Atlas only heard the system ping—sharp, synthetic, almost cheerful.
But there was no time to check what he'd gotten. No time to read the notification.
Because the two remaining clowns had locked their eyes on him. And this time, they weren't grinning.
They were assessing.
Tall, hunched figures smeared in grotesque makeup, faces painted in a fever dream of white and red. Their yellow teeth peeked through unnatural, exaggerated smiles that no longer looked amused. Their eyes, once wide in manic delight, were now narrow. Focused.
They weren't dumb.
No, these monsters—these killers dressed in nightmare comedy—had learned something important.
The glowing green stick in Atlas's trembling hands.
It didn't kill.
The first clown had died, sure. But not from wounds. No slash marks, no burned flesh. Just… force. Knockback. A well-timed environmental smack against a wall.
So now, the two remaining creatures advanced slower, step by deliberate step, their blood-stained shoes squeaking faintly on the wet pavement. Their gait was less chaotic, less clownish. More human.
More predatory.
Atlas backed up.
His mind raced, but his body didn't know what to do. He had no training. No secret martial arts mastery unlocked through rage. No hidden soldier instincts.
Just fear.
A normal teenager with a sarcastic mouth, a half-dead body, and a glowing stick that did more for aesthetics than actual damage.
He swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy.
Then, instinct took over.
"HELP!" Atlas screamed, voice raw, tearing from the base of his lungs like he was vomiting desperation into the world.
It echoed down the ruined street, bounced off cracked walls and shattered windows.
But nothing came back.
Except laughter.
Not one laugh. Two. From the clowns. Twisted, gurgling amusement that slithered into Atlas's ears like oil.
And from his System.
[You sure scream like a donkey too.]
The message appeared with that signature ding. Bright. Mocking.
Atlas didn't even have time to react before the taller clown twitched its arm.
A flash of metal—clean, silver, almost beautiful in its simplicity—cut through the air like a spear thrown by fate.
It struck.
Atlas screamed again—but not from fear this time.
Pain. White-hot and unfiltered. The knife buried itself in his left thigh with a sickening thunk, biting into muscle and scraping bone.
He collapsed sideways, the glowing stick clattering beside him. His hand twitched toward it on instinct.
"Shit… shit… shit—" he gasped, eyes wide, breath coming in stuttering gasps as agony flooded his nerves like broken glass.
[HP: 6/10 → User's movement is slowed due to leg injury.]
The clowns moved in.
No more pretense. No more games. They charged, shadows flickering beneath the dying streetlights as they rushed forward like sharks smelling blood.
Atlas didn't think. He just moved.
With a shout of pure adrenaline, he grabbed the green stick and swung wildly. A desperate, chaotic arc.
He caught the smaller clown in mid-lunge.
CRACK.
The clown slammed into the side of a crumbling brick wall with a meaty impact, bones snapping audibly. It slid to the ground with a twitch.
But the taller clown—without a knife—didn't stop.
[Unlucky.]
The system's text flashed again. Like a sports commentator on a massacre.
Atlas turned.
Too late.
He blinked.
There was something warm.
His stomach. Wet. Soaking through his school uniform.
He looked down.
A knife. Plunged deep into his gut.
The same one from his leg.
No—this was that knife.
The clown had ripped it out of his thigh while he was distracted, and with a fluid motion, shoved it into his abdomen.
[HP: 2/10 – Critical.]
[Smart piece of shit.]
Atlas stared, slack-jawed. He should be feeling pain. He knew that. But adrenaline dulled it all into a surreal numbness. His limbs felt cold. His heart thundered like a warning bell.
He staggered back, still gripping the green stick like it was a lifeline, refusing to let go even as blood trickled from his mouth.
He looked around.
The clown was gone.
He had jumped up to attack.
No sound. No laughter.
Only something falling.
THUMP.
The clown's body landed right on top of him. Heavy. Lifeless. One final grotesque act.
Atlas shoved it off with a grunt of effort, teeth clenched, vision flickering.
The clown's head tilted sideways on the ground—because a dagger was buried in its eye socket.
Clean. Precise. Surgical.
Atlas turned his head toward the direction the blade had come from.
There—beneath the flickering glow of a shattered streetlamp—stood a woman.
Silhouetted. Slight. Shaking.
A nurse.
Her uniform was dirty, torn at the sleeves, speckled with what might have once been blood. Her hair was tangled. Her hands were trembling. But she held another dagger in one of them. Ready to throw again.
Atlas's lips moved before he thought.
"Thank you…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, choked by exhaustion and blood loss.
"Don't talk." The nurse knelt beside him, her voice quick but gentle.
Then—
Light.
Not from the streetlamp. Not from his stick.
From her.
Her hands glowed green as she pressed them to his wounds, and warmth pulsed through him. Not burning. Not electric.
Something deeper.
Like sinking into a hot bath after freezing in the snow. Muscles unclenched. Breathing steadied. His heartbeat slowed.
