My numb lower back was telling me that, under the oppressive force of the herniated-disc Demon King, it was about to give out and urgently needed me to get up and walk around; my itchy throat was loudly berating me: "You little punk, smoke one more cigarette today and I'll die right in front of you!"
The quietest yet fiercest expression of emotion came from my back.
It ached as if it had carried a mountain for a hundred thousand miles, and its silence as it gasped under the weight was deafening.
As for the protagonist of the "heated discussion" among the various parts of my body—me, that is—I didn't have much to say. I just hoped the numbers on my health checkup would look a little better.
Sigh, I can't keep this up.
A few days ago, with nothing better to do, I tallied up the stats for my two accounts and came up with a number that even startled me: I'd been in this line of work for nearly nine years and written 43 million characters. Take out the time I spent resting, and I'd basically been writing fifteen thousand characters a day.
Under those circumstances, it was only natural that I couldn't keep going. If I could really keep it up and still feel fresh as a daisy, then I ought to wonder if I'd secretly awakened some incredible, bizarre talent.
Sigh, being a tentacle monster only sounds glamorous.
As this book neared its end, I thought things over carefully and made a difficult decision. This "tentacle monster" crown? From now on, whoever wants it can have it. I'm already a guy in his thirties—I shouldn't be acting like a young person and working myself to death.
I just don't have that kind of capital.
I need