Now then, where am I? I was at the park, near Hoàn Kiếm Lake.
Tilus scanned his surroundings. The lake was gone—no glimmering water, no trees. Instead, a maze of yellowing colonial buildings closed in on him, tangled street wires overhead like a giant spider's web. He knew this place: the Old Quarter. The plaza lay empty, but it wasn't silent. Somewhere ahead, he heard footsteps shuffling. It doesn't sound human.
His Instincts kicked in. He dropped into a crouch behind a crumbling planter, eyes narrowing. His pulse slowed. Tension tightened in his limbs.
Beyond the shattered fountain, something moved—thin, elongated, almost human but not. Its skin gleamed a bloated, mottled blue, like flesh left to soak too long in stagnant water. The Ao Dai dress clung to its frame, damp and yellowed, fluttering with each stiff step. Its limbs bent stiffly at the joints, too tense, too rehearsed—like it was mimicking how it remembered a human should walk.
Long black hair hung in thick, wet strands across its face, masking it like a curtain of riverweed. Tilus froze as it twitched. Then the arms dropped—slowly, too slowly—stretching unnaturally, joints creaking, until its fingertips nearly brushed the ground.
It tilted its head.
And from behind the hair, teeth gleamed. A smile, wide and deliberate, formed beneath the dripping curtain.
It saw him. And it liked that he saw it.
Ma Da. A drowned spirit, its soul twisted by hate. Every Vietnamese kid's nightmare. The warnings flooded back: Don't go near rivers at night. Don't follow laughter in the dark.
Now here it was—a nightmare in flesh.
The Drowned Spirit tilted its head. Bones cracked like wet branches snapping in reverse. A clawed hand, pale and twitching, writhed toward him—fingers bending the wrong way before correcting themselves with a sickening jerk.
Tilus's heart slammed against his ribs. Move. He raised his sword—and charged. Muscles screamed as he dodged the spirit's lashing cords by a hair's breadth. He slashed sideways. Sparks flew as his chipped blade grazed sinewy flesh, barely scratching it.
The Drowned Spirit hissed and lunged with inhuman speed. Tilus stumbled, barely blocking the strike; the impact rattled his bones like a faulty engine.
Tilus knew it wasn't good—his reach was too short, his power too weak. He planted his feet firmly, tightened his grip on his sword and clenched his jaw. All he needed was one opening.
The Drowned Spirit darted forward with a shriek, and Tilus pivoted low, sliding beneath its swing even as a sharp pain lanced down his arm. The creature landed before him with a dripping grin, its half-formed face twisted into a smug expression that sent a chill through Tilus's body. For a moment, he wondered if he should retreat, but this was only a grade 2 monster; he could handle it.
Brute force would not work against spirits like these—they had a core and that was the key.
They clashed again, steel slicing through mist as claws scraped across Tilus's ribs, sending sharp pain through his side. He stumbled, struggling to catch his breath as his blade dragged against the ground. Then he saw it—a faint flicker of ghostly blue light pulsing beneath the creature's tangled hair, embedded deep in its head.
That was the spot.
As the spirit charged once more, Tilus stepped forward, raised his sword, and drove the blade straight into the spirit head, into it the glowing core. Instantly, crackling blue energy surged through the monster's body. It let out a final, rattling cry before bursting apart into cold mist.
Tilus sank to one knee, gasping for air. Sweat stung his eyes as his sword vibrated in his grip, its edge chipped and bent from the fight. The damage and strain were undeniable.
A notification appeared:
[You killed a Grade 2 monster. 150 Coins rewarded.]
His chest heaved, but relief did not come. Instead, disbelief settled in. How could monsters like this roam near a lake or river in a city that was supposed to be destroyed by fire? He had read about such creatures, but facing one in person was a completely different ordeal.
Now was not the time to dwell on it.. Tilus forced himself to stand and tightened his grip once more. If he was this weak after a single fight, he would not survive what lay ahead.
A message flashed:
[Strengthening Skill upgraded to Lv.10. Duration: 15 minutes.]
A warm energy flooded his limbs, dulling the aches in his muscles and steadying his stance. His sword felt lighter, no longer a burden but an extension of his body.
Suddenly, two more Drowned Spirits emerged from the broken corridor.Two Drowned Spirits surged forward, water sloshing off their limbs like runoff from a storm drain. Tilus adjusted his grip on the blade. He could see it now—the faint green glow flickering behind their semi-translucent foreheads. The core. That was it.
The first spirit lunged, jagged fingers reaching for his throat.
Tilus pivoted on his heel, sidestepped to the left, and brought his sword up in a rising diagonal slash.
Schlk—!
The blade cleaved into the side of the spirit's head, entering just beneath the cheekbone and slicing upward through the temple. There was resistance—a pop, like cracking a melon—and then the head burst open in a splash of dark ooze. The glowing core shattered mid-slash, flickering out.
The body dropped mid-lunge, crumpling with a dull thud.
The second came from the right, faster.
Tilus didn't retreat. He ducked low under the swing of its claw, twisted on the ball of his foot, and used the momentum to drive his shoulder into its ribcage. The spirit staggered back a step, just enough.
Now.
Tilus straightened with a quick backhand slash—whipping the blade across the spirit's face from jaw to temple. The sword dug into the forehead where the core pulsed, half-visible beneath the damp, decaying skin.
He felt the jolt in his arms as metal struck the core.
