>It is January 24th of the Year 71 of the Cosmic Era

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<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">Frieden Moon, The Mind-Killer. Black-Band pilot of ZAFT.</span></span> Has found himself participating in a covert infiltration of the Atlantic Federation's G-Project using his background as a former EA pilot... Though unfortunately caught in the crossfire of ZAFT's operation to steal the Mobile Weapons in Heliopolis Colony. A deceived partner uncovers a secret of the Nation of ORB. <span class="mu-i">Which now lays on Frieden's own hands to pilot.</span>

<span class="mu-r">This is the end of the world.</span> It's also the birth of a new one, or an old one, depending on who you ask. Maybe it's more like an overdue arranged marriage.

You might not have been fully aware, but the world used to cast a Shadow: a separate realm of spirits, kept away by a barrier that only a certain few were ever meant to cross. Spirits are capricious, rarely logical, and often dangerous beings composed of the essence and energy of all things real; scuttling reflections with their own arcane hierarchies and motivations.

But every wall has its rats, and the barrier between your world and the spirit world was no exception. The Beshilu are a nasty manner of demon - derived from and connected to the spirit world, but fettered to the world of flesh, and gifted with many terrible abilities. They massacre and they multiply, and their only desire has ever been to tear down that wall between worlds... to gnaw at its foundations in greater and greater numbers, until the wolves could no longer keep them at bay.

They succeeded.

Too many tears. Too many crumbling wounds between worlds. The gauntlet was sundered, and when that wall crumbled away, the world of mortals and the world of spirits were merged into one. In those first terrible moments, everyone on Earth could hear a trillion shrill voices screeching out in triumph, and swarms of rats swelled across streets and forests in writhing tides.

The fabric of reality is now like a sieve, the threads wavering apart and stretching in new directions; space and time operate differently. The sun no longer rises, or sets, and light instead seems to meander from one place to the next according to whim. Places seem to stir and shift, reacting to their occupants in sometimes unpredictable fashion. The rules have changed, and will likely change more, but things will never go back to the way they were.

That was three days ago, and it would be a stretch to say the dust has settled, but you are adjusting to the chaos. You're a survivor, and while you may not fully grasp what's going on, you're not unfamiliar with the supernatural. You are determined to knuckle down and make your way in this fucked up new world....

>Cont'd

in a meaningless world, a girl finds heaven in scarlet mist

Violence. Repugnant, alluring, superfluous, indispensable….

You remember primary school: running past metal doors and out into the recess playground, the teachers would always say "don't play rough." But inevitably someone would cross the line, and pushes and kicks and punches would be thrown over a crude joke or a prank, or for any one of a million stupid reasons.

You were never one of the offenders. But you do remember a close friends being a frequent troublemaker and an almost semi-permanent fixture inside the principal's office; on returning he would parody the principal's lecture in a faux serious voice—”propriety this, behavior that,” and other such things that kids liked to make fun of.

But at the end of whatever day he'd decided to make trouble, you would always spot him sitting on a chair inside a bereft classroom, looking downcast. Then you'd see his mother and the homeroom teacher deep in conversation, walking down the hallway and entering the room, closing the door behind them.

The following day he'd always return muted and solemn, and no roughhousing would occur for several days. You'd learn many years later that at dinner, when his father would ask "How was everyone's day," his mother would report on her son's mischief. Sometimes his father would wait until after dinner to bring out his belt. Other times, right there and then, he would administer his displeasure.

It befuddled you. Education at the point of the sword—a paradox if ever you saw one. But it wasn't something you ever personally experienced growing up, getting "disciplined" in that manner.

Your father…

>wasn’t around much
>wasn't around at all
>wasn’t prone to violence

You are Motoharu Hisanori, and today, April 3rd, marks the beginning of your high school life.

"We should keep moving and catch up to the NPC. My transformation only lasts a minute and we should make the most of it." You say motioning to the next cave entrance. Ryuji nods and tears his glaive free from the zombie just as Irene finishes her trance. The three of you regroup and begin to run through the cave system once more, all pretense of stealth lost. Not helping was the fact that Ryuji was constantly gushing and asking questions about your abilities.

"What else can you do? How long is the cooldown? What buffs do you get? Did the coat come with the costume?" He asks, eagerness overtaking any sense of restraint on his curiosity. "I don't know anyone who's ever gotten this far!" He concludes. You suppress a small sigh building up. You had expected him to explode with excitement given his love of the game but you hadn't really expected to see him get this excited. Still, you couldn't help but share a bit of his enthusiasm. How long had it been since you had eagerly spoken about the game with someone just as passionate instead of trying to avoid the conversation with non-answers? You pull back your helm, allowing it to fold back behind your head and somehow vanish causing Ryuji to let out a noise that sounded like a mix between a squeal and roar of excitement.

"It folds back..." He manages to eek out.

