CHAPTER 291: APOCALYPSE ROMANCE 1

[Denied!]

[Denied!]

[Denied!]

I stared at the giant mission screen, my jaw tightening as the same message blinked at me for the tenth time. Maybe twentieth. Who knew anymore?

REJECTION.

Every time I pressed an S-rank storyline, the screen responded with that cold, heartless word.

"Come on!" I muttered, jabbing the glowing panel harder. "What do you mean, rejection? I’ve cleared two Rank-A worlds already with perfect scores. What more do you want, my kidneys?"

The answer was the same.

Rejection. Stars insufficient. Complete 10 Rank-A worlds first.

I groaned, slapping a hand to my forehead. "Damn it. Guess no Rank-S for now."

The mission screen, massive as a cinema wall, displayed countless worlds in rotating panels of color—each with its own title, rank, and requirements.

The Rank-S missions taunted me like locked endgame raids in an MMO. All glowing. All glorious. All out of reach.

Fine. If I couldn’t play S-rank yet, then it was back to Rank-A.

I sighed, dragging my finger across the holographic interface to browse the list. "Okay . . . no boring modern non-magical slice-of-life trash, please. I didn’t come here to roleplay accounting software."

Dozens of worlds flickered past. Ancient kingdoms dripping with magic. Noir cyberpunk sci-fi. Fantasy deserts filled with cursed ruins.

Then—

"Oh-ho," I breathed, my eyes lighting up.

There it was. The perfect world.

My fingers tapped it instantly. Yep, this was the one.

Unlike Rank-S missions, which sometimes required multiple hosts to cooperate, most Rank-A worlds were solo campaigns.

Sure, a few Rank-A options let you pair up with other hosts . . . but since I didn’t know anyone here yet (and wasn’t particularly in the mood to babysit some stranger who might stab me in the back for stars), solo sounded perfect.

Besides, this storyline was exactly my style.

"Time to dive in," I grinned, hitting ACCEPT MISSION.

The system beeped, prompting me to submit my choice at the front desk.

The clerk—a cheerful woman who looked way too chipper for someone working in cosmic customer service—beamed when she scanned my mission.

"Wonderful choice! Please make sure you have the necessary items before you depart."

"Uh . . . about that," I scratched my cheek, a little sheepish. "I don’t exactly have many stars saved up right now."

She didn’t even blink. "That’s fine. First-timers are eligible for a loan from the shop. You can borrow one item and pay the required stars in installments."

My eyes widened. "Wait—so I can go shopping on credit?!"

She smiled patiently. "Yes. But only one item, and it must not exceed five hundred stars."

That was all I needed to hear. I bolted straight to the shop.

It was everything I dreamed of and more—rows upon rows of glowing artifacts, magical weapons, talismans, futuristic tech gadgets, even potions in swirling neon colors. Like a fantasy armory and sci-fi mall had merged into one glorious geek paradise.

I knew exactly what I wanted. And just my luck—they had it.

The price tag? A cool 500 stars.

The terms? Ten stars deducted every time I cleared a world, until the debt was gone.

Sounded doable. I signed without hesitation.

With everything ready, I headed back to the mission department where staff members guided me into a teleportation pod.

The pod looked like a futuristic elevator car—sleek, metallic, and glowing with strange symbols along its edges. I stepped in, heart racing. The door closed, and with a low hum, the world blurred away.

Unlike the painful stomach-punch of earlier teleportations, this one was smoother—like slipping into sleep. My consciousness faded, and when it returned . . .

I was somewhere else.

I gasped, blinking hard as my vision adjusted.

The fluorescent lights. The smell of burnt coffee. The hum of computers.

I was sitting at a desk in an office cubicle. A corporate hellscape.

Alright, I know I said no modern, non-magical worlds—but this one was different. This wasn’t some boring office drama where the biggest challenge was fighting for the boss’s affection. No. This was a countdown to the end of everything.

This was an apocalyptic world.

At least a month from now.

And in exactly one month, everything around me—this office, these people, the normal lives they clung to—would collapse into chaos.

My lips curled into a grin. "Now that’s more like it."

I always loved apocalyptic games. Zombie outbreaks, crumbling cities, desperate survival, betrayals in the dark—yeah, this was my kind of playground.

Right now, though, I was just a normal woman stuck in the grind of corporate life. I wore a bland blouse, my hair tied back in a boring ponytail, and my computer screen glowed with spreadsheets that made me want to die already.

But I knew the truth.

In thirty days, the world would burn.

And I couldn’t wait.

I resigned from my job the next day. The HR lady looked at me like I’d lost my mind—maybe I had—but I wasn’t about to waste my last month of civilization trapped in a cubicle answering emails that wouldn’t matter when the world burned.

Walking back to my apartment, I kept mumbling under my breath, ticking off a list like some half-crazed prepper.

"Water, canned goods, medical kits, batteries, power banks, duct tape, crossbow—oh, and maybe a crowbar. Can’t face an apocalypse without a good crowbar. Staple weapon."

I paused, typing the whole list into my phone like the responsible soon-to-be survivor I was.

My neighbors passed me on the street, oblivious, carrying groceries and gossiping about TV shows. Poor souls. They didn’t know the clock was ticking.

Of course, I still had no idea who the villain was. That was the thrill of it. The "fun" part of these Rank-A worlds—the villain wasn’t printed in neon lights for me.

No, they could be anyone. A stranger. A coworker. A neighbor. Maybe even my new crush at the convenience store. The mystery kept things spicy . . . and slightly terrifying.

But right now, villain-hunting wasn’t my main concern. Supplies came first. A fortress second. My plan? Find some abandoned house on the edge of the city, fortify it with metal sheets, barbed wire, and maybe a "Keep Out or I’ll Bite" sign to keep survivors away.

Because if there’s one thing apocalypse games taught me, it’s that humans are sometimes worse than the zombies.

I clutched my bag and grinned. "Alright. Time to get into character."

And then, like some cursed inner voice I didn’t ask for, I heard that damn bunny in my ear.

"Good luck, host . . . and remember . . . the villains must win . . ."

I stopped dead in the middle of the street. "Seriously?!" I whispered harshly. People glanced my way, thinking I was just another crazy woman.