The Truth

"She had lips that were sometimes reserved and serene, sometimes blazing with passion, and a cascade of silver hair that symbolized nobility and purity."

"She had a slender waist and full, snowy breasts, like ripe fruit on the branch, brewing an intoxicating wine."

"She also had long, fair legs and powerful hips. Her silver armor hugged her body tightly, outlining graceful curves brimming with strength and beauty."

"And those pure yet wild legs were now straddling my waist."

I couldn't make out her face beneath the thin veil, but she must have been incredibly beautiful. A blush would color her cheeks as she lowered her head to kiss me passionately, whispering of the girlish charm hidden beneath the Saintess's haughty exterior...

"Wait a second, what was her name again?"

"I think it was Oliya... Oliya Eldridge."

The surname "Eldridge" came from an old language and meant "ancient ruler."

"It certainly suits her status as a Saintess."

A quiet murmur sounded in the dim, silent room.

Night filled the living room and the world outside its darkened windows. The laptop screen was the only source of light.

Sean sat on the sofa with a thin duvet draped over his head like a cloak. He was close enough that the screen's light fell directly on his face, making his skin look ghostly white.

Dark circles ringed his eyes. His hair looked messy even beneath the duvet, yet his eyes were bright, like those of a patient full of energy.

A glass of milk sat beside the laptop. As Sean recalled his pleasurable dream, he tapped away at the keyboard, turning the images in his mind into lines of prose—next week's installment.

Sean was a novelist.

He had no other job.

He often had all sorts of bizarre, fantastical dreams, and each time he wrote down the most memorable parts. After a while, he realized the dreams seemed connected. Like scattered puzzle pieces, they gradually formed a complete picture once he lined them up: a strange, fantastical world utterly different from modern society, yet closely intertwined with it.

Perhaps because he had "experienced it firsthand," and because he'd spent two and a half years honing his writing, the stories in his novels were remarkably vivid. His worldbuilding, grounded in reality, also gave readers a stronger sense of immersion and drew them in. Especially whenever he got to scenes like the one above, plenty of like-minded readers urged him to write more—to give them tens of thousands more words.

At times like that, Sean would refuse in no uncertain terms.

Because that would cost extra.

In any case, thanks to those dreams, Sean had become a moderately well-known fantasy author, and he had a book signing scheduled for next month.

In this era, when information networks and industrial technology had only just begun to converge and were not yet widespread, printed books remained the main source of income for written works.

"Powerful, beautiful, pure yet seductive, full of contrast... A Saintess like this—those guys... No, my dear readers, they'll absolutely love her."

"I'll call this chapter Transcending the Mortal Realm..."

Next, he needed to think carefully about what happened after the girl leaned down. The details mattered, and he needed to polish the prose to create that hazy, tantalizing atmosphere that made readers itch with anticipation. Then he could switch to third-person narration and add some omniscient perspective for a better reading experience. It would also make it easier to write an ensemble cast.

Sean recalled the dream. Oliya's silver hair had fallen with her movements, curling against his chest. The girl gazed at him with burning eyes, pressing down on his arms with both hands as if afraid he might run away. He made a token effort to struggle a few times, but to no avail. Resigned, he closed his eyes and prepared to endure whatever came.

Just as the girl's tender, fiery-red lips were about to seal his, a sudden, urgent pounding broke through the darkness and jolted him out of his creative reverie.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"Sean, open the door!"

Sean's brows furrowed sharply.

Damn it, who was interrupting his research?

Didn't they know writing a novel required inspiration and a quiet environment?

He'd specifically moved his work hours to the middle of the night so his overly friendly female neighbor wouldn't bother him. He glanced at the time. It was already 2:45 a.m. Who would be knocking on his door at this hour?

"Who is it? Don't you people sleep in the middle of the night?"

Sean shouted irritably.

Many writers got furious when their train of thought was interrupted, much like people who woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Sean was no exception.

The person outside replied, "It's me, Chris!"

Chris?

