The alarm blared at 7:00 a.m., piercing through the stale air of a dimly lit bedroom. Mason Hollow groaned, slapped at his phone with the accuracy of a sleep-deprived zombie, and buried his face in the pillow for precisely five more seconds of pretend rest. Then, with the reluctant grace of a dying walrus, he rolled out of bed.
The mirror greeted him with all the warmth of a tax auditor. Uncombed hair, hollow eyes, and a patchy beard that looked more like an allergic reaction than facial hair. His hoodie was still draped over the chair from yesterday, smelling faintly of instant noodles and despair.
"Peak human potential," Mason muttered. He pulled on the least wrinkled shirt he could find, gave up on socks entirely, and limped toward the kitchen like a man on death row.
His mother had already left for work. His father was in the garage, probably pretending the lawnmower needed maintenance just to avoid talking. That left Mason alone with a coffee maker that hissed like it held a grudge.
The first cup was cold. The second spilled across the counter like it had better places to be.
"Of course," he said flatly, wiping it up with last night's napkin. The stain on the paper towel judged him silently.
He checked his phone for the tenth time that morning:
[Job Interview – 09:00 a.m.]
Location: Office building in Sector 4.
Position: "Junior Logistics Assistant."
Translation: Glorified Box Mover.
Still, he needed this. Desperately.
He grabbed his bag, threw on his oversized hoodie, and stormed out the door with the elegance of a drunk duck. His breath fogged in the morning chill as he walked to the nearest transit point, dodging e-scooters and automated trash drones.
His mind replayed every rejection email he'd ever received, now arranged chronologically like a parade of failure.
"Today's the day," he told himself with grim optimism.
The universe, somewhere out there, began to laugh.
The intersection was quiet, save for the distant whirring of drones and the soft hum of electric cars gliding by like silent regrets. Mason stood at the curb, checking the transit app on his cracked phone screen. The next metro pod wouldn't arrive for another six minutes. He sighed.
"Perfect. Just enough time for something to go horribly wrong."
As if summoned by prophecy, a low mechanical buzz grew louder above him.
He looked up.
A sleek black AI delivery drone zipped across the sky, lights blinking in cheerful rhythms. It weaved between buildings with perfect precision, carrying a package the size of a backpack—suspended beneath it with magnetic clamps.
The label on the side read:
[COOLMART – Premium Compact Mini-Fridge – Fragile]
Mason squinted. "…Of course it's a fridge."
The clamps sparked once.
Twice.
And then failed completely.
The fridge tumbled.
In that brief moment before impact—when time stretched just enough to let the human brain panic creatively—Mason had thoughts.
Not deep, spiritual thoughts. Not life-defining memories.
No, Mason thought about:
The pizza rolls still in his oven.
The fact that he had exactly one sock on.
His browser history:
"How to fake charisma in interviews,"
"Signs your cat hates you,"
and "Can you sue a vending machine?"
He thought about how his funeral would go.
Probably a discount urn.
His parents arguing over who gets the fridge.
His tombstone reading:
Mason Hollow – Crushed by Convenience.
"Oh, come o—"
THWACK.
Everything went black.
There was no pain, no drawn-out cinematic goodbye. Just the dull realization that his last words were going to be cut off by a kitchen appliance.
He didn't see the security footage that would later go viral:
"Guy Dies by Falling Fridge – City Promises Safer Drone Delivery Soon."
Thousands would comment.
Some would laugh.
A few would mourn.
Most would forget.
But Mason Hollow?
He didn't get to scroll through the reactions.
Because death… was just the start of his problems.
Darkness.
Not the peaceful kind that invites sleep, but a weightless, endless void where time had no meaning and sound had forgotten how to exist.
Mason floated.
Or maybe he was falling.
Or maybe he was just… buffering?
A faint chime echoed from nowhere. Then another. Then—
[SYSTEM BOOTING…]
A flicker of blue light flashed in the void. Then a screen appeared, hovering mid-air like a Windows update from hell.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]Welcome, User: Soul Designation #XP-3982...Scanning genetic integrity...Scanning spiritual compatibility…Scanning hero potential…
[WARNING: Critical Mismatch Detected]
Another chime. Louder. Angrier.
