𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬! 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐓𝐒𝐃: 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐦 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. ♡ WC. 2,822

♡ Synopsis. You were five years old when you first died. Good news: you respawn. Bad news: you always respawn — right back into the same nightmare masquerading as real life. Every day is a new quest to survive stalkers, sabotage, and suspicious playground equipment, while your “reward” is slowly losing your mind in high-definition 4K. You can’t die. You can’t quit. You can only suffer — and maybe, if you’re lucky, unlock a new trauma achievement.

You are the most successful author in human history.

And nobody knows who you are.

They know the name. The myth. The eldritch horror in the shape of a bestselling “little nobody” who spits out Pulitzer-level humor, Nebula Award-winning sci-fi, Booker Prize-trampling psychological thrillers, and horror so chilling it makes grown men piss themselves while clutching their therapy dogs.

You are a legend. A ghost story authors tell each other at 3AM, whispering about the “One Who Writes It All.”

And why? Because you have a secret. A nasty little secret stitched into your spine like a parasite. You were born with something most people would call a “superpower.” A gift from the heavens.

Except it’s not. It’s not even close.

Your reality isn’t reality.

You live every waking moment under the brutal, indifferent laws of a “game.” Not a fun game. Not a “haha funny” MMORPG where you run around picking flowers. No. You live in a “Dark Souls got molested by Danganronpa and was left to die in Silent Hill” type of game.

You see everything as stats, quests, hidden enemy placements, “surprise” death flags. It all scrolls over your vision like an overclocked HUD. And the best part?

You can’t turn it off.

You can’t die.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Imagine this:

At five years old, most kids are learning how to spell “cat” and “dog.” Maybe even tie their own shoes if they’re feeling ambitious.

You? You were getting shanked by a goblin in an alley behind a pixelated 7-Eleven.

It’s not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, but hey — welcome to your life.

You always knew you were different. Other kids saw playgrounds. You saw “Tutorial Arenas.” Other kids saw the family dog. You saw “Level 1 Companion Beast (HP: 30/30).” Your world came with HUD bars, dialogue trees, glitching textures, and — the best part — permanent permadeath for everyone except you.

You learned the hard way.

✦✧✦✧

You don’t remember the first time you died. Not really.

You were about five years old, proudly wearing a frog-shaped backpack and clutching a half-eaten lollipop, when the “tutorial” kicked in.

[Quest Accepted: Cross the Street]

Simple, right?

Yeah, you thought so too.

Until the truck came.

Boom. Blood everywhere. Your tiny body cracked open like a wet paper bag tossed from a rooftop.

You woke up three seconds later on the same curb, frog backpack miraculously unsullied, lollipop still in hand — a cheerful, upbeat ding! echoing in your skull.

[Try Again.]

✦✧✦✧

Life, for you, has always been a game.

System Notification: Quest Accepted: SURVIVE THE FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN.

Difficulty: [Unbeatable]

Reward: [???]

Penalty for Failure: [Eternal Suffering]

No pressure, right?

The playground was an ominous boss arena that day. You, armed only with a cracked plastic shovel and an overinflated sense of invincibility, squared off against a rickety metal slide that had already claimed the souls of two kindergartners and a pigeon. You didn’t question why it gleamed blood-red under the sun like some Dark Souls mimic. You should have.

You climbed.

The metal groaned.

You slipped.

Gravity, that reliable bitch, yanked you down into a glorious fatality against the concrete.

✦✧✦✧

[YOU HAVE DIED] -75 HP (skull fractures) Respawning…

✦✧✦✧

You woke up. Same place. Same cracked skull, but somehow “fine.” And then the notification popped into your vision like an obnoxious mobile ad:

[NEW QUEST ACQUIRED: SURVIVAL MODE] ✓ Objective: Remain conscious for longer than 10 minutes. Reward: Basic Motor Skills (Level 1)

It would’ve been cool if not for the “Penalty for Failure: Eternal Restart” in bold Comic Sans.

You stared at the blinking quest window and, with all the wisdom of a five-year-old philosopher, you said your first word that year:

“Fuck.”

✦✧✦✧

By the ripe old age of five years and two months, you’d been impaled by scissors, drowned in a ball pit (don’t ask), poisoned by Play-Doh, and crushed by the world’s most suspiciously heavy stack of nap-time mats.

Every time? You woke up exactly three seconds later, fine.

