Fandom's Nightmare：The Arch-Engine's Awakening

After graduation, I landed a job as a Junior Guide at a well-known international corporation—the Golden Belt Survival Experience Company. My role was simple enough on paper: welcome players from all over the world, walk them through the specific features and rules of each game zone, and help them get the hang of things so they could enjoy their "extraordinary" experience.

Of course, beyond those basic duties, guides could also provide clues or sanctuary during gameplay—for a fee. Calling it "sanctuary" might be a bit of a stretch, but most of the live-action games the company offered were, in my opinion, nothing short of horror.

To create the most immersive experience possible, Golden Belt had spent an obscene amount of money to buy an entire island in the Pacific. They divided it into eight zones, each corresponding to a different theme. These themes were largely adapted from the most popular movies, novels, and games of the past few decades. If the company could secure the rights, they were more than happy to give it a go. Most of these attractions were packed with horror, violence, and even gore, and they were wildly successful. Within a few short years, Golden Belt was swimming in profit.

But for a guide, the charm of these features wore off pretty fast. Maybe first-time tourists and players found it dazzling, their adrenaline spiking with every manufactured thrill, but for someone who spent every single day circling this island, the novelty was dead within the first month.

Gradually, the mechanical repetition and the almost completely enclosed environment left me with a hollow sense of loss. Instead of the passion and drive I thought I'd have when I first took the job, I felt like I was living in a recurring dream of yesterday.

This illusion persisted until the night of the full moon in the eighth lunar month of the following year—the Mid-Autumn Festival. That was the night the accidents began, and the dream finally shattered.

To be honest, aside from the round moon and the particularly clear night sky, there wasn't anything special about the evening at first. The electronic screen in the main lobby showed a pleasant twenty-three degrees Celsius. Outside, there were no annoying hurricanes or rainstorms, just a sea breeze blowing in with exactly the right touch of saltiness.

Still, not everyone could enjoy a peaceful festival night. Given the nature of our work, regulations on the island were strict. Even in the staff living quarters, you needed specific clearance and approval to move around freely. If you didn't have a night pass, you had to settle for watching the moon via a camera broadcast. It wasn't any worse than taking the elevator to the surface to see it for yourself—if you were good at lying to yourself, that is.

I wasn't in the mood, though. It had been an exceptionally long day. Instead of heading to the observation lounge to admire the view or the rec room for a game of cards, I dragged my exhausted body straight back to the staff dorms. I planned to crawl into bed, scroll through some digital brain-rot to decompress, and pray that work wouldn't haunt my dreams.

Then, the supervisor dropped a message in the work group. They claimed the holiday foot traffic had spiked and required all Junior Guides to take initiative and handle the influx of festive customers.

In the spreadsheet attached to the message, I saw my name assigned to Area C. I was on the graveyard shift tonight, followed by day shifts tomorrow and the day after. After seven straight days of working and three back-to-back nights, this was a goddamn nightmare.

"But I'm usually in Area F. I don't even have the clearance for Area C,"

I grumbled as I sent a desperate message to the team lead, making one last stand.

"Permissions have been updated. Download the Area C dossiers on your way and get familiar with them. It’s a major holiday. Do not mess up."

"Understood."

I sent the reply, grabbed my tablet with a bitter scowl, and rushed to catch the underground employee shuttle.

Since the surface of the island was mostly cordoned off into isolated game zones, employees relied on the underground train system to get around. It wasn't quite a subway; it was more like a shuttle car that zipped back and forth rapidly. When it was packed with staff, we were basically sardines in a tin.

As for the players, they took similar transport to their respective zones, but their lines were strictly separated from ours. The company called it "effective management." I just saw it as a literal manifestation of the social hierarchy.

The employee shuttle pulled out of the station at exactly 10:48 PM. Since it was late on a holiday, there were only a few employees scattered in the corners, leaning against the walls and nodding off. I sat right on the floor, stabbing at my tablet screen while cursing the capitalist greed of my bosses in my head. As the train roared through the tunnel, I thought about my ruined vacation and the seven-day work week ahead of me.

God, when can I finally retire?

The Wi-Fi on this damn train was abysmal. I finally managed to log into the system, but the progress bar for the Area C dossiers wouldn't budge.

"What a piece of junk," I muttered. While I waited, I switched to the public visitor site to look at the official introduction for Area C.

Funny how the tourist website didn't lag at all.

