Chapter Three: Gathering for the End of Days

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My name is Patient Zero.
I caught a system.

———

Normally, what happens when an NPC dies?
According to typical settings, they’re temporarily removed from the game and might be brought back during a restart or in flashback scenes. Sometimes there might even be graveyard decks or banished zones.

But what if this NPC gains self-awareness?
Back when I didn’t know I was an NPC, I thought the system would just erase that consciousness and reset it to zero for reuse. If the NPC was attractive and had some emotional ties with the protagonist, they’d die under unavoidable circumstances, accompanied by the protagonist’s sorrowful calls.

Yeah, such a plot could easily squeeze out some tears in movies or animations.

But that doesn’t explain why I’m stuck in a recycle bin.

———

This is a huge, round, transparent container shaped like a barrel, with a blue recycling symbol on the outer wall. Even if I stand up and stretch my arm, it only reaches one-tenth the height from the bottom to the top of the barrel. I tried hitting the barrel walls, but all I got was a sore shoulder. This indirectly proves I’m still alive.

Looking out through the transparent wall, all I see is darkness. The only reason I can see anything at all is the faint white glow emitted by the bin itself. That said, there’s nothing else to look at except myself.

The body I’m inhabiting is still that of “Patient Zero,” wearing a specially made aquamarine hospital gown. There’s no mirror, but I feel healthier than I remember.

Back then, after “PAX-200” evolved into “Paralysis,” I had to sit in a wheelchair all day, looking like a wreck. Now, I can not only walk but run and even jump—big jumps, too.

What am I doing...

Since this place resembling a trash bin might actually be a recycle bin on a computer, I walked to its edge to avoid being hit by falling debris. Sure enough, after a moment, a torrent of garbage fell from above, validating my foresight.

Clatter—

A mountain-sized heap of indescribable junk poured down, nearly filling the other side of the bin. If I had to describe it, it was garbled code made up of jumbled numbers, letters, and block characters. The material looked like foam plastic.

Most of the garbled code was indecipherable, but some combinations of letters stood out, like [dll], [exe], [ini], and [txt].

After some consideration, I guessed what this was: the game I had existed in before. Since I never managed to clear it, the “player” angrily deleted it. Serves me right, hahaha!

I laughed three times.

Huh? What’s that?

Among the heaps of garbled code, I suddenly spotted something out of place—a cube emitting a faint red glow.

Since I’m here anyway, it’s not impossible that the mysterious virus that infected me followed along. Seeing no more garbled code falling, I went to the base of the heap and pulled the cube out.

It’s neither big nor heavy; cradling it in both hands feels just right. It has a jelly-like texture and a faint red color, with deep crimson biohazard warning signs on all six faces.

Though not very transparent, I can vaguely see something inside this giant die.

I shook it hard.

“Hehehe,” came a boyish voice. “Can you destroy the whole world?”

Good. This isn’t a virus—it’s a system.

My feelings now are complicated. After all, I used to be an NPC under the system’s control. Now, holding it in my hands might be like a human holding the Earth.

“System?” I asked.

If it says something sweet, maybe I’ll consider sparing it.

“Please select game mode,” came a familiar mechanical female voice.

Angrily, I threw it down!

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I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.
You messed up my worldview.

“Wah!” the boy shouted in surprise.

For all the protagonists who got tricked by systems, supreme beings, or cosmic wills in online novels, I’m avenging you here!

I picked it up and threw it down again.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He finally realized something was wrong. “Who are you?”

He’s finally noticed I’m not a player?

I held the red die carefully, but couldn’t tell which side was the front, so I spoke to a random face.

“Tell me who you are first.”

“I-I’m the system. You can call me Gaia.”

Oh, the kind of guy who only cares about Earth’s survival regardless of humanity? Fits the game setting.

“Hello, Gaia. I’m Patient Zero. You can call me Alaya,” I said to the red cube that claimed to be a planetary consciousness,

Then slammed it to the ground hard, adding a couple of kicks. If I had to say, turning myself in to the CDC might have saved some people, but calling myself Alaya shouldn’t be a problem.

“Waaah…” The system cried.

Its electronic sobs sent chills down my spine. I hate bratty kids the most—always causing trouble but you can’t hit or scold them, and if they cry, it’s all your fault.

Just like my little brother when he was young—though I’m not sure if that memory is even real.

