Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO

The dark red portal pulsed like a wound in reality, its edges writhing as if something vast and unseen gnawed at its boundary.

It was neither a tear nor a clean opening—it was a maw, lined with something resembling folded, breathing membranes, shifting between translucent and opaque states, as if it couldn't decide whether it should exist or not.

Deep within, a soundless scream reverberated, not through the air, but through existence itself. It rang through the very medium of reality, and yet, there was no noise, no tremor—only a quiet, suffocating pressure.

Then, it emerged.

At first, it was a tangle of veins and spiraling bones, slick with a substance that rejected light.

The surface of its flesh—or what could be considered flesh—had the texture of fractured glass and wet cartilage, constantly folding in on itself like a Möbius strip turned inside-out. Oozing symbols spiraled across its shifting form, forming and unforming in a cycle of self-writing scripture, as though it was a living text of something that should never be written.

As it tried to break free, limbs burst from within its body, only to be reabsorbed and regrown elsewhere. Hands that had too many fingers, eyes that were too deep, and jaws that could never fully shut convulsed in a grotesque symphony of incompleteness.

The thing was in a constant state of self-denial, as if it wasn't supposed to be. As if it had been dragged from a different conceptual layer of reality and was now struggling to establish what "existing" even meant here.

It twisted, slithered, and pushed against something unseen, thrashing violently, trying to set itself free from an invisible set of laws that were rejecting its presence entirely.

And yet—the ethereal figure beside me did not react.

The bard-centaur casually plucked a few notes on her lute-shaped greatsword, watching with the same detached amusement as someone observing the waves of an unfamiliar shore.

This was, apparently, a common occurrence. Or so what it seemed, from what I observed.

And then—it came.

A native horror.

The sky deepened—not darkened, but deepened, as if more layers of reality were peeling away to make room for something so fundamentally rooted in Carcosa that the world itself welcomed it.

A shape—no, a concept shaped as an action—descended.

It wasn't a being in the way the foreign entity was. It was not something that could be described as alive or dead. It was a function, an execution, something akin to the "swing" in a guillotine rather than the blade itself.

The air around it didn't distort—it refused to interact with it at all. Carcosa acknowledged its presence like a host recognizing an honored guest, and in return, it performed its singular purpose without delay.

The moment the foreign being fully exited the portal, it was struck.

Not by a weapon, not by a force, but by a result.

Where its mass had struggled, there was now nothing.

Where it had twisted, there was now stillness.

It tried to resist, to rebuild itself, but each time it did, another strike came—not a swing, not a thrust, but a conclusion.

A hammer that had already fallen. A death that had already been finalized.

The native horror did not relent. It did not let the foreign being catch a break, nor did it allow it to stabilize.

And then—the others joined in.

The neighboring ethereal beings, those unseen by mortals, descended upon the interloper with silent precision. Explore more stories with My Virtual Library Empire

Their forms, varied and incomprehensible, tore into the thing not with claws, nor weapons, but with intent.

Some sang, and its structure shattered in response.

Some breathed, and it melted like wax under a cosmic sun.

Some simply looked, and the foreign entity's struggle unraveled into nothingness.

Piece by piece, it was erased, until there was nothing left.

Then—just as quickly as they had gathered—they dispersed.

The sky smoothed over, the native horror vanished, and the ethereal neighbors returned to their own unknowable paths.

As if nothing had ever happened.

As if this was simply routine.

My new friend sighed, stretching her arms as if waking from a lazy nap. "Well. That's that."

I turned to her, still hovering in my Floating Through Life state. "That happen often?"

She smirked. "Not too often to call it a daily occurance. But often enough that we don't care much about it.:

I stared at the space where the foreign being had once been. "That wasn't a Calamity Object?"

I forgot to pry into the foreign being because I was too scared to act,

"Nope."

"Then what was it?"

Durga strummed her lute-sword absently, as if tuning it. "Foreign invaders. Not the usual ones—the smart ones that get past Carcosa's filters time to time."

I frowned. "And they always get destroyed like that?"

"If they're on the same wavelength as those ethereal neighbors, yeah." She gestured vaguely at the sky, as if referencing some unseen council. "Entities of a certain existential frequency don't tolerate outsiders. If something doesn't belong, it's removed. Instantly."

I folded my arms. "And if they aren't on the same wavelength?"

She grinned. "Then we get the Ordeals."

Right. That made sense.