Fine, except for the memories.

You remembered every death.

Every agonizing second.

Every pleading breath.

Every splintered bone.

Every quiet moment when the screen flickered red and the words YOU DIED burned themselves into your brain with cruel, mechanical indifference.

It was character building.

Or character obliterating. Hard to tell some days.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Your childhood? Beautiful.

You learned early how to dislocate your own shoulders to slip out of traps. You learned how long it took to regrow fingers. (Fifteen minutes, usually. Thirty if you screamed.) You found out that “poison” came in varieties: slow rot, fast melt, brain liquefaction.

You got really good at dying.

You also got… weirdly smart.

When you turned ten, you solved ancient eldritch puzzles that drove grown sorcerers insane. You memorized languages dead before the first humans walked upright. You learned the exact tensile strength needed to snap a man’s neck with a single jerk (helpful when the “Escort Mission: Save the Orphan Prince!” devolved into “Everyone Betrays You and Tries to Sell You to Slavers!”).

By twelve, you could build a bomb from bread crumbs and a hairpin.

At fourteen, you “accidentally” toppled a tyrant regime by weaponizing peasant superstitions and a little homemade mustard gas.

The System called you “Hero.”

You called yourself “Tired.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Each event came with gleefully condescending system pop-ups:

[Skill Up!]

• +2 Agility: Dodging Molotov Cocktails

• +1 Charisma: Gaslighting Authority Figures

• +3 Endurance: Not Screaming When Bitten by Rabid Raccoon

You watched your class pet “Mr. Fluffums” die from “natural causes” (aka Kyle from class 3B decided it would be funny to microwave the hamster) and instead of crying, you got a pop-up.

[“Witness Death” Achievement Unlocked!]

Reward: +1% Cold-bloodedness.

You can’t even off yourself. You tried once, back when you were sixteen and thought maybe you could “outplay” the system. Tried sleeping pills. Rope. A kitchen knife.

Guess what you woke up with?

[Suicide Attempt Detected. Hero’s Resilience Activated.]

Penalty: -10 Charisma (You look dead inside.)

Reward: +5% Mental Fortitude (You feel dead inside.)

Normal kids cried when they skinned their knees. You cried when you realized “Emotional Damage” counted as an actual debuff you had to manually recover from.

Fun Fact: Therapy is a $300 in-game purchase. (You’re broke.)

You had no mentor. No fairy godmother. No radio voice in your head giving tutorials.

You had you.

And the System.

Always the fucking System.

It never explained “why” you were the “Hero” either. Just that you were. Tough luck. Go save the world. Never mind you’re a traumatized little cryptid who still couldn’t tie her own shoelaces without the laces trying to strangle you like Eldritch tentacles.

You learned quickly.

You learned faster than “speedrunners” glitching through reality.

Because when every moment could be your last—and then wasn’t—you got real fucking efficient.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

By the time you hit high school, you were already a living cryptid.

Quiet.

Sharp.

Untouchable.

People saw you and got that vague, itching feeling at the back of their necks, like they were being watched by something that had seen too much and hadn’t been impressed. Teachers gave you awards just to keep you from looking at them too long. Classmates avoided you with the kind of respect they reserved for haunted houses and broken elevators.

“Oh, her?” they’d whisper. “Yeah, she’s, like… a genius. But also? Terrifying.”

You didn’t mind. You’d seen worse.

You’d been worse.

After all, you’d already fought skeletal tax collectors, cannibalistic prom queens, and one memorable encounter with an eldritch school nurse who tried to “vaccinate” you with a syringe the size of a harpoon.

The “System” never spoke to you directly. No smug voice in your head, no mysterious goddess, no “Welcome, Chosen One!”

Just… pop-ups.

Objective markers. Menus. Stats.

Always there. Always hovering at the edge of your vision like a persistent migraine.

Worse? It adapted to “reality”. It camouflaged.

A missing stair? Quest: Navigate the Treacherous Abyss of Death.

An algebra test? Trial of the Mind Mage.

First crush? Warning: HIGH CHANCE OF SOCIAL DEATH.

You adapted. You always adapted.

You had to.

Because even though the System was sadistic, it was also… fair. In its own messed-up, incomprehensible way.

Every death taught you something.

Every quest honed you sharper.

You learned to read people. To read the air. To read fate itself.

Because the more “famous” you got, the worse the quests became.

And if you ignored a quest?

