


This city has become a living hell overrun by the infected, but you hid yourself in the Golden Shield Shelter before the disaster struck, shutting out all the chaos beyond its high walls.

FictorYou came looking for a missing man. At low tide you'll count the surnames — the one that's gone matches yours.
Fictor
FictorA jade hairpin shattered in the Imperial Garden — whoever picks up the pieces will decide who survives in the inner palace.
Fictor
FictorBy page seven, the book will have turned to your page first — black sheep go missing at night because something below the fog is counting how many are left.
Fictor
Freely experience an endless and colorful adventure and build 'Isora' as you wish.

FictorThe dark lord's weekly presentation crashed at the critical moment again — now HR wants a full debrief.
Fictor
FictorEvery time you bully someone, you owe them a debt; only when they bully you worse can you collect the whole account—principal and interest.
Fictor
FictorThe dragon's general also came through the rift — and he learned to kill with an app.
Fictor
FictorOnly memories allowed to flow can keep shining.
Fictor
Beneath the wisteria fragrance of the abandoned shrine hides a daughter who refuses to die.

FictorTo seal the Rift, enemies who've hated each other for centuries must shake hands — and the one who most wants you to fail is standing on your side.
Fictor
FictorEvery wish is granted here, without exception — except yours, because someone already wished that only theirs would be.
Fictor
You wake up in a strange, eerie chamber, and the only way out is to drink a poisonous blood soup—but first you must find the poison and the human blood, and decide who will drink it.

One grain convoy, three factions covet it—who is the mastermind?

A stolen beam of light plunges you into the Underdark's intrigue

FictorIn this town, villains eventually trip themselves up—your job is to pick a dignified time and place for the fall.
Fictor
Follow a load of sand to the very end — to where the tower's bell can no longer be heard.

That human voice behind the wall has been sounding for forty years; after the Winter Dry, it will be buried in mud.

A forty-day window, a thing wedged in for too long, and a story no one is willing to tell.

Inside the container dug out from beneath the polar ice cap, something is breathing. And the people who want it knew before you did.

Eight names are on the register besides yours. After seven ebb tides, the names that can still be written split the weir equally.