Chapter 1: Resurrection and Betrayal

For twenty years, I raised a prince in a text game, guiding him every step until he became president. But when he reached the top, he looked down at me and said he didn’t need me anymore. The minute he ordered my statue smashed, I put in for a refund—hey, minors get special treatment, right?

Exactly twenty-four hours later, that so-called president was on his knees in front of my busted statue, begging me to forgive him. Too late, pal. I was already deep into a brand new game—and I left a review in the app store that’d make your grandma blush.

I’m obsessed with text games. These days, they’d almost disappeared—until AI brought them roaring back. Suddenly, text games weren’t just clunky nostalgia—they adapted to you, every choice branching off like a choose-your-own-adventure fever dream. It was like diving into your own universe, every option echoing back in ways you never saw coming. That thrill? Addictive as diner coffee on a winter morning.

The promo for “Crescent Moon” promised ten billion male leads. Sure, and I’ve got beachfront property in Nebraska. But the pixel art was gorgeous, and the dev team was this scrappy little crew from Minnesota. Supporting indie games felt right, so I bought it the second it dropped. Can’t call yourself a real fan if you don’t jump in on day one.

After picking my gender, the screen exploded with a swirl of cosmic colors. Stars spun across my phone, set to a low synth hum that made me feel like I was about to board the Millennium Falcon. I couldn’t help but grin.

[Dear VIP user, your exclusive save file is being generated. This is an irreversible timeline; every decision you make will have consequences.]

[Now, please enter keywords:]

Curiosity got the best of me. I typed in [historical], [alternate reality], [political intrigue], [urban fantasy], [American folklore], [fantasy], and a couple extras. As soon as I confirmed, the game started to load.

My fingers danced over the keys, adding [gothic], [mystery], and for fun, [road trip]. The game engine whirred, like it was sizing me up.

[Year 336 of the Great States Union. The First Lady, obsessed with immortality, commands the eight great families to construct the Blood Moon Memorial, seeking the path to eternal life.]

[Conscription, massive construction, bones buried beneath soaring towers.]

[Beneath the shining city, the people suffer.]

[Above the government, wolves feast on their salaries.]

[You are a broken clay statue.]

[By chance, you gain a spark of divinity through worship.]

[Between angel and demon lies a single thought. You may be the source of chaos, or the guardian who saves all.]

[Now, a child approaches.]

The screen flickered to a ruined chapel—crooked beams, shattered stained glass, the kind of place you’d stumble across on a haunted road trip through Appalachia. Sunlight slashed through holes in the roof, dust swirling in the air like ghosts.

[Do you want to listen to what he’s saying?]

I clicked [Yes]. The screen froze on the boy’s earnest face. “Great Spirit, my dad made the mayor mad and was taken away to work on the Memorial. Please bless my dad to come home soon.”

He looked about eight or nine, dirt streaked across his cheeks and patched jeans swallowing his legs. His voice trembled with hope—kids always have a way of believing in miracles.

On the voice-reading screen, I saw:

[Monotone reading: $0.99.]

[Emotional reading: $1.99.]

[Voice pack matching the character: $4.99.]

[Exclusive custom voice: $9.99 per person.]

For nine bucks, that voice better read me bedtime stories and do my taxes. Besides, my wallet was already hurting after splurging on that fancy new gaming chair that barely fit between my radiator and the window AC in my Brooklyn apartment. I clicked past.

Next, the child stood and started sweeping the chapel floor. Three options popped up below:

[You are being worshipped.]

[Option 1: Consume flesh and blood.]

[Option 2: Consume candle smoke.]

[Option 3: Do nothing.]

His shirt hung off one shoulder, altar just a plank on cinder blocks. No candles, just a half-burned birthday candle from a gas station cupcake. Option one? Way too Silence of the Lambs. I picked [Consume candle smoke.]

[You tasted the nonexistent candle smoke. Divine power +0.]

[You may still choose to consume flesh and blood.]

The UI pulsed, tempting me to go dark. My stomach twisted—no way I was hurting this kid, even for digital power.

