2026-06-21 00:17:25Bima was sweeping the orphanage yard with gusto. Sweat dripped from his forehead, yet a sincere smile never faded. In the corner of the fence, a small cat was pinned between rusty iron bars. Its voice let out a piteous, shrill cry. Without a second thought, Bima set down his broom and ran over.
"Take it easy, pal. I'll get you out," Bima murmured while prying the bars apart with all his might.
The muscles in his arms tensed. His breath quickened. With one powerful jolt, the iron shifted wide enough. The cat leaped out and bolted away without looking back. Bima exhaled in relief, wiping the dust off his pants. Suddenly, his vision blurred. A blood-red digital projection appeared right in front of his retinas, blinking brightly.
[Super Villain System detected. Initialization beginning...]
Bima blinked repeatedly. He thought it was the effect of exhaustion. "What is this? Am I sleep-deprived?"
[Integration complete. Welcome, Host. You are now the next Demon King candidate. First mission: Burn down the old house at the end of this street to spread terror among the residents. Time remaining: 60 minutes. Failure results in the total erasure of your existence.]
Bima froze in place. The mechanical voice sounded cold, sharp, and very real inside his head. "Burn the house? Are you crazy? That's the neighborhood association president's house!"
[Command irreversible. Failure will result in the host vanishing from reality. Starting countdown now.]
"Listen, System or whatever your name is, I'm an orphanage volunteer. I've never even stolen candy! I won't do something like that!" Bima protested while looking around. Luckily, no one was nearby.
[Morality is a barrier to evolution. Execute the mission immediately or face the consequences.]
Bima paced back and forth in front of the orphanage gate. His mind was stuck. If he refused, he died. If he burned the house down, he’d go to prison and become a real criminal. He glanced at a plastic trash bag in his hand that he had just picked up from the yard. A ridiculous idea popped into his brain.
He walked toward his neighbor’s trash bins a neighbor known for being extremely disciplined. With trembling hands, Bima threw a plastic soda bottle and leftover lunch boxes into the bin labeled 'ORGANIC ONLY'.
[Warning: Your actions are highly reprehensible. You have violated the community's waste sorting rules. Villain Points increased: 10 points.]
Bima stifled a laugh. "System, does that count as an act of terror?"
[Analysis in progress. You have intentionally created minor chaos within the environmental sanitation system. It is considered a low-level act of social sabotage. You have earned points.]
Bima took a long breath. He felt incredibly silly, but at least he hadn't burned anyone's house down. "See? I can be a villain in a very efficient and eco-friendly way."
[You only threw away trash, Host. Do not feel proud. The next task is far more challenging. Target: Mrs. Sari's grocery store. You must rob her of her valuables to demonstrate your dominance as a future ruler of darkness.]
"Robbery? You're really not very creative, are you?" Bima snorted. He walked away from the trash bins, feeling a bit more confident.
[Target: Mrs. Sari's Grocery Store. Time: 30 minutes. If you do not comply, I will begin to paralyze your motor functions one by one.]
A piercing chill ran down Bima's spine. His legs felt stiff for a moment, as if a current of static electricity was trying to stop his stride. This was no joke. The system was dead serious about its threats. Bima took a deep breath.
"Fine, I'll go to the store. But don't expect me to pull a weapon," Bima threatened internally.
He stepped quickly toward the grocery store at the end of the alley. The store belonged to Mrs. Sari, the middle-aged woman most feared in the complex because of her sharp tongue. If Bima did something stupid there, he might end up with a flying broom hitting his head.
Upon arriving at the front of the store, Bima saw Mrs. Sari busy counting her stock. Bima walked in with a firm stride. The system inside his head began shouting provocative instructions.
[Use foul language. Scramble the items on the shelves. Show the darkness within you.]
Bima ignored the command. He walked to the messiest shelf, where milk cans looked tilted and disorganized. He began to meticulously tidy the cans, arranging them by alphabet and color.