For the first time in minutes, he felt… alive.
[Lucky, son of a… You would've died there.] The system's text appeared like it was pouting.
[HP: 2 → 7]
"I can only heal this much," the nurse said softly. "But it should be enough."
"I owe you," Atlas mumbled, flushing red beneath the grime and blood. "Really… thank you."
"Don't mention it," she replied, glancing at his stick with visible pity. "But if that's your System weapon, you shouldn't be out here. It's suicide."
Atlas shook his head, forcing himself to sit upright.
"My brother's inside," he said. "Lior Silver. Coma patient. Room 311. Is he still there? Have they evacuated the building?"
The nurse didn't answer.
Her silence dragged for too long.
Atlas's stomach twisted.
"No," she finally said, voice heavy. "No one's been evacuated."
He didn't speak. Just stood up.
And ran.
The hospital loomed like a dead colossus—windows shattered, doors hanging half open, vines curling through cracks like nature reclaiming death.
The nurse didn't follow.
Why should she?
[Be careful. There are Clowns here.]
Atlas snorted bitterly. "Since when are you helpful? Thanks, man."
[As a clown yourself, you should know where they are.]
His smile dropped instantly. "You little…"
But he ran in anyway.
The entrance hall was chaos.
No power. No order. Just overturned wheelchairs, scattered clipboards, and shattered IV drips lying like bones across the floor. Faint moonlight slipped through the broken windows, casting the scene in pale gray and shadow.
Atlas didn't need a map.
He'd been here too many times. Week after week. Talking to Lior, even when the boy couldn't respond.
He knew the elevator.
He pressed the button.
A dim hum answered—emergency generators, still clinging to life.
3 → 1
The old lift creaked. Gears groaned. Somewhere above, machinery struggled against age.
Bling.
The doors opened.
Red.
Not blood.
A red light, glowing from within the elevator, casting long shadows like warning signs.
Then he saw it.
A clown.
Taller. Leaner. Not laughing. Not bouncing.
Silent.
And in its hands—
A chainsaw.
Black and red. Spiked. Buzzing to life.
Atlas raised his stick—
SNAP.
The chainsaw sliced through it like it was made of leaves.
"Are you kidding me?!" Atlas turned and sprinted down the hallway, lungs burning, leg still aching but healing enough to carry him.
The chainsaw revved behind him.
The clown followed.
Slow. Heavy. Confident.
"You're arrogant, huh?" Atlas muttered. "Good."
He darted into the nearest patient room, slammed the door, locked it.
Then backed away as the chainsaw roared on the other side.
The blade tore through the wood, piece by piece.
Splinters flew.
Then—a hole.
The clown's head appeared through it, peering inside with dead eyes.
THWACK!
A knife shot through its skull from the front like a missile.
The clown dropped dead instantly. Blood sprayed into the room like a fountain.
[Strong enemy killed. Level up. Stat point gained.]
Atlas gasped, panting.
Then grinned.
He had grabbed a knife earlier. After the fight. Just in case.
Tossed it into the air.
Used the stick to smack it with knockback force.
A perfect physics trick.
"Who said I was bad at science?" he muttered proudly.
[Your grade does.]
"You little..." He almost threw hands at the air, then sighed.
He stepped out.
Pressed the elevator button again.
Third floor.
Status popped up.
[[Troll System: Atlas Silver]
HP: 7/10
Strength: 5
Agility: 5
Luck: 5
Intelligence: 5
Stat Points: 2
"Luck's tempting. Better random boxes. But…"
[Who says you'll live long enough for drops?]
"…You're right," Atlas muttered.
He put one point into Strength.
One into Agility.
Immediately, his limbs felt tighter. Faster. Stronger. His blood still burned—but his body obeyed more willingly.
Bling.
Third floor.
He ran.
Down the hallway.
He stopped.
Bodies.
Clowns. Patients. Torn apart.
Too many.
"No… no no no…" Atlas dropped to his knees, checking faces.
One by one.
Please. Not Lior.
The final corpse.
Not him.
Atlas exhaled hard.
"Must be in the room. Must be okay. Sleeping. Please."
Room 311.
He reached it.
Opened the door.
Stopped.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Dark.
Still wet.
No body.
No brother.
Nothing.
Atlas staggered into the room like a drunk, scanning wildly, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might shatter his ribs.
"Lior…?"
Nothing answered.
Only the cold stink of blood.
Tears blurred his vision fully now.
The System dinged.
A box of tissues spawned in his hand.
"You're really the biggest..." he growled, and hurled them at the wall.
He searched. Smashed drawers. Flipped mattresses.
Nothing.
But three possibilities burned in his mind like scars.
One: Lior is dead.
Two: Lior woke up. Got a System. Escaped.
Three: He was taken.
Atlas clenched his jaw.
Bit his lip so hard it bled.
"I swear…"
His voice shook.
"I swear I'm going to find you, Lior. No matter what."