Capítulo 12: Ch. 12 – “Meet the Mod Slayer”
I woke up to the sound of… nothing.
Which, if you ask me, is the perfect soundtrack.
No goblins screeching, no players PvP–spamming fireballs across the plaza, no system messages demanding I "engage in meaningful gameplay."
Just the sweet embrace of silence, punctuated only by the soft zzzz of my own nap still echoing in my head.
Honestly, I was starting to think I'd broken the game again.
"System," I muttered, rubbing my eyes,
"please confirm whether I'm dead, dreaming, or just on vacation."
A soft ding answered me:
[Passive Skill Activated: Aura of Chill]
Nearby entities lose motivation. Aggro chance reduced by 87%.
"Ahh." I stretched like a cat who's already claimed ownership of the couch.
"So it's not that the world's peaceful—it's that my laziness is contagious."
Think about it.
Me, lying on my bench-cloud hybrid (I never did figure out if it was furniture or a weather pattern), and the entire zone just… powers down. Monsters despawn, NPC vendors stare blankly at their stalls, even the pigeons look like they can't be bothered to coo.
I should charge rent.
This is prime chill real estate.
A notification blinked in the corner of my vision:
[Your Aura is spreading.]
[Warning: Extended use may cause unintended side effects.]
Side effects? Please.
If the worst thing that happens is everyone takes a nap with me, that's called community building.
I yawned so hard the screen warped.
"Guess I'll just… do absolutely nothing again today."
But then I noticed it.
The silence wasn't normal silence.
It was code silence.
Little hiccups in the world: the grass texture froze mid-sway, an NPC barked
"Fresh bread!" and then looped it like a broken speaker—"Fresh br-fresh br-fresh br—" until my aura smothered him back into silence.
Even my HUD flickered, as if the system itself was sighing.
I frowned.
Which, for me, counts as extreme action.
"System," I asked carefully, "you didn't accidentally install the Nightmare Patch, did you?"
No response.
That's when a new line scrolled across my vision, glowing blood-red:
[Security Enforcement Protocol: Initialized.]
Uh-oh.
Usually, "protocols" meant one thing: some admin AI had woken up cranky and decided it was time to check everyone's homework.
And I, unfortunately, was the kid who'd turned in an essay titled 'How I Learned to Stop Caring and Love the Respawn Button' written in crayon.
Still… I shrugged, laid back down, and muttered, "Not my problem.
Future me can deal with it."
Future me was, unfortunately, only two minutes away.
At first, I thought it was just my eyes still loading.
You know that blurry half-second after a nap where reality looks like it's buffering? Yeah, that.
Except… it didn't stop buffering.
A bird flapped overhead, wings frozen mid-flap like someone had paused the animation.
It hung there, vibrating in the air, then stuttered forward five feet before freezing again.
"…either I'm still dreaming, or the devs hired interns again," I muttered.
The ground beneath me rippled, not in a majestic magical way—more like someone had spilled coffee on the server rack.
Patches of grass blinked in and out of existence, switching textures like slideshow wallpapers: lush green, dead yellow, bright neon-purple placeholder tiles that screamed
"DEV TEST ZONE – DO NOT SHIP."
And the NPCs… oh boy.
Vendor #12 at the bread stall restarted his dialogue like a bad podcast ad:
"Fresh bread! Fresh bread! Fresh bread! Fresh—"
Then his jaw just… disconnected and hung there, bouncing slightly like a loose wire.
I stared.
He stared back, unblinking, mouth dangling.
"…still less awkward than small talk at parties," I said.
That's when the system notifications started rolling, one after another, in a stream of glitchy neon text across my HUD:
[Update Patch 7.12a: Hotfix Deployed.]
[Bug Detected: Unmotivated Zone.]
[Security Enforcement Protocol Engaged.]
"Oh great. Hotfixes." I groaned, pulling my hood over my head.
"Nothing good ever comes after hotfixes.
Last time, they patched my infinite respawn cheese build and replaced it with 'Try Yoga, Bro.'"
The notifications kept stacking, faster than I could blink:
[Anomaly Detected: User ID #???]
[Cross-reference logs: Inconsistent presence across resets.]
[Suspicion Level: MAXIMUM.]
That last line wasn't comforting.
"Suspicion level maximum?" I repeated.
"Buddy, if suspicion alone killed me, I wouldn't have survived grade school."