"What are you doing, Bima? Are you trying to steal or looking for work?" Mrs. Sari suddenly shouted, nearly making Bima tumble over.
"I... I just wanted to straighten this up, Ma'am," Bima answered in a trembling tone.
[Failed. You have not demonstrated a villainous attitude. Your right motor nerve will be paralyzed in seconds.]
Bima felt his right hand go numb. He gripped the last can so tightly his knuckles turned white. He had to do something the system considered 'evil' before his hand became completely immovable.
"Listen, Mrs. Sari!" Bima suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice, trying to mimic the style of villains in the movies he had watched. He glared at Mrs. Sari with the sharpest gaze he could muster. "From now on, this shelf must always be neat at all times! If I come back tomorrow and see this messy again, I will... I will organize it even better until you have no reason to be angry!"
Mrs. Sari went silent. She stared at Bima with wide eyes, then she shuddered in horror. "Weird kid. Get out of here! Don't scare me with that crazy look!"
Mrs. Sari ran into the back room while locking the door. Bima stood frozen in front of the neatly arranged shelf.
[Analysis of action complete. Subject Mrs. Sari feels intimidated and psychologically terrified. You have committed an act of intimidation that triggered the subject's past trauma. Villain Points increased: 50 points.]
Bima exhaled in relief. "That worked? Just by speaking neatly?"
[System is surprised. You possess unorthodox villainous potential. However, the second mission cannot be bypassed. You must go to the City Park tonight. Someone will be there. You must commit a greater criminal act.]
"City Park? Who's there?"
[Someone who will be the turning point of your fate. If you do not show up, I will erase your memory of how to breathe.]
Bima slumped forward as the system delivered a small electric shock to his nervous system. He coughed, trying to balance himself. The sky was beginning to darken and the streetlights were turning on. Bima knew he had no other choice. He had to go to the park, or he would lose everything.
His steps felt heavy, but his heart churned between fear and a strange curiosity. What exactly was this system planning? As he walked through the narrow alley toward the park, he saw the silhouette of a woman standing under a streetlight, holding a silver dagger that shimmered under the moonlight.
The woman turned toward Bima. Her eyes were sharp like a hawk's, piercing through the darkness of the night. Bima stood frozen. He felt a danger far greater than just the fussy system in his head.
"You," the woman's voice sounded cold, stopping Bima's heart in its tracks. "You're the person everyone is looking for, aren't you?"
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The Caravan Guard’s Lament
The midday heat beat down relentlessly against the mud-brick walls of the bakery, turning the narrow street outside into a shimmering corridor of dust and reflected glare. Inside, the air was thick with the rich, comforting aroma of freshly baked sourdough and toasted grain. Farid stood behind the low wooden counter, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faint, pale scars from years gone by. He was busy wiping down the surface with a damp rag when the heavy oak door creaked open, admitting a tall, broad-shouldered man whose joints popped audibly with every step he took across the threshold."By the gods," the newcomer rasped, pulling off a sweat-stained woolen cap and running a thick, calloused hand over a scalp scarred by old blade wounds. "If I have to ride another three leagues on a jolting baggage wagon with my knees pressed against a crate of iron spikes, my legs are going to snap clean off like dried twigs."Farid d
The Apprentice’s Trial
The heavy oak door swung open with a dry groan, letting in a sharp gust of morning wind that carried the metallic scent of wet mud and distant camel dung from the marketplace. A small, soot-streaked figure slipped through the narrow gap before the latch could catch, immediately flattening her back against the interior wall as if expecting a heavy wooden spoon to be hurled at her head.Farid didn't look up from the flour trough. His forearms, caked in a fine, powdery layer of gray-white dust, kept driving deep into the dense, resistant dough with a dull, rhythmic thud. "The back alley is where we throw the stale crusts, girl. The counter is for paying customers.""I’m not here for crusts," the young girl said, her voice cracking slightly in the damp air. She pushed a stray lock of dark, matted hair out of her eyes with the back of a hand that was stained permanently blue and purple from the tile-maker’s glaze. "I’m here to work. My master says the kiln is down for repairs until the new
