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In dimly lit dormitory room, where the walls seemed to close in on him like a suffocating vice, Riyan sat hunched over his desk, his eyes glued to the pages of the novel "Saint's Odyssey." The soft, ethereal glow of his laptop screen cast an otherworldly light on his face, illuminating the intense concentration etched on his features.
As he devoured the words, his emotions seesawed with each turn of the page, his heart racing with anticipation, his soul stirring with every twist and turn.
But then, without warning, his face contorted in a twisted grimace of anger, and a loud, vehement curse exploded from his lips. "FUCK THIS SADISTIC BASTARD OF AN AUTHOR!!!!!" The words hung in the air like a challenge, a defiant rejection of the narrative's sudden, cruel twist. Although the novel had been a mesmerizing page-turner until that point, Riyan felt his enthusiasm and investment in the story suddenly, brutally extinguished.
The author's deliberate, calculated cruelty had awakened a deep-seated fury within him, a sense of betrayal that left him reeling.
Despite the turmoil churning inside him, Riyan was determined not to let his frustration consume him. He took a deep, calming breath, and with a Herculean effort, he pushed aside his anger, recognizing that it was already well past midnight.
The weight of his early shift at the cafe the next day loomed large, and he knew he needed to recharge for the long, grueling hours ahead. With a heavy sigh, he closed his laptop, the screen's soft glow fading to black, and he lay down on his bed, his mind still racing with the story's bitter aftertaste.
The following morning, the jarring, insistent beep of his alarm clock shattered the fragile peace of his slumber, jolting Riyan awake with a start.
He groggily reached over to silence the offending device, but as the noise persisted, his irritation grew, until finally, in a fit of rage, he smashed the clock to smithereens. The sudden, violent outburst left him breathless, but it also seemed to shatter the lingering remnants of his sleepiness.
He rose from bed, his movements stiff and jerky, and stumbled towards the bathroom, where he sought solace in a hot, steamy shower.
The water cascaded down his body like a soothing balm, washing away the grime and fatigue of the previous day. As he stood under the showerhead, he felt his tense muscles relax, his mind clearing of the cobwebs of sleep.
The warmth seeped into his bones, reviving him, rejuvenating him, and when he finally emerged from the bathroom, he felt like a new person, refreshed, revitalized, and ready to take on the day.
He dressed himself in comfortable, laid-back clothes, the soft fabric a gentle caress against his skin, As the morning sun streamed through the curtains, Riyan's phone buzzed with a notification. Groggily, he reached for it and tapped on the screen to check the latest news. The headline immediately caught his attention:
"Serial Killer Targets 'Men of Culture'; Killer Identified as Female, Victims Under Surveillance Before Death."
His eyes widened as he skimmed through the details. The authorities had discovered a chilling pattern-each victim belonged to an online community known for their appreciation of ahem "refined" material, the kind of content that Riyan himself had recently indulged in. The victims, it seemed, were all men who considered themselves "connoisseurs" of certain... mature literature and art.
The killer was a woman, meticulously studying her victims before dispatching them in cold blood. It was clear that she held a deep-seated hatred for these "men of culture." A smirk tugged at the corners of Riyan's lips. What a strange world we live in. He chuckled under his breath.
"Looks like I've joined the elite ranks." The irony wasn't lost on him. He had recently been part of several community discussions that analyzed, critiqued, and celebrated the very kind of material that had apparently put these men on the killer's radar. With that thought tickling his mind, he felt oddly amused rather than concerned.
With his usual morning routine done and his hunger sated, Riyan stepped out of his dormitory and into the crisp morning air. The sun bathed the campus in a warm, golden glow, making it a perfect day-at least, it seemed that way.
He slipped his earbuds in, and Coldplay's "Hymn for the Weekend" pumped through his veins, lifting his mood. With each step, he felt a lightness, as though he was invincible.
The thought of the serial killer still danced in the back of his mind, but he brushed it off as he walked down the street. As if that psycho would ever come after me... The music hummed in his ears, giving him a false sense of comfort as he crossed the street.
Then, out of nowhere, the blare of a horn shattered the moment.
Riyan whipped his head around, and a massive truck came barreling toward him. His heart leaped into his throat as time seemed to slow down. Panic rooted him to the spot, his body refusing to move even though his mind screamed at him to get out of the way.
In the split second before impact, he managed to jerk his body slightly, but it was too late. The truck collided with him, sending him flying through the air. A sharp flash of pain burst through his body, then numbness.
He lay crumpled on the road, his vision blurring. The sound of people shouting in the distance barely registered as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Am I dying? he wondered.
Through the fog of pain, a figure approached. It was a woman, and something about her presence felt... off. As she came closer, her appearance became clearer. She had a twisted smile curling on her lips, her eyes dark with intent.
Riyan's heart skipped a beat. "Furia...?" he muttered weakly, half-delirious. But no, it wasn't her. This woman had a different energy, something far more sinister.
Her smile widened as she crouched beside him. "No," she whispered, almost mockingly. "Riyan, top achiever in last year's national qualification exam... and more importantly... a Man of Culture." She spat the words with a twisted glee.
Riyan's breath hitched. Oh no...
The woman's voice dropped to a chilling tone. "You've watched and read many 'those.' Well, congratulations... you're another step closer to the end of all men of culture. Rex... one of your fellow 'connoisseurs', it's he will join you soon in hell,Rex."
Before Riyan could process the gravity of her words, she pulled out a glistening blade, and without hesitation, she plunged it into his abdomen.
Riyan screamed in agony as she stabbed him again and again, her twisted smile never faltering.
Blood poured from his wounds, his body convulsing with each strike. The pain was unbearable, blinding. His vision darkened as he felt life slipping away, and the last thing to pass through his mind was a bitter, ironic thought.
"Why the fuck did the serial killer have to come after me?!"
His thoughts blurred, becoming incoherent as his body went limp. The crowd that had gathered finally moved, grabbing the woman and pulling her away from his lifeless body, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Riyan was gone.
And as the killer was dragged away, her laughter echoed through the street, a haunting reminder of her twisted vendetta against men of culture, another victim fallen to her blade.
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Name: Trunk-Sama
Work: In charge of providing people for reincarnation
Previous Affiliation: God of Reincarnation
Current Affiliation: Goddess of Annihilation
Nickname: Trunk-Kun, God of Otakus
Urban Legend: Trunk-Sama is believed to make people reincarnated in Isekai World.
MC Name: Riyan
Family: Orphan
Traits: Cautious, Smart, and Cunning
Hidden Tendencies : Sadistic
Hobbies: Reading novels
Dislikes: "Saint's Odyssey" and the author of the novel.
Favorite Novels: "Regressor Instruction Manual," "I am Fated Villain," etc.
Liked Genres: Villain, Fantasy, Urban, etc.
Description: Riyan was a talented scholarship student at the University of Traids, and he worked part-time at a cafe.
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Next Chapter: 2. New Life in the Damn World
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