Shin_Ou

Lothair is a serial killer who detest imperfection on human’s facial features, which resulted in him having a compulsory behavior of wanting to strip people’s faces. 

After he dies, he finds himself as Narcissus, a beautiful and adorable female NPC inside a state-of-the-art VRMMO world of the latest craze called Fallen Carcosa Online. 

But despite being a fantasy-filled game, the world feels strangely realistic. 

Too realistic, even. 

Game-like systems and magic exist but so do plagues, politics, economy, and the horror hidden in plain sight. 

When pried open, an actual human-like anatomy can be seen beyond the skin of the NPC’s face—with little to no censor. 

Everything feels too immersive. 

Except Narcissus, Lothair’s new identity. 

When Narcissus tried to scrape off the face of her new adorable body, she found an abyssal void with little to no end. 

This story marks the birth for the King in Yellow.

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Warning, this story contain: Male-to-Female Genderbend, GL/Yuri, Occasional Futa MC, Yanderes, Harem, Self-Cest.

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Follow the creative and attentive Narcissus, a nuanced former serial-killer who will gradually becomes stronger, experienced, maddening, horrifying, but also mature, wise, conflicted, and complex—in this near-endless journey. 

Where souls unsung and tears unshed. 

In the land of Lost Carcosa.

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This story is going on an indefinite hiatus.

Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO

The dim glow of the holographic screens flickered across Viviane's chambers, casting shifting patterns of soft golden light against the walls. The air carried a faint, herbal fragrance—something subtle, yet grounding, an intentional contrast to the overwhelming sterility of the Landship's more mechanical sectors.

Ishmael stood in the center of the room, her posture composed yet wary, her sharp gaze shifting between the floating streams of data surrounding Viviane. Though she masked it well, there was a weight behind her stance—an unspoken caution, as if she had been called into something far more significant than she had anticipated.

Viviane, ever composed, remained seated at her desk, her hands gently clasped together as she observed the fragmented information suspended in the air before her. The holographic scripts wavered in a chaotic pattern, shifting symbols bleeding into one another, some distorting entirely into incomprehensible voids of static.

Through The Roundabout