Killing NPCs is usually no big deal. But he called me Great Spirit and cleaned my house! I remembered naming my Tamagotchi after my neighbor’s dog—couldn’t let it die, even if it was just pixels. Maybe I’m getting soft.

I chose to do nothing. The boy put the broom aside, the place spotless. He ducked his head, folding his hands the way church kids do at Sunday school, lips moving in a shaky prayer. “Great Spirit, Andy will visit you again next time. I hope you too will be safe and well.”

He smoothed his hair, glancing back like he wanted a miracle. It actually got to me—a little too real for a game.

As he turned to leave, a new narration flashed: [There is no next time.]

The text felt heavy, like a midnight church bell.

Then came the gut-punch: a coyote—how long had it been lurking outside the chapel?—leapt out and bit off the boy’s head, flashing me a mocking grin.

The illustration was brutal—cartoonish, but chilling. The coyote’s eyes glowed ember-red, its teeth glinting like the shattered chapel cross.

I realized I’d seen those eyes in the earlier scene—two red dots lurking outside. I hadn’t clicked. Maybe I could’ve saved Andy. That regret hit hard—the image of Andy’s hopeful eyes burned behind my eyelids. I stared at the screen, fists clenched. I could almost smell the musty chapel air, thick with regret.

My first instinct was to reload—but there’s no save scumming here.

It’s that sinking feeling, like realizing your phone’s at 2% and you left your charger at home. No do-overs.

Narration:

[There are many monsters in the wild.]

[The flesh and blood you refused fell into the coyote demon’s jaws.]

[It is about to leave.]

That’s it? No way this coyote gets a free pass.

I jabbed at the screen so hard I almost spilled my cold brew. No one eats my worshippers and walks away.

I opened the item shop and dropped $1.99 without blinking.

[You used a disposable item: Quartering Rope on the coyote demon.]

[Generate illustration?]

You bet. If I’m paying, I want to see the carnage.

Next second, the coyote demon was bound by vines and torn limb from limb outside the chapel, pain and terror twisting its face.

My stomach flipped, but I couldn’t look away. Even in pixels, revenge felt messy. The background music dropped to a discordant thrum.

[It begs for mercy, hoping you’ll spare it.]

A speech bubble popped up: “Mercy, please!” But I was already set.

Choose: Don’t spare.

The coyote was ripped apart, flesh and guts flying—mercifully mosaicked. Guess the devs didn’t want angry emails from parents. Still, I could picture the mess. Digital karma’s a beast.

[You executed the coyote demon and found a demon core the size of a fingernail in its body. Eat it?]

A loot drop! A statue can’t get food poisoning, right? I clicked to eat.

[Your demon power +15.]

[When demon power reaches 200, you may transform and take your first step out of the chapel.]

Finally, a clear goal. I love when games lay out the grind—makes it feel possible.

I checked my stats:

[Demon power: 50; Divine power: 5]

So I’m not OP from the start? If there were manual saves, I’d have rage-quit already.

Games love to humble you. Just when you think you’re hot stuff, they knock you down a peg.

I hopped onto the forums—some wild playthroughs out there, even unlocking restricted scenes like [Imprisonment] and [Tentacles]. Always mosaicked. Some players are way too into this. One meme had the coyote demon on a Lost Dog flyer. Internet never loses.

Back in game, I skipped ahead seven days. A new prompt:

[An unnamed female corpse has been found nearby. You may possess it (demon power -50).]

Finally, some progress! I clicked possess, no hesitation.

The scene went pitch black—a cramped space.

[You are now in a coffin. Push it open?]

Is that even a question? I hammered [Push open].

My phone vibrated, the screen trembling as splinters of light crept in. Creepy? Sure. But I’ve seen worse in indie horror.

The scene switched outside the coffin. The pallbearers were already running for their lives. “Oh no, the young woman’s come back to life!”

They dropped the lid and bolted, like teens at a busted house party. I could almost hear the banjo twang.

Then the camera zoomed in—one guy hadn’t run. His eyes lit up. “Maggie, thank goodness you’re alive! Your dad agreed to let us get married.”

He held a white embroidered ball, one end tied to me, the other to him. “See? Now we can be together.”

So, less than an hour out of the grave, and someone’s already trying to marry me off? Classic.