The air grew heavy, like the whole world was holding its breath.
Colors bled out of the environment, turning grayscale except for a faint red glow creeping along the edges of my vision.
The clouds above shifted into sharp square blocks, jagged pixels cutting across the sky.
Even the bench-cloud hybrid I was sitting on started to glitch, flickering between "bench," "cloud," and, disturbingly,
"Toilet Model Placeholder_003."
I immediately stood up. Some things you don't risk.
[Security Enforcement Protocol: Locking Target.]
A deep vibration thrummed in my chest—not physical, but like a subwoofer blasting error codes directly into my soul.
I knew what was coming.
Every MMO had its version.
Some called them Admin Sentinels, others Anti-Cheat Inquisitors.
Players called them many things, usually involving curses and desperate prayers.
But around here? The name was whispered with the same reverence you'd give a natural disaster.
The Mod Slayer.
The vibration hit first—low, thrumming, like the game's soundtrack had suddenly remembered it was supposed to be ominous.
Then came the light.
Not the warm, friendly kind of light that says,
"Hey, good job completing a quest!" No, this was the sterile, fluorescent-white glare of a pop quiz you didn't study for.
It knifed through the grayscale world and condensed into a humanoid figure, lines of red error code wrapping around its frame like chains.
And just like that, the Mod Slayer stood in front of me.
Imagine a customer service rep, an executioner, and a corrupted loading bar had a baby.
Its "face" was just a flat panel of scrolling text:
[Unauthorized anomaly detected.
Preparing deletion.]
"Uh-huh," I said, scratching my head.
"That's… one way to say hello."
The Mod Slayer didn't blink.
Mainly because it had no eyes.
Its head was a solid block of code lines, scrolling commands in glowing red.
Its hands? Flat polygonal constructs, each one splitting into jagged blades of console text: /ban, /purge, /wipe.
Every step it took toward me left a trail of raw code cracks across the ground, like the world itself was terrified of getting too close.
Meanwhile, I stood there barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, looking like the human embodiment of "five more minutes, please."
"Look," I said, holding up my palms, "I get it.
I'm technically breaking, like, ninety different game laws just by existing.
But in my defense, I was asleep when I did it."
The Mod Slayer raised one blade-hand. A cursor-shaped glyph spun above its head, locking onto me.
[Target Acquired. Commencing purge in…]
3… 2…
I yawned loudly.
Honestly, I wasn't even trying to be brave.
It was just… what else do you do when some glorified IT intern tries to delete your existence? Panic? Too much effort. Cry?
Requires energy. Nah.
Yawning was free.
And that's when it happened.
The countdown stuttered.
Instead of reaching "1," the numbers glitched, jumping backward:
3… 2… 2… 2… 2…
The Mod Slayer's head twitched, red text scrambling like a broken stock ticker.
[Processing error, Delay detected.
Unnatural interference present.]
I blinked, then smirked.
"Ohhh. You're feeling the Aura of Chill, aren't you?"
It didn't respond, obviously.
But the glow around its blade-hand dimmed, lagging like a video buffering on bad Wi-Fi.
"See? Don't fight it, man. Just… relax.
Breathe.
Pretend you're not a cosmic error-sweeper sent to erase me.
Take a nap, delete me later."
For a terrifying admin enforcer, the Mod Slayer was… wobbling.
Literally Its polygonal frame jittered, like even standing upright was suddenly too much effort.
Still, the glow of that deletion beam on its arm was charging, and even a slowed-down death laser was still, well… a death laser.
I rubbed my face. "Great.
The one time my vibes go viral, it's with a murder robot."
The Mod Slayer's blade-hand surged, data streams funneling into a beam of pure admin authority.
The kind of thing that didn't just kill you—it erased your save file, deleted your browsing history, and probably unsubscribed you from your favorite channels out of spite.
[Commencing Deletion Beam.]
A high-pitched whine filled the air, the kind that screams,
"Congratulations, you're about to regret everything."
I braced myself by… slouching harder. If I was going to be obliterated, I wasn't about to stand up for it.
But then the beam stuttered.
Not "missed me" stuttered.
More like "Windows Update froze at 99%" stuttered.
The glow pulsed, dimmed, reignited, then fizzled like a cheap sparkler.
[Error: Execution Lag. Processing…]
I almost laughed. "Oh no. Don't tell me. You caught the chill."
