He stood at the threshold of the infamous Horror Zone—a digital hellscape handcrafted by the devs, with a little extra spice courtesy of an advanced AI. This wasn’t just some generic haunted house level. No, this AI had a special talent: it analyzed the very essence of a player’s soul and conjured nightmares tailor-made to break them. Their worst fears wouldn’t simply appear—they would be magnified, twisted, and force-fed to them until their sanity cracked like cheap glass.

  The result? A horror experience so intense that more than a few players had walked away with therapy subscriptions after a single run. Lawsuits followed, and the developers were forced to implement a gauntlet of warning windows—ten or more, back to back, hammering the risks into players' skulls before they could even step foot inside. Naturally, this killed the zone’s popularity overnight.

  And yet, here Chris stood, ready to dive in.

  Ding!

  A telepathic message popped up, stopping him just before he crossed the boundary.

  Jack & Reaper: Hey, Keith! What’chu up to?! Wanna hang-out at the café?

  Chris P. Bacon: Can't rn. ’Boutta enter the Horror Zone. Wish me luck on item drops!

  Jack & Reaper: Damn... Be careful...

  The few players who still dared to enter this forsaken zone had one thing in common: their gear. No one bothered with defensive builds or fancy weapons—only one type of stat mattered.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Increased Drop Rate %.

  With the Horror Zone’s player count in freefall, the loot from within had become absurdly rare. So now, it was a numbers game. Survival? Optional. Loot? Mandatory.

  Chris took a deep breath, braced himself, and stepped forward, but kept the telepathic link on.

  Chris P. Bacon: So, Jack, what do you think it’ll be this time? More flesh melting off my bones? If so, I’ll breeze through it—this is my fourth run, after all.

  Jack & Reaper: Flesh melting off the bone? That was your trial? Pfft! That happened to me IRL, lol.

  Chris P. Bacon: I wouldn’t expect anything less from Jack the Vampire. Ruthless, borderline psychotic—your charm really shines when it comes to gem-hunting, huh?

  Jack & Reaper: Oi, how mean! I’m not that crazed!

  Chris P. Bacon: Yes, you are! Hahaha! So? What happened?

  Jack & Reaper: Ugh... I just got obliterated, that's all! Some crystalline creature-freak-thingy. All that was left of me was a single drop of blood—microscopic, basically. More than enough to revive, sure, but you know how that goes… Took me a whole damn month killing ants, distilling their blood, assimilating it slowly just to regain size. Finally, when I got big enough—about bird-sized—I flew to a vampire-friendly hospital. They pumped me full of blood and voilà, back to full strength.

  FUKKEN EXPENSIVE, by the way!

  Chris P. Bacon: Man, vampires have it rough, but... You sure you’re a girl, Jack?

  Jack & Reaper: Argh! You ask that while you keep calling me ‘Jack’! It's Jackie, you bastard oni freak...!