Disharmony

The Ladder began with a sound like glass breaking.

A smooth, mechanical voice spoke in their minds, cold and devoid of emotion.

"Welcome to the Ladder."

But as the voice continued, static disrupted its words.

"This scenario is governed by the path of… zzzt—"

The distortion was sharp and jarring, followed by a pause. Then, a man's voice—calm but commanding—picked up where the previous one left off.

"The path of Order."

There was a strange weight to those words, a kind of finality. Z frowned as the room around him solidified into view. His lips twitched into a faint smile as he noted the change in tone.

"The voice changed," he muttered to himself. "And it's the path of Order, not the God. Interesting."

Where am I?

The last thing he remembered was stepping into the Gate and talking to Hao,. Now he was… here. Wherever here was.

A voice crackled into his mind, disjointed and static-like, making him wince. It was the System.

"Welcome, Climber Z. Scenario loaded: The Red Shoe."

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the voice continued, monotone but laced with foreboding:

"Scenario overview: Protagonist I is the most beautiful girl in school. Every boy wants to be around her; every girl envies her. She's brilliant, kind, and admired by all. But one day, after staying late for violin practice, she was attacked violently. She lost one of her favorite red shoes… and was never seen again."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

"Protagonist I is only seen at night, wandering in search of her missing red shoe. To escape this scenario, you must either find the missing red shoe… or survive for three days.

WARNING: One among you is not alive."

His head throbbed as he processed the information. It wasn't his first scenario, but the added note—one of you is not alive—sent a shiver down his spine.

Z found himself lying on a narrow bed in a fairly bright room. The air smelled stale, laced with an acrid chemical scent. His body felt heavy, almost as though it didn't belong to him.

The knocking started softly, a polite tap-tap-tap.

Z closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, his voice calm and steady:

"Guide the unholy to chaos, and let no order chain me."

The words felt natural, grounding him in the strangeness of the moment. He opened his eyes and sat up, taking in his surroundings.

His fingers brushed against unfamiliar fabrics—he was wearing pajamas. They felt silky, expensive, but their comfort did nothing to ease the fog clouding his mind.

"Great start," he muttered. He winced as his head throbbed, like a hammer pounding against his skull.

The knocking grew louder.

Z turned his attention to a small table by the bed. A translucent bottle sat there, its label faintly illuminated by the dim light. He picked it up, turning it over to read:

Somnixil-30.

WARNING: Do not exceed two doses within 24 hours. Side effects include nausea, dizziness, hallucinations, and paranoia.

Z tilted the bottle, noting it was nearly empty.

"Someone had a party before I got here," he said dryly, shaking his head. His thoughts felt sluggish, like he was wading through mud.

The knocking at the door became insistent.

Z glanced at it, then sighed. He set the bottle down and stumbled toward the bathroom, determined to clear his head.

The bathroom was sparse, almost clinical, with pale tiles and a sink that dripped rhythmically. There was no mirror, just an empty space where one should have been. Z turned the faucet on, splashing cold water onto his face.

The water felt refreshing at first, jolting him out of his haze. But then he noticed the red streaks.

Blood.

It dripped from his closed eyelids, pooling into the sink.

"What the…" he began, but the words trailed off as more blood leaked, running faster with every splash of water.

The knocking on the door grew frantic, almost desperate. Z glanced back toward the door, his breath catching. Blood seeped from its hinges, pooling onto the floor.

The walls around him shifted. Flesh-like textures replaced the tiles, a grotesque amalgamation of pulsating veins, raw muscle, and pus-filled cavities. The ceiling sagged as if it were alive, threatening to collapse under its own weight.

Z stumbled back, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

His head throbbed again, harder this time. The air grew thick, suffocating, as though the room itself was alive and closing in on him.

The knocking stopped.

Z turned toward the door just as it burst open—not from force, but as though it had been swallowed by the pulsating walls. Beyond it, there was only darkness.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his chest. His vision blurred, and his legs gave out beneath him. As he collapsed to the ground, his mind registered one final, mocking phrase in the back of his head:

YOU HAVE DIED FROM FRIGHT.

Z's eyes snapped open.

He was back on the bed, his body cold and drenched in sweat. The knocking at the door began again—soft, almost polite.

A faint chime echoed in the room.

"Chaos has taken place. Disharmony has been used."

Z sat up slowly, his hand gripping the edge of the bed as he processed what had just happened.

His lips curved into a wry smile. "This is going to be fun."

"Disharmony is active," a disembodied voice whispered into Z's mind.

He exhaled sharply, gripping his walking stick, his fingers tightening around the smooth handle. "I choose to open the door," he said aloud.

The knocking had grown louder, echoing through the room like the slow beat of a drum. Rising to his feet, Z moved toward the door, his steps careful and deliberate, the stick tapping softly against the floor. The knob felt cold under his palm, almost unnaturally so.

Then the thought struck him—Protagonist I. The explanation from the Ladder scenario surged back into his mind: a beautiful girl, endlessly searching for her missing red shoe. Her presence meant violence, horror, and death.

Could it be her?

He leaned closer to the peephole, one eye pressed against it. Outside, the hallway was empty. No shadow, no figure, nothing. And yet, the knocking continued—persistent, impatient. His scalp prickled as if thousands of tiny needles were pressing against his skin.

Is it invisible? Or… dead?

The possibility made his stomach twist, but another thought slammed into him like a brick: What if it's not someone outside knocking to come in… but someone inside knocking to get out?

Z recoiled from the door, his pulse hammering in his ears. The last time he died, he recalled, the door hadn't burst open—it had been wrenched apart from the inside. Not by him, not by something outside. By the room itself.

His gaze darted to the bottle of pills on the table, the warning label vivid in his mind. Overdosage causes hallucinations. Was it the drugs playing tricks on him? If the room looked like an amalgamation of blood vessels and flesh last time, what would he see now if he turned around?

A shudder ran down his spine.

The knocking grew louder—no longer a knock but a frenzied banging, as if the door were alive and desperate to escape itself. The air thickened, and the walls began to shift. Z blinked hard, his sewn eyes burning. Blood dripped down his cheeks in warm trails, sliding along his chin.

The room began to shift, pulsate—its surface bubbling into veins, arteries, and glistening flesh. The floor turned slick underfoot, and the walls convulsed like living organs.

And then he felt it.

Cold breath grazed the nape of his neck. So cold it froze the air in his lungs, the chill sinking deep into his chest and clutching at his heart. His walking stick trembled in his grip.

Z turned around, his body stiff, his movements slow, as though he were dragging himself through tar.

There, rising in the grotesque, writhing nightmare of a room, was a shadow—a humanoid figure without distinct features. Its form shifted like smoke caught in a breeze, but it exuded a presence so overwhelming, so suffocating, that Z's knees buckled.

His mind screamed at him to run, to do anything but stay rooted to the spot, but his body refused to move.

The shadow leaned closer.

And then—

You have died from fright.

The voice was calm, clinical, detached.

Z's vision faded into darkness.

And then it began again.

His eyes snapped open, and he was lying on the bed. The knocking at the door was soft, almost polite. The voice chimed in his mind:

"Chaos has taken place. Disharmony has been used."