"This is the importance of having a voice." Schiller poured a glass of water from beside him and set it next to the table, while Shivan's hand, resting on the edge of the bed, had already clenched the sheets.
He truly did not want to recall the bizarre encounter that had changed his life. He had never told anyone about it. From his perspective, from that moment on, the entire world had become insane and shattered.
"The living write history. Once you're dead, you can only be arranged by others," Schiller said. "If you live longer than everyone else, then the mouth is on your face. Say whatever you want—can they jump out of their coffins and hit you?"
"Of course, there's a prerequisite: what you say has to matter, and people have to find it convincing. For your words to matter, you yourself must matter. You must even be deeply respected and widely loved, mustn't you?"
Shivan seemed to understand a little. Schiller said disdainfully, "You put a completely uncontrollable ticking bomb in your own eye, desperately chased after even more uncontrollable power, then charged at someone like a madman to kill them. From an observer's perspective, doesn't that just make you look insane?"
"Isn't that exactly what it said—that you're excessively greedy for power, lack self-control, and are too easily tempted, so..."
"Stop." Pain seeped into Shivan's voice. He said, "I don't know why it thought that. I was suddenly taken somewhere, and then someone told me to touch it, so I reached out."
"I didn't know what was happening, and then I heard a roar saying exactly what you just said. When I was sent back to where I had been, I was terrified."
"I told my father everything, but he didn't believe me at all. He