The Mod Slayer's entire frame trembled, red text scrambling across its faceplate.
Its deletion beam flickered between full strength and a sad flashlight setting.
Meanwhile, my system feed chimed:
[Aura of Chill activated.]
Enemy focus reduced by 73%.
Warning: May cause lethargy in hostile AI.
"Hah!" I pointed at it. "See? You're not a Slayer—you're a Slay-zzzzz…" I mimed snoring.
"Bet you didn't account for nap-based warfare."
The Slayer staggered forward, raising its second arm.
Another command etched itself into glowing polygons: /force_quit.
Except instead of unleashing it, the command warped into: /forc… qu… it… before devolving into /fries_quilt.
I blinked. "Fries quilt? What even is that, a food coma DLC?"
The beam sputtered again, missing me by several meters and carving a neat hole into the cobblestones.
The ground didn't even vanish properly—it just turned into a glowing blue checkerboard with "MISSING TEXTURE" stamped across it.
I couldn't help myself. "Buddy, you're supposed to delete me, not the sidewalk."
The Slayer's faceplate glitched again:
[Target must not… resist…]
[Correction: Target must nap…]
I snorted so hard I almost choked.
"You're telling me my passive aura is so strong you're rewriting your own directives to take a nap?"
The world shook as it forced another step closer, arms raised, text spasming, but every motion looked like it was underwater—laggy, tired, half-hearted.
"Look, man," I said, holding my hands up like a teacher calming down a tantrum,
"I respect your dedication.
But seriously. Just… let it go.
Close your little error logs, curl up in your binary bed, and dream of bug-free patches."
For a moment, it almost looked like it listened.
Its glow dimmed, posture slumping.
Then—bam! The deletion beam reignited, sputtering but still charging directly in my face.
I sighed. "Figures.
The one time I actually need to stay lazy, someone insists on doing their job."
The Deletion Beam pulsed in front of me like a really angry flashlight about to go nuclear.
My Aura of Chill was holding it back—barely—but even nap-fueled divine interference has limits.
"Okay, okay…" I muttered, opening my glitch-riddled inventory.
"There has to be something in here besides snacks, dirty socks, and emotional baggage."
The menus flickered, scrolling way too fast, spitting out items I didn't even remember looting:
[Cheese Wheel (Unrefrigerated, Level 3 Rot)]
[Legendary Pillow of Indecision]
[Quest Item: Guy's Left Shoe]
"Yeah, super useful.
I'll just throw a shoe at the death robot.
That'll save me."
And then I saw it.
Tucked between two corrupted file icons, glowing faintly like it knew it was the punchline:
[Bugged Item: Apology Letter (Never Delivered)]
Description: Can resolve any problem by shifting blame elsewhere. One-time use. Possibly cursed.
"…huh." I squinted at it.
"So basically, it's customer service in item form."
The Deletion Beam surged again, heatless but terrifying, buzzing like the universe itself was sharpening an axe.
"Welp. Beats dying."
I clicked Use.
The effect was instant.
The Apology Letter materialized in the Mod Slayer's hands.
A crumpled envelope, off-white, stamped with a logo that looked suspiciously like the system's HR department.
The Slayer froze mid-attack, staring at it as the text on its faceplate scrambled.
[Ticket Received. Processing…]
"Oh my god," I whispered. "It's working.
Bureaucracy is its weakness."
The Slayer twitched, posture shifting from "terminator" to "overworked office drone."
Lines of red code on its body flickered into pale yellow warnings:
[Query: Who is responsible?]
[Blame assignment protocol initiated.]
The envelope unfolded into a cascading stream of error reports, each redirecting responsibility up the chain.
"Not MC's fault."
"See: patch oversight."
"Blame: upper admin."
The Slayer staggered back as if each redirected ticket punched it in the chest.
The Deletion Beam fizzled out, leaving only smoke trails.
[Escalation Denied. Fault redirected to administrator.]
[Error: Unable to override.]
I doubled over laughing. "You're telling me…
I survived the ultimate anti-cheat weapon… with a strongly worded complaint letter?"
The Slayer's glow dimmed to nothing. Its body pixelated, collapsing into a heap of error messages before vanishing into thin air.
The last thing it said was almost… pitiful:
[Closing ticket. Please rate your support experience…]
And then it was gone.
Silence.
I blinked at the empty space, then looked down at my still-glitching inventory.