Well, let’s just say you learned real fast that “non-compliance” carried… consequences.

([You have been cursed with Severe Organ Failure for 48 hours. Lesson learned!])

You weren’t allowed to refuse your story.

You were the “Hero” after all. The designated cockroach of the multiverse.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Now you’re a young adult, if you can call it “living,” and a ridiculously successful “writer.” You didn’t even try to be famous. It just happened.

Award-winning. Record-breaking. So “enigmatic” and “mysterious” that you’re less a person and more a fever dream on Twitter. Fans argue if you even exist. Theories range from “supercomputer” to “Victorian ghost with a VPN.”

No one knows the truth.

That every story you write—every horror so visceral, every psychological thriller so devastatingly real—isn’t “imagination.”

It’s just you, reliving memories.

Because the “System” (your affectionate nickname for the sadistic cosmic entity torturing you) forced you to get good at everything. Want to eat? Better master survival skills. Want to avoid assassinations? Better pick up tactical evasion, amateur bomb detection, and social engineering. Want a “safe” job? Sorry, not allowed. It had to be high risk, maximum public exposure.

Because that’s where the “Hero” should be, right?

Front and center. Where the monsters can see you.

✦✧✦✧

You don’t tell them about the “Daily Quests” you still get:

[Daily Quest: Avoid Emotional Connection] Reward: Maintain Sanity Penalty: Loss of Sanity Points (-25 per Emotional Vulnerability)

You don’t tell them about the “Random Events”:

[WORLD EVENT: PANDEMIC – Difficulty: Nightmare] Objective: Do Not Die. Again.

You don’t mention how you’ve “died” by:

• Accidentally eating poisoned sushi (“Event: RNG Food Poisoning”)
• Falling down manholes (“Hidden Trap: Urban Hellscape”)
• Being electrocuted by your own laptop (“Boss Fight: IT Support”)

Every time, waking up again. Forced to trudge onward.

✦✧✦✧

You can’t even go insane.

Insanity is a soft failure. It resets you. But the system is designed to keep you functional. Barely. Like a broken animatronic patched with duct tape and spite.

You still go through the motions. Wake up. Drink black coffee so burnt it qualifies as a biohazard. Sit down at your old, battered desk. Write nightmares disguised as “fiction.” (You basically plagiarize your life, because hey, “write what you know.”)

Critics call your work “raw,” “gut-wrenching,” “too real to handle.” The irony could kill you, if you weren’t already cursed to keep breathing.

Nobody knew that the “plucky immortal protagonist” wasn’t a fictional trope.

It was you.

And you’d learned, long ago, to weaponize your curse.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

How It Works (A Handy Field Guide):

Quest System: Life assigns you quests the way a drunk uncle assigns nicknames: randomly, cruelly, and without any regard for your feelings. “Retrieve the Amulet of Everfrost”? Sounds cool. Reality? It was actually “Go to Walgreens at 3AM and survive the aggressive coupon cultists.”

Difficulty Setting: Always “Unbeatable.” Always “Permadeath Mode.” Always “Hardcore Ironman Mode.” You don’t get tutorials. You don’t get checkpoints. You get ambushes and betrayals and “Please stop stabbing me” becoming a regular part of your vocabulary.

Death: You can’t die. Yay! Right? Wrong. Because you still feel every death. Every nerve-scorching, lung-collapsing, existential-despair-inducing second of it. It’s a little like being trapped in a really shitty amusement park ride, forever.

Leveling Up: There’s no experience points. No skill trees. No unlockable “Better Luck” perks. You either learn the hard way or you don’t learn at all. (Spoiler: you learn.)

Inventory: Whatever you have on you counts. At five years old, this meant a crayon, a plastic horse, and the undying spite of a thousand resentful demons. You’ve made it work.

Companions: Occasionally granted. Always tragic. Don’t get attached. You know better.

Glitches: The world breaks sometimes. You’ve seen people T-pose mid-air. You’ve seen cars clip through buildings. You once saw a priest phase through three dimensions at once and you still think about it sometimes when you can’t sleep.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Example Missions From Childhood:

Quest: “Find Your Missing Shoe.”

Reality: “Descend into the Basement of Eternal Nightmares, avoid the Mold Ghouls, solve a three-dimensional riddle, and retrieve your footwear from the Mouth of Madness.”

Result: Mild possession. Shoe recovered.