The Water Tax
The parchment scroll lay flat across the scarred wood of the counter, covered in dense, bureaucratic ink that smelled faintly of vinegar and stale gall. Farid stared down at the black stamps at the bottom of the page, his thumb tracing the rough, unpolished edge of the counter where decades of flour knives had left deep, splintered grooves."Three silver pieces per quarter," Farid said, his voice flat, low, and entirely devoid of surprise. "For a well that we dug ourselves, lined with our own stones, and pulled from thirty feet beneath our own kitchen floor.""It is not a well tax, Master Farid," the municipal clerk replied, adjusting a pair of round bronze spectacles that pinched the bridge of a very sharp, very pointed nose. The clerk tapped a heavily inked finger against a specific line in the middle of the document. "It is a municipal subterranean extraction fee, categorized under commercial water resource utilization, Ordinance Four-B of the Imperial Fiscal Code.""We pull water
The Anchor Holds
"He’s gone," Laylo announced, letting the wooden shutter slam shut with a dry crack that echoed sharply against the low ceiling of the bakery. She turned away from the window, dusting her hands off on her linen apron with an expression of profound, unadulterated relief. "Just got up, stretched his legs, and walked down toward the shoemaker's lane. Didn't even look back."Farid didn't pause his hands, his knuckles rhythmically sinking into the heavy, pale mass of morning dough with a wet, satisfying slide. "I told you. People get tired of waiting for things that aren't coming. The world has too many actual chores for daydreams.""It only took seventy-two hours of staring at a blank wall," Laylo muttered, walking over to the prep table and dropping a heavy iron weight onto the stack of ledger papers to keep them from fluttering in the draft. "For a minute there, I thought he was going to set up a tent and start preaching about the end of days.""Let him preach to the pigeons," Farid sai
The Stranger in the Courtyard
"He’s still out there," Laylo said, peering through a narrow gap in the splintered shutters of the bakery’s front window. Her fingers tapped a restless, erratic rhythm against the rough timber frame. "Day three, Farid. He hasn't moved an inch from that stone bench by the public fountain. He hasn't even bought a single roll."Farid did not look up from the massive wooden trough where he was folding a fresh batch of dense rye dough. His knuckles slid through the gray-flecked mass with a wet, rhythmic drag, the motion entirely devoid of haste. "Let him sit. Stone is free in this city.""He’s staring directly at our lintel," Laylo countered, her voice sharpening as she leaned closer to the glass. "Not blinking. Not reading a book. Not even sleeping. He looks like he’s waiting for the sky to split open and drop a choir of celestial heralds right into the courtyard. It’s bad for business.""Customers care about the crust, not the courtyard," Farid muttered, driving his palms down into the s
Laylo’s Quiet Rebellion
Laylo tossed a fistful of dried, greenish-gray leaves onto the central prep counter with a sharp, crackling rustle that scattered a light dusting of white flour across the scarred wood.Farid paused mid-knead, his knuckles sinking halfway into the pale mound of winter-wheat dough. He cast a sideways glance down at the heap of jagged foliage, his dark brows knitting together in a slow, skeptical arc. "What is that?""Wormwood," Laylo replied, her voice crisp and entirely unyielding as she reached for a heavy iron mortar. She scooped a second, more generous handful of the dried stalks into the pitted stone bowl with deliberate force. "And a pinch of wild rue. I bought it off an old caravan trader coming up from the southern passes before he even unhitched his mules.""It smells like a wet horse blanket left out in a marsh," Farid muttered, returning his weight to his palms and driving the dough down against the table with a heavy, rhythmic thud. "We bake bread here, Laylo. Not veterinar
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