She paused for a moment before tilting her head slightly. "Oh, I never told you my name, did I?"

I blinked. "You didn't, and I don't want to force you to give it."

She chuckled, setting her instrument on her back. "Durga."

"Durga, huh," I repeated, letting the name settle in my mind. "That's quite the striking name. I'm Narcissus."

"I know," she said, flashing a grin. "It's nice meeting you."

There was something strangely comfortable about talking with her, despite the absurdity of our surroundings. She was neither cryptic nor overly elaborate—just honest in the way a wanderer needed to be.

She leaned against an unseen current of reality, resting a clawed hand on her hip. "So. What do you think about Carcosa?"

I exhaled, casting my gaze over the endless horizon.

"A new home, albeit a burdensome one."

Durga raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

I continued, "A place that needs to be fought for."

She hummed in approval. "I can get behind that."

There was a quiet understanding between us, despite our vastly different backgrounds.

I glanced back toward the space where the foreign entity had died. "Since you mentioned Calamity Objects… what do these ethereal beings do when the Ordeals happen?"

Durga smirked. "They don't care."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She gestured vaguely at the air. "Because the Calamity Objects, for all their destruction and chaos, don't leave a permanent mark on them."

I frowned. "So they've learned to ignore them?"

"They learned how to deal with them, yeah. But to them, Calamity Objects don't matter." She tilted her head. "To you, though? To those who live below their existential level?" She gave a small shrug. "Different story."

I thought about that for a moment before letting the conversation drift to lighter topics.

Eventually, Durga exhaled, glancing toward the horizon. "Well. I should get going."

I turned to her. "Where to?"

"Somewhere." She smirked. "We will meet once again in the future."

"I can't wait for that to happen then," I flashed the same smile of comfort.

She plucked a note on her instrument, and her form blurred, shifting into a wisp of energy that flickered once before soaring into the distance.

As if she had never been here at all.

I watched her vanish, then turned my gaze toward the sky.

"That is something, alright."

Meanwhile, the expedition into the subterranean levels of the Theotech Site had begun.

It was going well, and I had nothing to commentate so far.

And for once, I had nothing to oversee, no immediate concerns pulling at my attention.

Which meant I could focus on myself.

Perfect.

I shifted my awareness back to my body, adjusting the flow of my divine output. Floating Through Life had already become second nature, but now came the next step—control. It wasn't just about existing outside of space's limitations; it was about mastering how I interacted with those limitations.

With a thought, I propelled myself forward—4,600 kilometers per hour, to be exact.

The world blurred, distant mountains becoming streaks of gray and blue, the horizon curving slightly with the sheer velocity. Air resistance? Inertia? Friction? None of those mattered when my very existence dictated my movement.

I adjusted my speed, cutting it in half in an instant, then halved it again. Each shift in velocity felt like stepping into a different frame of reality.

There was no strain, no gradual deceleration—I simply existed where I willed myself to be, at the speed I chose to move.

Pushing myself further, I changed direction mid-flight without delay, flickering across vast stretches of sky in a zigzagging motion, then coming to a complete stop within a fraction of a second.

The world had no say in it.

Only I did.

With newfound precision, I surged forward again, my senses expanding across the vast landscape ahead.

Then, something caught my eye.

A bastion—small, isolated, nestled against the remains of a crumbling hillside.

I halted above it, letting myself hover just outside its detection range.

From above, I took in its details.

Reinforced wooden walls, bound together with rusted metal plating, stretched in a tight rectangular perimeter. They were sturdy but weathered, with clear signs of repair—some sections reinforced with scavenged stone, others patched hastily with mismatched materials.

Four ballista turrets perched along the outer walls, their frames reinforced with thick cables of sinew and metal, their bolts tipped with something sharp enough to pierce through most known threats. Despite their primitive construction, they looked functional, deadly even.

Within the walls, a cluster of low, tightly packed buildings formed the heart of the bastion. The structures were built from a mix of salvaged wood, brick, and stone, their rooftops layered with uneven sheets of metal. Some bore faint carvings—wards, symbols of protection, likely crafted by the four Ohrtenders that resided here.

Their presence was clear; among the buildings, I spotted stone basins filled with darkened water, ritual circles etched into dirt pathways, and sigils painted onto reinforced doors.

The bastion wasn't large. Thirty inhabitants, at most.

But they were prepared.

I remained in place, observing in silence, taking in every detail.

"This is something worth investigating."