✦✧✦✧

Quest: “Go to Grandma’s House.”

Reality: “Survive the Wailing Woods, barter with the Mushroom People, and defeat the Beast of 19th Street armed only with a broken umbrella and righteous indignation.”

Result: Grandma fed you soup. Beast’s spleen still on display in your mental trophy room.

✦✧✦✧

Quest: “Make a Friend.”

Reality: “Convince at least one sentient being not to kill you on sight.”

Result: Mixed success. You still get weird letters from “Kyle the Friendly Revenant” sometimes.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

And worst of all?

The system was realistic. Physics didn’t bend for you. Magic didn’t come free. Injury meant agony, and healing meant gutting yourself open again and again until the wounds “learned” to close faster. The quests were horrific little things like, “Escape the burning orphanage with all forty-seven children alive,” or “Negotiate peace between two warring kingdoms while unarmed, unarmored, and completely naked.”

Failure meant death.

Yours.

Again and again and again.

You had been disemboweled, decapitated, crushed, drowned, tortured, impaled, exploded, and everything in between. You’d burned alive so often you could still smell the charred flesh when you closed your eyes.

You wanted to die. God, how you wanted to die.

The first few years were the worst. You screamed. You cried. You begged whatever cosmic sicko was behind this for mercy. You clawed at your own skin. You laughed until your ribs cracked from it.

Eventually, you stopped feeling anything.

You adapted.

You became clever. Cold. Detached. You learned every twisted rule, every loophole. You learned how to cheat the system without it noticing, like a battered housewife hiding her bruises behind polite smiles.

You learned to survive.

And when you started writing, you realized you could monetize the horror. You knew pain like no one else. You knew how it tasted, how it breathed, how it fucked with a mind until it broke in glorious, screaming colors.

You wrote it down.

And the world worshipped you for it.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The system’s interface was always there, burned into your vision like a migraine aura. Lines of crimson script floated in the edges of your sight:

[New Quest: Cross the city without being caught by the Ash Wolves. (Difficulty: Nightmare+)]

[Side Quest: Rescue the abandoned child in Sector 9.]

[Optional: Sabotage the Council’s meeting and cause a civil war. Reward: +100 Sanity Points (ha ha, you wish).]

You never knew what would happen next. Sometimes you’d be walking home from buying bread and get ambushed by mutated beasts with human faces. Sometimes you’d be forced to duel an assassin in the middle of a crowded street while pretending it was street theater.

It never ended.

“Main Character Status,” the system called it. Like it was a good thing. Like it was a gift.

You knew better.

It was a sick joke. You were the protagonist of a story written by a sadistic, perverted god who got off on watching you suffer.

But at least you were winning now. Sort of. Winning in the sense that you hadn’t gone feral and started gnawing on people’s throats. Yet.

You kept yourself together with a thick coat of dark humor and a complete absence of shame. If you had to run through a battlefield naked except for a stolen knight’s helmet, fine. If you had to talk your way out of being sacrificed to a blood god by pretending to be a more impressive demon, fine.

✦✧✦✧

You don’t laugh much anymore.

You grin. A wide, dead-eyed grin that unsettles HR departments and startles pigeons.

You’re patient. Methodical. Brilliant.

Because when you’ve been through every horror imaginable—when every limb has been crushed, every organ perforated, every betrayal stabbed into your metaphorical back—you learn.

You learn to write pain so vividly it bleeds off the page.

You learn to channel fear so real it triggers fight-or-flight in readers.

You learn to observe humans like strange little NPCs bumbling through scripted lives, blissfully unaware they’re one “Random Event: Car Crash” away from joining you in your private hell.

But they won’t.

They never do.

You’re the “Hero.”

A hero cursed to live.

Forever.

✦✧✦✧

[MAIN QUEST: ENDURE] ✓ Survive. ✓ Adapt. ✓ Write. Next Objective: “Find Purpose.”

You roll your eyes.

Same quest. New day. Same fucked-up game.

Time to play.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ A/N #1. Yes. This is inspired by several book genres and video games, like DOL, Code Vein, Red Dead Redemption 2, and MLBB (’cause I’m playing those games rn). Might have some dark humor + comedy elements, but this will mostly be a serious work series. I wanna write some horror stuffs.

♡ A/N #2. Honestly unsure…. on how to write to go about this… I’m just havin’ fun.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

♡ Book 8 [you are here]. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.