Here, No One Will Die Again-You Are the Protagonist of My Story

Qin Yang waved his hand and sincerely consoled the novelist.

"Don't say angry things like, 'Here, take the pen and write it yourself.' Since we all died and met here, and still retain our self-awareness, that counts as a fated encounter in death. Wouldn't it be better to be polite? What fun is there in fighting and killing?"

As he spoke, Qin Yang looked at the broken brush, put it away, casually tucked it into his robes, and refined it in passing.

The novelist stared dead-eyed at Qin Yang's chest.

After his mentality exploded, he regretted it a little. The long silence, and this time being angered to the point of explosion, instead awakened more of his consciousness. More dormant memories surfaced, and he became a little more alive.

"Then why did you take my brush?"

"I'll see later whether I can repair it."

"I can repair it myself."

"No, you can't. Thank you for the gift."

Since it had already been given to him, how could he possibly return it? Especially this large brush—it was the only thing he had gained since arriving here, the first gift.

Something with such commemorative meaning naturally had to be put away with solemn care.

The two stared wide-eyed at each other for quite a while. Then the novelist sat back down in a huff, glaring with his dead fish eyes as though he had died with his eyes still open.

Qin Yang pretended not to see it. He flipped through the books he had collected, found a travelogue he thought was rather interesting, and handed it to the novelist.

"Don't be angry. Here, read a book to pass the time. Also, don't blame me for speaking deeply despite our shallow acquaintance. We're both dead anyway, so there's no need to hide things