrow's my first day at school. I need a goddamn sleep!"
This had been his life for the past five months.
All thanks to one cursed eye.
An eye that let him see the living, the dead, carry cursed relics, and the worst thing of all — a glowing UI system.
The Shaman Protocol.
Or the smug bastard inside it—Doom—who kept throwing him crap like this.
[New Objective: Summon your next cursed relic from the Thirteen Crimson Relics of the Ancient Cursed Order.]
[One Soul Required.]