[The next round shall commence in:]
[31:53:12]
After my conversation with Bachulus, I left the chamber to see that Harriet was crouching, her back pressed on the wall.
Her expression perked up once she saw me.
"You’re back!" said Harriet, happy-go-lucky.
I could only give a tired smile as I raised the stack of papers in my hand.
I could not help but think of what Bachulus said to me.
She squealed when she saw the stack of papers.
"You spoke with the angel?"
Nodding, I said, "He gave me clarity on a handful of things as well as this manuscript."
It was too vague for me to understand, but I had a feeling I knew what it meant.
The way it lingered in my mind...I had to prepare for the worst.
It will happen soon, I was sure of it.
[Chapter One, The Advent of the Knight, has concluded]
Bachulus knew of the reality we were in.
And, mostly, knew of the novel, Imperfections of a Knight.
Most nephilim knew, apparently.
Even he himself wasn’t aware how.
However, he did claim to not believe everything I saw, not even the memories I hold.
[Do not think yourself higher just because you know more. In this world, fictional or not, we all live it.]
But, one thing is more certain than the other.
"Huh..?"
Harriet, who had stood up earlier to greet me, fell to the ground.
The title that appeared and could only be seen by me hovered above my sight. Just above Harriet’s head whose body was now splattered on the rocky ground.
"I feel rather dizzy."
That is that I will never forgive whoever made my novel a reality and the one that gave me a chance to face my actions alongside my regrets.
And...that I will never forget her.
But, most importably, I will never forgive myself.
"Hey, Reve?"
Yes?
"Are you still there...?"
Parts of her body faded and granules of it flew across us like blowing a dandelion. Strange, for there was no zephyr in this dungeon.
Yes, I’m here.
"I can’t hear you..."
I’m right here, Harriet.
I was devastated, but I had no willpower to approach her.
I shouldn’t let myself get hurt any further.
The scene reminded me of my mother who, though sickly, was always at home.
Despite her depleting energy and life essence, she would leave the hospital to clean our tiny home.
They say that love begets love.
If you treat people with respect you will surely earn theirs.
What about me, who was born not out of love but out of disrespect?
Am I doomed to receive the complete opposite of love begets love?
Will I instead get resentment?
My elder brother, Levi, never spoke of it, but I knew the whole story.
"Reve..."
Yes?
I’ve always been a writer at heart, after all.
I always watched people with a scope, analyzing their every move and thought.
And I may sort of be a liar, but you need to be a liar to tell the story the right way anyways.
My experience with love may have been scarce and complex, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to experience it.
More than anything else, I wanted to be there for the people I love.
"Reve..."
The soft mutterings of Harriet who lay on the floor could be heard. Gradually her body dissolved into nothing.
I was sure Harriet, who happened to be fictional and created through the tapping of a keyboard in which the author’s love had manifested consciousness in, felt the same as me.
It was more painful than I could imagine.
Our relationship only lasted less than a day.
Our worlds only clashed because I had fallen in love with a woman I’ve only seen once, resulting in inspiration.
I did not fumble her or whatever the kids say.
Our relationship was nothing more but reciprocated touches and stolen glances.
She didn’t lose me.
I lost her.
We could’ve been something, I thought.
I dropped to my knees along with the manuscript, flung into the air.
Pressing my hands together, I prayed to the angels.
Please, I begged, don’t take that existence built on my own lies from me.
For once in less than a decade, I felt like crying on the remnants of dust that came from Harriet.
Though, none came out.
I only felt a deep sunken feeling in my chest as though my ribcage held no heart, as though I was hollow deep inside.
Clutching my own chest, my thoughts went on a rampage. I looked down—I had to. I couldn’t take the scene like I always did when watching or reading violent films or prose.
I had always been indifferent, stoic. So why couldn’t that trait of mine appear right now?
It hurt so bad.
It made me not want to be around anyone.
It made me dislike the idea of camaraderie.
In a game of purgatory like the rounds, was I really bound to feel this way more frequently?
When I would lose my comrades, would this be how it felt?
In a world where I ran towards the back of the lady and entered the hospital as I led her to where she wanted, I am loved and I moved on from my mother and brother’s death.
Would that world never encounter such an evil idea as the rounds?
A butterfly effect wherein if I had more confidence, it would have never come to life, this Imperfect Knight?
I’m unsure.
Harriet coughed, her lower body no longer visible and now translucent.
But I am sure of one thing, and that was:
Harriet’s death was a slow one.
[Non-playable characters have been withdrawn from the map]
A ghostwriter and a ghost of an existence, a fictional character even.
Both of us were never meant to pass each other, to have met.
We were strangers who happened to know each other’s stories, one simply happened to be aware of the other’s existence and one created that very existence.
But all’s well ends well. It doesn’t matter.
There is no more "us." No more "together."
Our chances of fruitful love disappeared alongside herself that day.