"It's on a 5 minute cooldown. So it's really more of a boss fight kind of ability though right now I don't think we have the luxury to hold back big CDs. While I'm in this form, these are considered two handed weapons." You say raising your fists. Ryuji's jaw drops.

"Waitwaitwait. You're dealing two hander damage with your fists alone? I've seen how fast you can swing those things and you're telling me they can hit as hard as a warhammer?" He asks.

"Yup. Only while transformed though. Untransformed I have the Brawler's [Powerful Fist] skill but it seems to scale better because I can't really wield anything else." You continue. "Also, I'm considered to be wearing light armored outside of my transformation and medium while transformed. Stacks with the bit of damage reduction my class gives. Class seems to give me a handful of abilities from other classes to pick from on level up but it seems to lean towards fighter and brawler skills." You pause for a moment. "But I get this feeling that there's more to it. Almost like the game is keeping note of what I do and adjusting for it. I got a weird quest regarding another player on the tutorial island and now I'm expected to grow under strife, whatever that means. For the moment it seems my class progression is locked until I meet some kind of requirement. Nothing about this class is straight forward and the power seems to compensate for it." You say, drawing your helmet back on. "If I'm honest...that's the fun part."

<span class="mu-i">Once upon a time, there was a stricken land where there was no such thing as day, nor morning, no sunrise or sunset, but endless dark. It was alone and obscure, on an island surrounded by waters as black as the sky. Yet the wind carried whispers of warmth and light, so the sad peoples of this land, intoxicated by the drink called hope, entreated their king to find the mythical sun and bring it to their lands. The king of the dark vowed to bring the morning to his people, and departed.

After five years, while the king did not return, the morning did come, with all of the light and warmth that could be dreamed of. Yet while the people were happy, the new king’s heir, his granddaughter the crown princess, was skeptical of this new light. So, she ventured over the dark waters towards the light, and finally, she found a great tower atop which burned a sun nothing like had been spoken of, nor what seemed to create the new day.

There she met her grandfather, and demanded of him the truth. Was there a sun, or no? Were they living in a day that was just night under a mask? Her elder, sad and weary, asked the simple question of if she could tell the difference. What distinguished the False Light from the Dawn?

She could not answer, and returned home, keeping the secret to her grave. Yet, friends and followers of Ange, what if the Dawn that comes is false? What if it is so convincing that none of us can tell it true? What if indeed, the facsimile created is the true one after all?</span>

-The Heresy of the False Light, Apocryphal Speech said to be performed by Disgraced Socalist and Disciple of Anton Ange, Aster Du Langue

You are Marnie, a girl living in the Ark known as the Digital World. For all your life, you've endured a dreary existence in City 87-O, haplessly railing against a skin-deep system that denies you all but the most meaningless human experiences. You've spent years beholding the shining tower in the center of the city, and watched its guardian Digimon circle it endlessly, protecting the portal that leads out of this sunless landscape. Throughout your youth, you never thought you'd actually be able to make your dream a reality. But things have begun to change over the past few months.

A chance meeting with a Digimon has plunged you into a hidden world of wonders, filled with wild Digimon, enigmatic Code Crackers, mysterious server partitions that reveal the City's inner workings to you, and underground organizations seeking to bring change to this world. Amidst this danger is the authenticity you've so dearly craved, and you've never been happier.

Right now, you're in the middle of a mission to take down your Digimon Nemesis. You and your partner, Phascomon, have broken into the lair of DarkTyrannomon, who has taken over an entire Job District. You've made it past his lieutenants and minions and are mere steps away from facing down your foe one last time and putting an end to his danger.

Once that's done, you plan to climb The Tower, defeat its guardian, and finally claim your freedom. The real world awaits.

==

Thread 1:
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2025/6216903/

Thread 2:
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2025/6254189

Thread 3:
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2025/6297141/

You are the self-proclaimed KING of the WASTELAND.

Ever since the great BIG BOOM in the far off year of 2007, the world has gotten pretty nasty–ruins and mutants litter the desert wasteland all around you, roving bands of warlord kings and factions in all sorts of endless wars.

You never did much mind, though, as you kept to yourself in your reclusive “castle” (a pre-BIG BOOM convenience store) with your friend and roommate, DUKE NASU, watching one of your 24 copies of SUPERBAD (2007) and pumping iron–that is, at least, until a demolition company drove up to your front door.

You found out your castle was apparently on land that fell under the titleship of a “GUN KING”, who sought to evict you and bulldoze it into the ground. You took ownership of the demolitionist’s wrecking ball and drove out to the GUN KING’S castle to confront him on the matter.

You managed to infiltrate his castle whereupon you engaged in one-on-one combat with the king, PANZER GRAAD–however, defeating him only led to the appearance of another freak, the “MUTANT KING,” who kidnapped your dear friend DUKE NASU to bring him to its kingdom. You need to get him back.

LAST THREAD: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2021/5005718/