Against a dark, brooding background, the words "Silent Hill: Rising" dripped with blood as they slowly drifted onto the left side of the screen. Accompanying them was an image of a town swallowed by fog and falling ash—the iconic hallmarks of Silent Hill—taking up nearly eighty percent of the screen.

"Thirty years ago, a fire caused by a mining accident consumed Silent Hill. The fires beneath the earth burn to this day. Unwilling to rest are the weeping and screaming souls of those who perished in the flames."

"Sometimes, those who wander into Silent Hill claim to hear a long, distant siren, followed by the inexplicable sound of metal dragging on metal..."

Since our players came from all over the world, the website was available in Chinese, English, and Japanese. All staff members wore translators and underwent rigorous language training and testing before being hired. But for the most part, guides didn't talk to players much. The introductory speeches were standardized; if you memorized the material, nothing went wrong. Even if a player asked for help, a guide would only offer a few words of guidance, never a long-winded explanation. Players weren't paying us to hear us ramble, after all.

The NPCs in the game could also have their language settings adjusted based on player needs. Of course, any language other than Chinese, English, or Japanese cost extra. Even if it was just a few clicks for the Technical Department, believe it or not, there were plenty of players willing to pay for it.

The carriage swayed rhythmically beneath me, like a lullaby. My eyelids felt heavy as I stared at the slowly moving "Downloading" bar. I had already read the official posters and blurbs three times over.

Just as I was about to close the system and try again, the train reached the station.

"Now arriving at Area C. Employees for Area C, please take your belongings and exit. Next stop, Area H. 'Golden Belt' wishes you a happy Mid-Autumn Festival."

Happy? Right. I sighed, locked my tablet, and squeezed through the sliding doors.

The employee prep room was vast and deserted. I couldn't tell if everyone else was already at their posts or if I was the only idiot working this late. Neither option was particularly uplifting.

I shuffled to the locker room, changed into my uniform and leather shoes, and put on my headset and microphone. I left my tablet in the locker. After slapping my cheeks a few times to wake myself up, I finally found the energy to walk out.

Over the past year, I had performed this routine countless times. At that moment, I had no idea that this monotonous preparation would be my last. Tonight, everything was going to change.

For now, the Golden Belt employee sector remained calm on the surface. Even the small anomalies failed to trigger my alarm bells. As a guide, I was supposed to wait on the platform for the players, escort them to the greeting area, and introduce the game segments there. According to the schedule, the next player train wasn't due for another ten minutes. Yet, before I even reached the visitor platform, a message came through my headset.

"Unit BY20, your assigned players have arrived at the greeting area ahead of schedule. Please proceed to your designated position immediately and begin operations."

"Copy that! On my way." I adjusted my mic and broke into a jog toward the greeting area, my mind clouded with confusion.

However, my hesitation didn't slow my hands as I swiped my card through the gate and entered my employee ID to unlock the electronic door. Being reported by a customer carried a heavy price.

The greeting area was a large room about sixty square meters. To match the game theme, every zone was meticulously decorated in a distinct style, aiming to leave a lasting impression on the players. I had never been to Area C before. As I pushed open the security door, I felt a flicker of anticipation, but as soon as the door swung wide, I realized the lights were off. Aside from a small patch of light spilling in from the hallway, the room was pitch black.

Where were the players who had arrived early?

As I stepped inside, I stomped my foot hard to trigger the motion-sensor lights, cursing the idiots upstairs who liked to give random orders. Great. Now I'd probably have to head back to the platform and pick up those—

The stomp didn't wake the lights. I hesitated, slowly turning my neck to look back at the security door as it drifted shut. The sliver of light grew narrower and narrower until it finally vanished, leaving me alone with a darkness that felt as thick and cold as mud.

In the final second before the light died, I caught a glimpse of a hand flashing at the edge of the shadow. It was large, with distinct, boney joints, like the wing of some ancient bird unfurling in the gloom.

Then, that hand lunged for me. It grabbed me and shoved me aside, pinning me hard against the wall.

"Mmf!"

My cry was muffled by a palm that felt like a vise. My nose was nearly flattened against the wall. Simultaneously, the security door clicked shut, locking itself.

"Dammit! The door's shut again!"

A man's voice came from the other direction. He sounded close, and for some reason, strangely familiar.

I heard him rattling the door handle with brute force. But with an electronic lock, there was no way it was opening through muscle alone.

