There was a barrage of deadly attacks flying everywhere in the inn.
Swords sliced through the wooden beams, sending splinters raining like arrows. A Qi-infused palm strike shattered an entire wall, turning it into dust. The air itself was infused with killing intent, suffocating like a dense fog of bloodlust. At one table, a mysterious hooded expert sipped his tea calmly while a battle between life and death erupted around him—exactly as expected. At another, an old beggar mysteriously revealed himself to be a hidden grandmaster, casually blocking a divine spear strike with a single chopstick.
And North?
Face-down on the floor, covering his head with both hands like a pathetic bug, trying not to die.
Because if there was one universal truth about the inns, it was this:
There was always trouble brewing.
Whether it was arrogant young masters throwing their weight around, mysterious hooded figures exchanging cryptic messages, or desperate rogue visionary scheming in the shadows, no inn was ever just a place to rest. It was a battleground of hidden grudges, power struggles, and absurd misunderstandings that could escalate into full-blown duels at any moment.
And if you were unlucky enough to walk through the doors at the wrong time? Congratulations—you were now part of the drama.
What more:
(Walking down the street alone and mistakenly staring at a Jade Beauty (or vice versa), randomly finding a treasure, and trying to eat in peace at an inn were the top three easiest ways to die.)
The first? A death sentence in disguise. A single misplaced glance at a peerless beauty was enough to summon a murderous young master, an overprotective elder, or an entire sect hell-bent on erasing your existence. Whether you had romantic intentions or just happened to be looking in the wrong direction, the outcome was usually the same—disfigurement, crippling injuries, or outright obliteration.
The second? Finding a treasure never ended well. If you stumbled upon an ancient artifact, a divine pill, or even a suspiciously shiny rock, congratulations—you now had the lifespan of a mayfly. The moment the news got out, you''d be hunted by greedy visionaries, scheming sect leaders, and possibly the original owner, who just happened to not be dead yet. The stronger the treasure, the higher the likelihood of your immediate and brutal demise.
And the third? Trying to eat in peace at an inn. It should have been the safest thing in the world—just sit down, order a meal, and enjoy some food. Wrong. The moment you took a bite, some arrogant bastard would bump into you, insult you, or assume you were staring at their lover/treasure/spiritual beast. A bowl of rice could turn into your last supper within seconds.
And North knew this better than anyone.
Because he was the one who added these scenarios in the first place.
"System?" North’s voice cracked as he tried to drag himself under a nearby table to escape, his fingers slipping against the cold floor. "System, exit game. Exit. EXIT! FUCK! SYSTEM!"
Yet, there was no system response to help him or give a simple tutorial.
North cursed under his breath, trying not to scream. His pulse hammered in his ears.
But what truly made his face drain of color wasn’t the sheer absurdity of the situation—it was the small dialogue box floating just above his head. His breath hitched as he craned his neck, reading the text in disbelief.
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[Plot Armor: 0.1% - Critical Low]
[Survival Tax: In Debt Already]
[Surreal Charm: CATASTROPHICALLY HIGH]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
His stomach twisted. He knew what these stats meant. Everyone in the simulator world had them, hidden deep within the character''s code—background data that dictated a character’s fate. But the fact that he could see his own? That was bad. That was really bad. Then again, maybe it wasn’t surprising. After all, he was real—a flesh-and-blood player in a world of programmed idiots (hopefully). Still, the more he stared at those numbers, the more despair crawled up his spine like ice-cold fingers.
Plot Armor dictated how much ‘protagonist protection’ someone had in dangerous situations. He was practically a discarded extra.
Survival Tax was a brutal system function—it didn’t even exist in the original simulator. He programmed it in. Its purpose? To erase uninteresting, useless NPCs. If a character didn’t contribute to the world’s ‘progression value,’ they’d either be wiped out or, more likely, thrown into some catastrophic death scenario.
And Surreal Charm? A stat that determined how much absolute bullshit a person attracted. His was catastrophically high.
His vision blurred for a moment. I should just off myself!!!
The thought squeezed its way into his head, dark and suffocating. If he died first, he might escape this hell of a dream.
Meanwhile, what had started as a simple meal stop had now escalated into a full-scale bloodbath.
It began innocently enough—some overconfident young master had demanded a another young rogue visionary hand over his treasure. The rogue refused, obviously. The young master shouted, "YOU COURTING DEATH?!" The rogue replied with, "I’LL KILL YOUR WHOLE BLOODLINE!"
And then… everyone got involved.
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 300">The sect elders trying to keep the peace? Accidentally killed.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 300">The rogue''s sworn brothers? Jumped into the fight and made things worse.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 300">Some random waiter just trying to serve noodles? Instantly vaporized.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 300">A neutral observer in the corner? Shouted, "I HAVE NO INVOLVEMENT IN THIS," which immediately involved him.</li>
</ul>
North had barely crawled under the table when the explosion sent him crashing to the ground. The pain immediately jolted him awake and he was sure he wasn’t dreaming or tripping badly on drugs anymore. It all felt too real to be a illusion or a prank. He instinctively curled into a defensive position, hoping that if he looked weak enough, the world might just ignore him.