Soul not recognized. Legendary Hero not found.ERROR: Target Soul corrupted, or grossly underqualified.
"What the hell?" Mason's voice cracked, echoing in the empty space. "Is this the afterlife? Or a really dramatic screensaver?"
A new window popped up.
S.A.S.S. Online.Welcome to the System for Absolute Survival Support.Codename: S.A.S.S.
Note: You are not the intended recipient.Status: Bound. Irreversible.Internal response: …Ugh.
A pause. Then, a new voice rang out—artificial, but oozing sarcasm like it had an unlimited supply.
"Fantastic. Just fantastic. I get booted up after five centuries, prepped to guide the next Chosen Savior… and I get you."
Mason blinked. "...Hi?"
"Don't talk. Just... don't. Let me mourn."
He looked down. There was still no floor. "Wait—where even am I?"
[Preparing for Transfer to Survival Environment]Difficulty: Fatal.Luck Adjustment: -47%.Last-minute regrets: Locked.
"Can I at least get a tutorial?"
"No."
A blinding white light exploded from beneath him. Mason screamed.
"I changed my mind! I want to be dead again!"
The light was blinding.
Then cold.
Then painful.
Mason slammed into the ground with all the elegance of a trash bag hurled off a balcony. The air was thick and wet, like the breath of a dying swamp. A sharp stench of rotting wood and iron hit his nose as his face bounced off the slick, mossy earth. Above, branches groaned and creaked in the windless mist, whispering like they were gossiping about his misfortune. Somewhere in the distance, something screeched—too high-pitched to be friendly, too close to ignore.. Twigs snapped. Mud splattered. Something gooey and suspicious squelched beneath him.
He groaned. "Please tell me I hit a pillow."
[Welcome to Zetherra – Region: The Thornwilds]
Environment Status: Highly UnstableFatality Rate: 91%First-Time Arrival Bonus: DeniedScenic Rating: 2/10 (Subjective)
Mason rolled onto his back, blinking at the sky. No sun, just a sickly violet glow filtering through toxic-looking mist.
"Well, this place screams vacation," he muttered.
[Survival Quest Activated]Objective: Survive for 60 secondsBonus Objective: Do it without cryingReward: UnspecifiedPenalty: Death
Timer: 00:59…
Mason sat up. "Wait, what?"
Rustling. To his left.
A squirrel.
No—worse.
A squirrel with tusks. Glowing eyes. Foaming mouth.
It hissed like a kettle and charged.
"Oh, come on!"
He stumbled to his feet, slipped, rolled behind a log, and screamed as the beast slammed into it, gnawing through the wood like a buzzsaw on espresso.
Timer: 00:31…
"S.A.S.S., any suggestions?"
"Try being less delicious. Or maybe scream louder—it might confuse it."
"I will unplug you with a rock."
"Bold threat. Still dying."
The squirrel leapt over the log. Mason shrieked and threw a fistful of mud at it. Somehow, miraculously, it worked—the mud hit its face, and it squealed, dazed.
He ran.
Through brambles, over roots, past a tree that tried to slap him. Everything was wrong.
Timer: 00:03… 00:02… 00:01…
[Quest Complete!]+1 Luck+Passive Skill: "Panic Reflex" acquired
Description: You move 12% faster when you're absolutely terrified.
Mason collapsed behind a boulder, panting, bleeding, and covered in squirrel drool. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps as he tried to process what had just happened. The world hadn't ended. He hadn't died. Somehow, against all logic and common sense, he had survived. A weak laugh escaped his lips, dry and ragged.
"Okay," he wheezed. "One quest down. Only several thousand more to go."
His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline still surging in his veins. He looked at the screen hovering near him, still displaying his 'reward' like a joke with bad timing.
"A passive skill for being terrified," he muttered. "Yeah. That feels about right."
"This world," he gasped, "can suck a fridge."