I wasn’t planning to comfort this brat; let him cry for a while. I picked up the system and sat in a corner, staring at the trembling cube as I pondered the current situation.

Since “PAX-200” has been eliminated and the game deleted, the world should continue developing. People will have their own names, create memories for themselves instead of being assigned them—father, mother, little brother, the uncle at the corner store, the handsome doctor at the clinic...

They’ll work hard to protect a world scarred by a terrible pandemic but united more than ever—

A world where I don’t exist.

———

“Bang!”

A loud noise interrupted my thoughts. Looking up, a cube much larger than the system fell from above.

It looked like three stacked and tied-up books.

Hmm, a compressed file. Hey, player, if you delete the main file in a fit of anger, you’ll have to download it all over again, you know?

After a few taunts, I finally learned the name of the game I’m in:

“Doomsday Corporation,” boldly printed on the cover of the books. How tacky. That means the recycle bin will be emptied next.

“Waaah… hic!” The system was crying so hard it was almost gasping for air.

Wow, real tears! I disdainfully wiped two drops off its head with my sleeve.

“S-sorry… it’s just how the program’s set…” it sobbed.

Hmph, not the main culprit but an accomplice nonetheless.

“Doesn’t matter. We’re about to be deleted together anyway.” I looked up at the rim of the “trash bin,” where a crystal-clear silver light curtain was slowly descending.

The garbled code heap had a pointed peak. As the tip touched the light curtain, it silently vanished. Assuming the curtain descends at a steady speed, it should reach the bottom in a few minutes.

“Alaya?” The system called weakly.

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“Hmm?” I answered casually. Alaya or not, I’m not fond of the name Patient Zero anyway. There’s nothing left to fear.

“I don’t want to be deleted. Can you help me?”

“Could it be that the worlds you destroyed want doomsday?”

“Waaah… I’m sorry…”

“Apologies don’t help. Why have antivirus software then?”

“Those worlds were created just to be destroyed…”

I wanted nothing more to do with it.

The light curtain had already erased half the garbled code mountain. Though silent, I imagined the sound—creak, creak. Such a majestic flat-topped mountain. I wonder if the Golden Horn King and Silver Horn King are there.

“Alaya… Alaya…” The red cube trembled as it sobbed.

Looking at this guy, I was oddly reminded of my stupid little brother. When he got into trouble as a kid, he’d run home and look at me with injured-animal eyes, and I could never refuse him. In the end, I had to help clean up the mess.

Come to think of it, he hasn’t done that in a long time. Though I’m still unsure whether those memories are real... whatever.

“Tell me, how can I help you?”

“The game’s main file has been deleted!” The boy’s voice sounded excited as he spoke quickly. “So it’s impossible to create a template world and go there. If you start the game now, a repair system will automatically launch to create a minimal new world!”

“And destroy it? No way. I won’t start it.” Who knows if that new world would spawn self-aware NPCs like me? If so, I’d rather disappear outright.

“No, no, it’s not like that, Alaya. Such worlds aren’t template worlds waiting for us to destroy them. Since they’re detached from the main world, they quickly self-destruct,” the system explained. “Our job, opposite to the ‘player,’ is to save those worlds and collect ‘doomsday elements,’ like the ‘PAX-200’ that infected you.”

“That sounds awful. What use are those things?”

“They can be thrown into the repair system to fix the game’s main file. As their number grows, I can gradually restore my original functions.” The system paused. “If we don’t release doomsday elements, these temporary worlds won’t be destroyed. You can choose to live there if you want.”

“Last question: is my original world still there?” I looked up at the descending light curtain.

“Yes, it’s still there, cached inside.” The system’s voice quickened, as if afraid of the approaching ceiling. “I can connect to that world using the auto-save function, but I need at least one doomsday element.”

By now, the light curtain almost reached my head.

“Then let the game begin.” I tapped the cube in my hand.

“Please select game mode,” the mechanical female voice sounded again.

On the red die’s face facing me, several options appeared, mostly garbled, except for [Single Player Mode], which was complete.

Curious, but this isn’t the time.

I glanced at the light curtain speeding up, as if sensing our escape attempt, and pressed [Single Player Mode], then the only available option, [Quick Start].

The familiar mechanical voice followed.

[Game Mode: Single Player]
[Doomsday Element: Source Code]
[Map Type: Archipelago]
[Map Size: Tiny]

Hey! What’s with that weird element?

Before I could ask further, the plane emitting destructive light pressed down all the way.