Simultaneously, the rules he had created flashed past his eyes to survive these kind of situations:
Rule #1: Never get up too soon.
Right now, five sword beams, three palm strikes, and a flying roasted duck passed inches over his head. Standing meant instant death.
Rule #2: Never try to reason with anyone.
A voice screamed above him, "YOU DARE STAND IN MY PATH?!"
Someone else shouted, "FOOL! THAT TREASURE BELONGS TO ME!"
Another man roared, "WHO EVEN ARE YOU?!"
It didn’t matter what the argument was about. No one ever actually listened in these situations.
Rule #3: If you make eye contact with anyone, you''re now part of the fight.
North kept his gaze firmly locked on the floor, watching wooden planks splinter apart from stray attacks.
Then it happened.
He made the ultimate mistake.
While shifting his position slightly, his gaze accidentally landed on someone’s foot.
A second of horrible silence followed.
Then—
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[Warning! You have accidentally stared at Young Master Zhao''s boots. This is considered a direct provocation.]
</td>
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How the fuck was this a provocation?! North screamed internally. He had built these damn mechanics himself—crafted every ridiculous rule, every unfair twist. And now? Now he was the one suffering under them firsthand.
Karma was a bitch.
"HOW DARE A LOWLY WORM LIKE YOU LOOK AT ME?!"
Young Master Zhao’s voice boomed through the inn, an eruption of indignant fury so loud that even the drunken visionary face-down in his soup stirred.
North’s soul left his body.
No, no, no—
A table exploded beside him, sending shattered bowls and steaming broth flying. A pair of chopsticks embedded themselves in the wall like throwing knives. Before North could even roll out of the way, a hand latched onto his collar and yanked him up like a misbehaving dog.
Standing before him was a peak-grade asshole. Young Master Zhao, heir to some obscenely rich sect, draped in robes so expensive they could probably buy out a small kingdom. Golden phoenix embroidery shimmered across the silk, a sword strapped to his waist purely for decoration. His face, sculpted into permanent arrogant disgust, made it clear—merely existing near him was an offense punishable by death.
"You…" Zhao sneered, his grip tightening. "Who are you to DARE look upon me?"
North’s mind raced. Think, think, think.
Beg for forgiveness? Useless.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.Insult him back? Instant execution.
Feign ignorance? Might work.
Play dead? …Potentially viable.
Before he could pick, Zhao’s fist was already flying. And that was when North’s brain went into overdrive.
He didn’t have superpowers.
He didn’t have a golden finger.
He didn’t even have a broken system.
What he did have was a lifetime of knowledge on how these scenarios played out. And so—at the last possible second—he activated the most foolproof defense mechanism known to all men.
He collapsed to the ground and screamed:
"SPARE ME, SENIOR BROTHER! I AM BUT A LOWLY WORM!"
The entire inn went silent.
The guy mid-sword swing froze. Someone dropped their chopsticks. Even the bartender, who had likely seen every kind of chaos in his life, stared.
Begging for mercy? Normal.
But falling to the floor and screaming before the slap even landed? That was a level of pathetic even these visionaries weren’t prepared for.
Young Master Zhao’s hand hovered mid-air, confusion flickering across his face.
"Y-you…" He hesitated. "...This is too easy."
A random guy in the corner murmured, "Is he really this weak?"
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[Young Master Zhao has lost interest. He no longer sees you as worthy of slapping.]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
North didn’t move.
Lying on the ground, arms covering his head, he simply waited. Waited for the attention to shift. Waited for a new fight to break out.
And sure enough—
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[Warning: Jade Beauty "Liu Mei" has entered the inn. Conflict re-routing…]
</td>
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A woman in white silk stepped inside. Instantly, every male visionary within five miles turned to look.
And just like that—North was forgotten.
Young Master Zhao scoffed, brushing off his sleeve. "As I thought. Not even worth my time."
Within seconds, a battle broke out over who would sit next to Liu Mei. Flying swords. Explosions. Young masters screaming in righteous fury.
North exhaled. Slowly.
"...I hate this world so much."
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[You have survived the Inn Massacre.]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
And with that, North crawled toward the exit, praying to whatever gods and immortals existed that he wouldn''t run into another idiot.
The chaos inside the inn raged on behind him—flying swords, explosions, young masters screaming in righteous fury. But at least, for now, he had crawled his way to temporary safety. The alley was dark, damp, and most importantly—empty. No arrogant sect heirs, no berserk treasure hunters, no Jade Beauties accidentally triggering forced engagement plots. Just an overturned barrel, and a suspicious puddle that smelled like regret. North pressed himself against the wall, gasping for breath.
"System?"
His own voice sounded pathetically weak in the alley’s silence. "System, exit game."
Nothing.