Another crack—another flash of dying green light.
Then silence.
The spirit dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
He exhaled slowly, his racing heartbeat finally under control.
Splash. Splash. SPLASH.
The hair on the back of his neck rose. Somewhere in the haze, he heard water splashing.
Tilus turned—and his stomach dropped.
First one appeared. Then two. Then dozens. Dozens of Drowned Spirits, each stepping from the shadows.
"Shit," he muttered, wheels turning in his head: fight or run? He chose the latter. He bolted down a narrow alley, shoes slapping against broken bricks, sweat soaking his shirt to his spine. The Old Quarter's streets twisted like a serpent—barely wide enough for a motorbike, much less an escape route.
[Stage 2 will begin in 24 hours. Survive until then.]
The system voice echoed in his mind, cold and mechanical. He didn't dare pause. He ran with every ounce of breath left in his lungs.
Tilus's sword slashed through the first few Drowned Spirits like it was nothing, but more kept coming—dozens of them swarming the street like a tide of rotting fog.
He hacked left, spun right. Ghostly claws raked across his back, searing hot pain blooming with every hit. His breath rattled in his chest. This was a trap. If they closed in any tighter, it was over.
There had to be something that could help him out of this mess. His eyes snapped to the street's far end—a flicker of neon and broken glass. A motorcycle shop.
Without hesitation, Tilus surged forward, cutting a bloody path through the horde. Spirits screamed and vanished, but the pain dug in deeper. One snag tore his sleeve, another grazed his neck. He pushed through anyway.
Just one more step, one more slash—and he'd be out.
He barged in and shut the door behind him. The Drowned Spirits banged on the door.
Heart pounding, limbs trembling, Tilus spotted a big bike. Keys in the ignition.
The engine sputtered, coughed—
"Start, damn you!" he hissed under his breath.
It roared.
Drowned Spirits screeched behind him.
He twisted the throttle and shot forward, bursting through the cramped alley like a bullet. A metal cart slid aside, scattering plastic stools. The scent of fish sauce assaulted his nose.
Shop signs flickered overhead—neon dragons, karaoke bars, dying bulbs blinking like frantic warning signals. This new Old Quarter didn't like strangers, especially not ones trying to escape with their souls intact.
A Drowned Spirit jumped from a balcony, claws aimed for the back of his head. Tilus swerved, and the ghost slammed into a street pole, collapsing in a pile of cracked concrete.
He burst into a wide-open area dominated by an abandoned railway. A rusted train sat stalled across the tracks like a carcass—a hulking beast that had given up running long ago. It sliced through the intersection, completely blocking one path and spilling debris into another, leaving only two options. One was a dead end, hemmed in by collapsed buildings. The other—the narrowest alley—was already swarming with Drowned Spirits, their limbs scraping against brick and metal as they surged after him.
Tilus skidded to a halt, breath ragged. He was cornered.
A shout cracked through the noise.
"Stay down, you dead freak!"
Tilus looked toward the dead-end road.
Jasmine stood atop a broken power box, blood streaking down her face. Her silver quill glowed with fresh ink as she carved glowing strokes midair. Each slash birthed a jagged sigil, suspended like calligraphy done in lightning.
The sigils flared—then burst.
Fire tore through the first infected. The next dropped, writhing in a current of blue sparks. In instant she defeat Two of them but Ten more replaced them. More Infected poured in behind, dragging limbs, eyes milky, veins black and pulsing like roots under rot.
Jasmine was breathing hard now, her mouth tight with both fear and rage. She drew another sigil—only for it to sputter out.
"Damn it," she snapped. "Just burn already!"
One Infected got too close. She ducked low, rolled beneath its claws, and came up swinging. Her fist, already glowing with a burning sigil etched across the skin, collided with its throat. The impact cracked with a burst of mana, like striking stone wrapped in thunder.
The Infected shrieked and reeled, black fluid sputtering from its mouth—but it didn't fall.
Another grabbed her leg.
She kicked. Twisted. Tried another sigil—nothing. Ink nearly gone.
Tilus didn't hesitate. He gunned the bike forward, sliced through two Infected in one clean arc, and slid to a stop beside her.
"Time to go!" he barked.
He reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her up behind him in one motion. She grunted in pain as her leg thudded against the seat.
"You got some nice power, huh?" he shouted, keeping his eye on the Drowned Spirits closing in.
"Yeah," Jasmine shot back. "Almost lost my life for it."
They sprinted between overturned carts and leaking food stalls.
The road was chaos, with bodies, Infected and now droned spirits—everywhere. Tilus maneuvered the motorcycle like a snake through obstacles, dodging attacks landing all around them.
"Where are we going?" she yelled, her voice cracking behind him because of the wind.
Tilus's eyes flicked to the maze of alleys and derelict buildings.
"We need to head to the Stage 2 area—reach the safe zone while we can."
"There's a place nearby—wait, Tilus! Where are you going?"
"That one's already collapsed. We'd be dead if we went there now. I know a better place."
In reality, he lied. Of course, he hadn't seen it firsthand, but there is a group there he'd rather not go against. Also, there is something else he needed to achieve that in a different location.
Behind them, Drowned Spirit shrieks and Infected groans faded as they sped into the twisting heart of Hà Nội City. Tilus held his breath, hoping their luck—and the battered bike—would carry them through this night of ghosts and monsters.
To survive another twenty-four hours.