The person holding me eased the pressure of his arm against the back of my neck and spoke into my ear. "Don't struggle. Tell me how to open this door." Then, he slowly let go.

My mind was racing with stories from old colleagues about the crazies and delusional narcissists they had dealt with on the job. Let's be real, anyone who paid to come to a place like this usually had some kind of obsession.

"Tell me how to open the door," the man behind me pressed. "Don't try anything smart."

"The door..." A thin, high-pitched tremor escaped my throat; it sounded like someone else's voice. "My key card can open it."

Someone patted down my pockets. Another man asked impatiently, "Where's the card?"

"Around my neck," I swallowed hard. "Please don't hurt—"

The man already had his hand on my card. He yanked it so hard the lanyard snapped. I heard him move to the door and fumble with the reader. A moment later, four ominous beeps rang out, followed by a flat electronic voice.

"Invalid card. Please contact a staff member."

"Thing doesn't work. Son of a bitch!"

The man turned back, his silhouette looming. My eyes were starting to adjust to the dark, and I could just make out his outline: a powerfully built man with short hair. He looked like a real tough customer.

"Sam, let her go," the tough guy said grimly, stepping toward me.

The pressure on my neck vanished instantly. The man behind me whispered, "Dean..." but before he could finish, the tough guy grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, and slammed me against the wall.

"What the hell are you, huh?" He gripped my shoulders tight, his voice dangerously low. "Vampire? Werewolf? Some damn demon? What's the plan?"

"I'm not..." I was shaking as hard as my voice. "I'm a real person! I work here! I'm just a guide meant to welcome the players, I swear to God!"

"Dean, we're out of time," the other man said, his tone urgent.

"How long?" the man holding me asked without loosening his grip.

"Minutes."

The tough guy grunted and yanked my shirt upward, nearly lifting me off the floor.

"You hear that? In a few minutes, a bomb's gonna go off. So you'd better open that door, or you're dying right here with us."

Oh god, I thought. They’re insane. Delusional on a whole new level. I have to play along; you can't reason with crazy people. Besides, if I open the door, I can get help. The company has been around for years; they have emergency response teams specifically for this kind of thing.

"Gentlemen, please, stay calm. I can open the door," I stammered. "But I need my card back..."

"Your damn card doesn't work," he growled, letting me go. "Try something else."

"Please understand, the lock has to be swiped from the inside," I said, then quickly corrected myself. "But the card reader might have some network lag. Try swiping it a few more times."

No response. Soon, I heard more beeping. The sound made my own chest tighten with anxiety, like the one-minute warning before a shift when you realize you forgot to use the bathroom.

But I wasn't the only one panicking. When the other man spoke again, his voice had shifted from urgent to frantic. "Dean, one minute!"

Suddenly, my shoulders were grabbed and shaken. In the dark, the man barked at me, "Is there another way out of here? A secret passage? A trapdoor?"

"The exit to the game zone is in the ceiling," I answered instinctively, my scalp tingling with fear.

"Open it!" he shouted, shoving me toward the center of the room. "Where's the door?"

Every greeting area had a different mechanism for opening that door, but to make it easier for the guides, there were usually specific markers or colors to act as prompts.

"I can't see! I need light," I said, my heart drumming against my ribs. My throat felt bone-dry.

"Give us some light, Sam!"

A beam of light cut through the shadows as the other man scanned the room with a flashlight. "Dean, thirty seconds!" he shouted.

"Wait!" I cried out.

In the dim, sweeping light, old furniture and eerie symbols on the walls flickered by. Then, in the corner, a life-sized doll caught my eye. The doll was modeled after Alessa from the movies—black hair draped over her shoulders, wearing a deep blue school uniform, knee-high socks, and Mary Janes. One of her hands was held to her lips, index finger pointed up.

Shhh.

"There!"

Their countdown was making my head spin. I ran over, grabbed the doll's index finger, and gave it a gentle twist. A distinct click echoed from above.

A rope ladder dropped from a hatch in the ceiling, swaying back and forth in the half-light.

"Sam, go!" The man immediately shoved his companion toward the ladder, then scrambled up right after him.

I saw my chance to escape, so I stayed where I was. But halfway up, the man stopped. He turned back toward me, reaching out a hand.

"Move it!" he barked.

For the first time, I saw his face clearly.

It was Dean Winchester.

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