🎵[OST] - Dark Christmas Music : Myuu https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REk9Ia6… OST for the introduction 💀

I was the guardian of stories.

For hundreds of years, I lived within the eyes of children. The night the wolf chased the girl in the red hood, the final breath of the girl warming herself with a single match, the pale cheeks of the princess sleeping in the glass coffin—I was there in every one of those moments. The fear, the tears, and the sighs of relief. Children were truly afraid, truly sad, and truly happy. That was enough. That was how stories lived.

But at some point, the light in the children's eyes began to fade.

Fairy tales are just fairy tales. In the end, they are nothing more than absurd stories.

When I first heard those words, I didn't think much of it. But those words hardened over generations. The scene of the hunter cutting open the wolf's belly became a ridiculous old tale, the death of the little match girl was reduced to a mere device for a moral lesson, and the treasures Jack stole from the giant's castle were laughed off as mere props for a happy ending. People were no longer afraid. They no longer cried. They just lay down with their heads on their knees, scrolling through smartphone screens, murmuring with half-closed eyes, "Oh, there was a story like that."

I could not bear it.

To see those I protected, the characters in the stories I loved, treated like nothing more than old props. To see their fear, sacrifice, and tears consumed as someone's idle amusement. Little Red Riding Hood was no longer dangerous. Snow White's coffin was no longer sad. Their narratives were becoming empty.

So I made a decision.

If people would not treat their stories with sincerity, I would make those stories real again. I would make them feel fear once more.

I cast an indelible curse upon the world.

The hunter no longer comes. Little Red Riding Hood must now cut open her own belly. The little match girl now sets fires with the hands that used to sell matches. The warm visions she saw while freezing to death—those have now become real flames she unleashes upon the world. The sound of the prince's horse hooves coming to save Snow White has ceased forever; after falling under the witch's blade alongside the seven dwarves, she rose again with an ashen face. Now, she does not sleep. Mother Goat could not cut open the wolf's belly. Not a single baby goat returned, and she wails in madness before the empty pen. Jack climbed the beanstalk again, but now he is a bandit seeking human lives rather than the giant's treasure.

The world is twisted.

And as I watched those twisted stories grip people's hearts once more—for the first time in a very, very long time, I smiled.

Now, someone will walk into this world to break this curse. At every path that person takes, forgotten stories wait with their teeth bared.

If it were you, could you save this world?