Day 65.
Raven didn't wake from a nightmare.
He woke because of a laugh that wasn't his.
It echoed through the corridor—part baby's wail, part animal's groan—forced into the shape of a smile.
This was Level 83.
Known among narrators as The Hall of Laughter, a zone where survivors were not killed, but driven insane.
And in the middle of that blood-slicked hallway, stood an entity.
Dressed like a clown.
Red-and-black uniform. A rotating mask—joy, sorrow, rage, silence—all shifting by the second.
A002N Scary Clown.
Class: Normal/Hard.
Zone: Survival. Mode: Hunting.
"Raven… Raven… Raven…" the voice sang like a broken music box from hell.
He ran. But not fast enough.
He was caught. And the world went black.
---
Day One.
Raven was bound with threads of laughter—thin, sharp wires that sliced deeper with each breath.
The Scary Clown danced before him, stabbing his feet again and again with a small knife.
Laughing.
Every stab felt more personal. More humiliating. More… degrading.
"Why aren't you laughing?" the Clown asked. "I'm trying to entertain you!"
---
Day Two.
Raven was forced to dance.
On fractured legs. Each step snapped like dry twigs. The Clown accompanied him with organ music made from previous victims.
When he collapsed, the Clown would burn a part of his body.
Then freeze it.
Then burn it again.
A cycle of torment.
---
Day Three.
He was carved open from shoulder to stomach.
No anesthetic. No mercy.
The Clown whispered:
"Everyone in Level Space has a role.
Me? I entertain.
You? You suffer."
"And you do it beautifully."
Raven wanted to die.
But his body refused.
Something inside him began to react—his blood, his heart. Parts that should've been dead... grew back.
Torn flesh sealed. Shattered bones fused.
But the pain didn't fade.
It doubled.
Every regeneration was a new lash.
"Funny, huh?" the Clown said, twisting his neck. "Most victims die. But you... you're improving.
Still... why that face?"
Raven didn't answer.
His eyes were red.
Not from anger.
But from pain that never left.
Each regrown nerve screamed louder than before. And he felt it all.
The Clown giggled.
"You... you're my favorite now."
---
Day Four.
Raven didn't rise to fight.
Not out of weakness.
But because he was learning.
Each stab that broke a rib—he studied the angle.
Each drop of blood—he timed the healing.
And when the Clown reached to carve his face again...
Raven bit into his own hand.
Tore off a finger with his teeth.
Endured the pain with open eyes.
Blood gushed.
And the finger grew back.
While his mind stayed clear.
The Clown stared, giggling. "Are you ready to die now?"
Raven locked eyes with him. "You can't kill me."
The Clown's grin twitched. For the first time... he didn't laugh.
"Why not?"
Raven rose, slowly, limbs trembling but alive:
"Because every time I die… I grow deeper."
The Clown struck—faster than light.
But Raven saw it coming.
Fresh wounds bloomed.
But this time, he didn't scream.
He just breathed. Through the pain.
And smiled.
His body was torn apart. But he stood.
The Clown stepped back. He didn't fear power.
He feared those who embraced suffering.
And Raven… feared nothing now.
He was a being that couldn't stop hurting.
And that… made him eternal.
"Run," Raven whispered, his body soaked in blood, still healing. "Before I learn how to carve you."
And for the first time…
The Scary Clown vanished.
Without a laugh.
Raven collapsed. Knees buckled. His whole frame trembled from pain.
But he was alive.
And in that blood-drenched hallway, he laughed.
Not like a clown.
But like a creature who knew
Pain is the only teacher that never lies.