[The next round shall commence in:]
[31:22:17]
At that moment, I took my time leaving the dungeon, the remnants of Harriet van Gogh gone as fast as we met.
Shuffling the manuscript, Art of Languages, into a neat stack, I left with no fear that I’d run into the others.
I took a sip of the leftover water in the canteen Harriet had left behind and only took a gander of our leftover biscuits.
It was a broken feeling to have. The others must have had the same demise.
I now understood why Kim and Jim could not be seen around me when the first round had concluded.
This time, I didn’t bother to look around for any remains. I would only be hurt.
Bachulus gave me plenty of warnings.
[Never get too attached] was what he said when he warned me about the demise of fictitious characters.
They do not live beyond their respective Chapters.
Bound to be forgotten.
I decided to walk around the dungeon some more before leaving.
I wanted to savor what short memories Harriet and I had made in the past three hours.
Pushing away the thoughts regarding fabricated people that shouldn’t exist, I reflected on the things Bachulus had told me.
While the nephilim knew of the existence of the novel, Imperfections of a Knight, from what I could gather was that he was unaware I wrote it.
What’s more, he regarded it as a book of revelation, of prophecy.
What I didn’t understand was why he told me all that.
I questioned him about this.
[You know more than you let on. I know more than what I show you]
If I, the author, knew less than a fictional character, I would riot.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
[The child martyr.]
The moniker reminded me of what I titled Art, but I knew he wasn’t talking about him.
I breathed out.
"The monster child." I rubbed my sweaty upper lip with a finger. "What about it?"
[He has no use for the plot, that much is true. So, your killing him does not affect the story’s movement.]
Him. So the child was a male.
I retorted, my voice higher than I had expected. "Why mention him then?"
[Because that is where your story starts, the genesis of everything]
He never elaborated or clarified what he meant.
Because, in my mind, the beginning of Imperfections of a Knight was Benedict Ian Leyendecker’s descent from the, plummeting like a missile into the very being of the gamemaster, splurting and bursting pus and blood everywhere.
But...my story? I understood that I have become a being that goes beyond common sense, beyond comprehension. Even I cannot comprehend it—that my amateur novel had turned into reality.
I have changed into a different person since the first day I received that laptop, the first day my life changed.
My once being of a timid character had turned into indifference.
When people looked down on me as a youth, I cried. Now, that I’ve grown, I don’t find myself speeding towards the restroom to sob anymore.
My lacking in emotion or surprise was simply because I knew the moment the rounds began that my novel had turned into reality.
I was given consciousness that very moment.
Perhaps, I was, like them, a fictional character up until that moment.
But I pushed the thought away, even when I was faced with the very characters I played pretend with once upon a time.
More than anything, I wanted to disappear into powder alongside Harriet right then.
More than anything, I was happy to see Justin Fleming again.
More than anything, I was proud of the work I deemed to only be enjoyed by the illiterate.
More than anything, I regretted having even made Imperfections of a Knight.
I reached the second chamber, which now I had realized was sort of akin to the dormitories at my first college.
Sliding a finger on the desk that was made of stone, leaving a clean trail, I raised it to my face and saw that there was dust and grime stuck on my finger.
A certain Junhan Jang had, indeed, taken one of the manuscripts he held.
From what I recall was that he took the Art of Languages, not the Art of Runic Codes. In Imperfect Knight, at least.
This was what Bachulus tried to warn me for: the ever-transforming and fluctuating plot.
Reaching the first chamber, at last, I used the torches that once hung from the cobblestone walls, extinguishing all of them, piling them into the first chamber as firewood. Not long after, I grabbed a lit torch and threw it on the pile.
He wasn’t aware, but my very existence contradicted the plot.
The ghostwriter of the world...If my brother existed still, if he remained alive, would he have known more about the plot?
I only took inspiration from his notes, that is the truth. But the fact remains that he owned the world our former world morphed into.
No, I wouldn’t wish this experience upon him or to my worst enemy.
The thought of knowing how the story, the life of someone, goes and not being able to do anything about it...it was tragic
That’s what I was bound to be.
I coughed multiple times from the smoke of the fire before finally fleeing.
Based on copyright law, we were co-authors. So, at least, I shared the burden of this sin alongside him. Levi and I were closer than comrades, closer than brothers, for we were sinners of the same sin.
I didn’t mind the sound of that, to be honest.
Ah, well. This Art of Languages, I guess this isn’t so bad.
I had the [Linguist] attribute so I had no use for it.
From here on, I promised myself one thing and that was to never gain companions, never creating a bond to whomever or even evocating intimacy.
If this was the feeling I was bound to feel, then I’d rather be alone.
Piling multiple torches into one hill, I placed the manuscript on it, watching as it turned into white ash.
[You have experienced your canon event!]
[You have synthesized the anomaly, Regenerator!]
[You have received an anomaly through your mail]