“EXIT! FUCK! SYSTEM! Where the hell are you? Get me out of here!"
Silence. Not even a flicker of response.
But he knew it was still there. Because when he had nearly died on the floor of the inn, it had been whispering in his ear. Giving commentary. Did that mean… that voice was only there to remind him while he suffered? To spectate? To rub salt into his wounds while he was bleeding out? Was it pay back for him torturing the npc for so many years and making this world a hell hole?
His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. His breathing slowed.
And for the first time since getting dragged into this hell, a cold, terrible realization settled in his gut.
What if there was no exit?
What if—
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[Processing Query…]
</td>
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His entire body froze.
A chill crept up his spine, like a thousand invisible eyes suddenly turned their gaze upon him.
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[Administrator "North" has attempted to issue a system command.]
[Command Rejected.]
[Error: "Exit Game" does not exist.]
[Reminder: You are no longer a Administrator.]
[You are part of the world.]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
North’s stomach dropped. Worse was coming true. There was no exit. No logout screen. No return button. The system wasn''t broken. However, the world was and he was to blame (probably). North slowly collapsed against the alley wall, his head falling into his hands.
His fingers trembled. His mind raced. This was it. This was his fate now? He had built a nightmare world full of broken mechanics, sadistic plotlines, and unbalanced chaos. Torturing Npc, and now, this was a pay back. He was living in it, alive. His own absurd creation had swallowed him whole.
And worst of all…
…
"No, I need to get out."
North clenched his fists. He had built this world. He had designed every broken mechanic, every absurd rule, every unfair scenario that had tormented players and NPCs alike. And that meant… He could survive it. He could find a way out. Hope flickered in his chest, pushing back against the creeping despair. His mind, once clouded with panic, now sharpened with cold resolve.
Lifting his head, he stared at the floating system dialogue box above him.
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[Plot Armor: 6% - Critical Low]
[Survival Tax: Still In Debt]
[Surreal Charm: CATASTROPHICALLY HIGH]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Plot Armor was dangerously low, meaning he could die at any moment.
Survival Tax… well, that just sounded ominous. It needed to be paid at the end of the day. But it was easy to earn: as long as he did something to move his personal story forward, it was continuously being earned.
Surreal Charm at "catastrophically high" made him uneasy—high charisma was usually good, but not in a world like this, too much could only mean disaster.
It was weird experiencing everything first hand. He had played this on the simulator countless time, but still it felt very weird.
However, it wasn’t those numbers that truly stopped him in his tracks.
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[Base Template: Wherever I Stop, A Plot Begins]
[Installed Archetype: Newbie Luck]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
North stared. His breath hitched. He swore. He was cursed from the start. He had spent years designing this world, balancing (or rather, unbalancing) how characters functioned inside it.
"Base Template"—that was a pre-set narrative function that dictated a character’s role in the world.
And his?
[Wherever I Stop, A Plot Begins]
This was worse than he imagined. He was a walking calamity. It didn’t matter where he went, even if it was just stepping out for tea. His Base Template ensured that something ridiculous, dangerous, or life-changing would happen.
It was hardcoded into his existence.
It explained everything—
<ul>
<li style="font-weight: 300">The inn fight breaking out the second he stepped inside.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 300">The young master targeting him immediately.</li>
</ul>
He wasn’t unlucky. He was designed to trigger events just by existing. And the worst part?
Surreal Charm: CATASTROPHICALLY HIGH]
His attraction to trouble was absurdly high meant that not only would he always be dragged into situations—he would be the center of them. Even if he did absolutely nothing.
And Then There Was "Archetype"…
[Installed Archetype: Newbie Luck]
North’s eyes narrowed.
"Archetype" wasn’t something he had ever programmed into player stats.
This was new. A perk? A curse? A game function that only he had?
[Newbie Luck]
North’s mind raced. In most games, Newbie Luck meant temporary beginner-friendly advantages. Better item drops. Random strokes of good fortune. Surviving things you had no right surviving.
He looked at the bigger picture. If "Base Template" dictated his role… and "Archetype" gave him traits… then maybe… Maybe he could change it. He needed more information. But first, he needed to survive long enough to figure it out.
His mind clicked into survival mode.
Find out more about "Archetypes."
Test "Newbie Luck" to see how it really worked.
Avoid triggering unnecessary "plots" by standing still for too long.
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[Objective Updated: Gather Information on System Mechanics]
[Reminder: Hostility Rate - 93.8%]
[New Event Triggered: "Unwanted Attention."]
</td>
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</tbody>
</table>
North’s eyes widened. Before he could react, A shadow loomed over him. A voice, silky and dangerous, purred above him.
"Oh, well… Who''s hiding here?"
North’s stomach sank. Because even before turning his head, he already knew— a voice echoed in his ears.
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[Jade Beauty Encounter: Triggered.]
[Due to "Surreal Charm" the encounter will escalate by 500%.]
</td>
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</tbody>
</table>
North took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"Fuuuuuuu—"