NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 4: "Gramr Has No Future"
Content Warning: Tragedy ahead. Praise Aha.
The sensation felt like being shoved headfirst into a hypersonic turbine washing machine, spinning relentlessly for 49 cycles. This "Life Simulator" offered neither humanity nor mercy.
Blinding white light seared An Ming's vision. A shadow flickered—then vanished.
When his sight cleared, the stench of decay flooded his nostrils.
[Age 1]
You are born in the Gramr Republic of the Firmament Empire. Under dim hospital lights, your parents gaze at you with sorrow-laced eyes. A look you'll only comprehend years later: It's kinder never to live.
Gramr has no future.
Every child here is destined to become "fuel" for the Empire's machinery, ground to dust.
Your mother cradles you weakly. "Live," she whispers, warmth fading from her arms.
Your father clutches her hand as time fractures.
Life blooms. Life withers. The universe is cruel.
[Age 2]
You're often alone. Father grows silent after Mother's death. Though food is scarce, he ensures you never starve.
"An Lina… I'm sorry."
"I miss you."
The once-unshakable man traces a photo frame, crumbling. He teaches you letters and numbers on rare visits, as if atoning.
[Age 3]
Your intellect eclipses peers. Father's clumsy love fills your days. You devour every book in your meager home.
One night, he stumbles in drunk, clutching a yellowed flyer. He collapses mid-sentence, but you already know:
Lights blaze in Gramr's dead streets for the first time in decades. Loudspeakers blare:
"Long live the Gramr Empire! Long live the Amber Emperor!"
The newspapers declare victory: The Propagation's path shattered under Qliphoth's hammer. The Swarm Disaster—an endless nightmare—has ended.
People flood the streets, weeping. For the first time since the Swarm's shadow fell, hope glimmers.
Gramr has a future, they chant.
[Age 4]
You wait by the window with books, watching for Father's return. A Royal Knight now, he rarely comes home. The air grows colder. Under his stern gaze, you train in Royal Court swordsmanship.
The latest decree hangs on your wall: "Citizens must minimize outings." No explanation.
Border reports dwindle. Food prices crash. Streets turn ghostly.
Then the sky turns black.
Father staggers in, armor clawed to ribbons. "The border… breached…"
The Empire's stellar defense grid lasted less than an hour against the frenzied Swarm. When the Propagation died, its children went mad—consuming all life.
Gramr's best future was never existing.
Screams erupt outside. Flesh rips. Blood paints the roads.
You reach for Father as the door explodes. A crimson scythe-wing impales his gut.
"RUN!" he roars, shoving you away. His sword chips uselessly against chitin.
You flee through the window as he's bisected. He'd been dead before arriving—buying your life with his corpse.
The streets churn with panicked crowds. A Swarmling spots you, diving with blade-like limbs.
Cornered in an alley, you grip a kitchen knife. Father's voice echoes: "Live."
Dodging the first strike, you plunge the blade into its eye. Purple blood sprays—but it's not enough.
As death descends—
CRASH!
A silver knight smashes from the sky, pancaking the Swarmling into paste. Sunlight haloes their armor.