"Huh. So the moral of the story is: when in doubt, file paperwork."
A new prompt dinged:
[Quest Failed to Delete You]
Reward: Temporary Glitch Immunity (24h).
"Glitch immunity," I repeated, collapsing back onto my bench-cloud.
"So basically… twenty-four hours of nap insurance. I'll take it."
I threw my hood over my eyes and sighed contentedly.
"Best fight ever.
Didn't even have to stand up."
The plaza stayed eerily quiet after the Mod Slayer pixelated into nothing.
No dramatic victory fanfare, no loot drop explosion—just the faint smell of burnt code lingering in the air.
I blinked, looked around, and realized the world hadn't fixed itself.
The bird overhead was still frozen mid-flap.
Vendor #12 still had his jaw hanging open, mumbling "Fresh br–fresh br–fresh br—" like a broken ringtone. .
And my bench-cloud hybrid was still occasionally flickering into "Toilet Placeholder_003."
"Yeah, no," I said, yanking my butt off it before fate decided to trap me in a bathroom asset forever.
My HUD pinged again, spitting out a reward message like it was embarrassed:
[Quest Failed to Delete You]
Reward: Temporary Glitch Immunity (24h).
Bonus: System Respect -1.
"Respect minus one?" I muttered. "Oh, please.
Like the system ever respected me to begin with."
I collapsed backward into the grass—well, the neon placeholder tile pretending to be grass—and sighed.
"That's it. I'm done.
Battle over I win.
Nap time."
But the silence wasn't the peaceful, Aura-of-Chill kind anymore.
It was… watchful.
I felt it before I saw it: eyes.
Lots of them.
When I tilted my head, I noticed NPCs at the edge of the plaza had stopped their glitch loops.
Not fixed—just… aware.
Their eyes buzzed faintly with static, irises shimmering with shifting numbers.
And they were staring right at me.
A butcher's cleaver clattered to the ground.
A child-NPC tugged at her mother's sleeve, whispering something I couldn't catch.
One vendor muttered loud enough for the silence to carry:
"…he survived the Slayer…"
The words hung in the air, heavier than any system prompt.
I swallowed, suddenly wishing my Aura extended to "make people stop staring at me."
Great.
First I accidentally invented nap-based anti-cheat tech, now I've apparently become the neighborhood cryptid.
The silence broke like a bugged audio file.
First, a whisper.
Then another.
Then a whole chorus of low, glitchy voices murmuring across the plaza.
"…he survived the Slayer…"
"…the anomaly still lives…"
"…is he the one?"
I sat up slowly, hoodie falling across my face, squinting at the gathering crowd.
Dozens of NPCs—vendors, guards, even the looping bread guy—were all staring at me now, their eyes shimmering with static.
Every blink glitched, frames skipping like old VHS tapes.
"Oh no," I muttered.
"This feels like the start of a cult meeting."
One guard stepped forward, his armor phasing between polished steel and missing-texture pink.
His voice was layered, overlapping, like a bad voice modulator:
"You Survivor Marked by Chill.
You resisted deletion."
"Correction," I said, raising a finger.
"I procrastinated deletion.
Big difference."
They didn't laugh obviously.
NPCs don't have a sense of humor coded in.
Instead, the whispers grew louder, weaving together into words I really, really didn't want to hear:
"…Prophet…"
"…the one who lags the code…"
"…the Lazy Herald…"
"Whoa, whoa, timeout." I stood up, hands raised. "Prophet? Herald? Look, I'm just a guy who naps aggressively.
If you're looking for a messiah, I'm the worst candidate—unless your religion involves beanbags."
The crowd didn't back off.
If anything, they leaned closer, their glitching forms shimmering like they were halfway between NPC and something… awake.
My system chimed in with the worst possible timing:
[Hidden Quest Triggered: ???]
[Condition Met: Survive the Mod Slayer]
[Result: NPC Awakening Event – Initiated]
My blood ran cold.
Or at least lukewarm to the touch not that I will know.
The guard dropped to one knee.
One by one, the others followed, their voices layering until it felt like the plaza itself was chanting:
"All hail… the Lazy Prophet."
I froze, staring down at them.
My mouth opened in a dramatic way,closed.
Then opened again.
"…Future me," I whispered, "we're so screwed."
Status de energia semanal
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-- Pedra de
Poder