The familiar voice and name made Sean freeze. Suspicious, he pulled the duvet off his head, shuffled to the door in his slippers, and peered through the peephole. The dim hallway light revealed a scruffy, bearded face.

Was it really Chris?

Hadn't the guy gone missing?

The displeasure on Sean's face instantly turned to delight, and he hurriedly opened the door.

Chris was one of his few friends. He'd loved outdoor adventures, but one day he'd gone out and simply vanished, never to be heard from again. Sean hadn't expected him to still be alive. The joy of seeing an old friend again burst out as the most heartfelt greeting:

"You bastard, where have you been all this time? Your phone was unreachable, and you never replied to my messages. I thought you were dead."

"Come on in, sit down... Wait a minute, what's with your legs?"

Only after Sean pulled Chris inside did he notice that his friend's thick, sturdy legs were clad in pantyhose.

Black pantyhose, at that.

"They boost my attack speed."

Sean: "?"

"I'm being watched, Sean." Chris looked serious.

Sean: "..."

Come on, man.

Dressed like that, it'd be weird if you weren't being watched.

"You... Sigh, forget it. I'll get you a glass of water." Sean hesitated. He didn't know what Chris had been through, so in the end, he chose to respect his friend's choices.

He was about to go to the kitchen for a glass when Chris grabbed his wrist and lowered his voice. "Forget that. We're short on time. Before they find me, there's something important I have to tell you."

"I've discovered the secret of this world," Chris said.

Sean was at a loss. "The secret?"

"That's right." Chris spoke earnestly. "The world we live in isn't round. It's flat."

Sean: "Huh?"

Afraid Sean wouldn't understand, Chris demonstrated with two gestures, making them more obvious.

One was a "0," and the other was a "1."

Sean: "..."

He looked at Chris's unusually solemn expression, then at his friend's black-stockinged legs. Without making it obvious, he slipped free of Chris's grasp and silently took half a step back.

Seeing that Sean didn't believe him, Chris grew anxious. "It's true, Sean. I'm not lying to you. You have to believe me."

"These stockings aren't ordinary stockings. I picked them up in a mysterious little grove."

"They don't boost other people's attack speed. They boost mine."

Sean: "..."

A little grove?

Boost your own attack speed?

You're getting weirder, my friend.

"Listen to me, Sean," Chris continued. "According to what we've always believed, people die when they're killed, crows have black feathers, coffee helps people work more efficiently, and milk can also be used as a lubricant... Right?"

"But!"

"The truth is, people can come back to life after being killed, crows have feathers in every color of the rainbow, coffee can make people sleep forever, and milk can become as hard as iron..."

"Don't those things sound familiar to you?"

Of course they did.

They were all details from his novels.

Chris even knew them so well...

Setting aside a few kinks that he understood but didn't approve of, Sean suddenly felt a little touched.

"So you've been secretly reading my books this whole time."

"What do you think? Not bad, right?" Sean asked with a blink.

Chris had never been patient enough to read before. When Sean had first mentioned that he planned to write a book, he'd only said it in passing. He hadn't expected Chris to take it to heart.

"Sean! Why still don't you understand? This isn't about whether I read your books. I've encountered the things you wrote about!"

Sean was taken aback. "It's that immersive?"

Chris: "?"

He raised his voice. "I'm not joking with you!"

"Is that so?" Sean tilted his head. "Then tell me, why haven't I encountered any of it?"

"Because they're covering it all up, fighting over it! There's blood flowing freely in the dark corners where we ignorant masses never notice, like cheap whores in the throes of spring fever!" Chris said, then suddenly changed his mind. "No, that's not right! You have encountered it. You've already encountered it... Your dreams, everything in your dreams, is real. You know... You know all of it!"

He stood up and grabbed Sean's shoulders, shaking him hard. The more he spoke, the more worked up he became. "Stop writing your story, Sean! Leave here. Get out of this city. They'll find you!"

"Wait... Ease up." Sean's head spun from all the shaking. "Find out what?"

"Find out that you're a witch, too!"

Sean: "..."

Come on, he was just some no-name novelist. How had he ended up being a witch?

Besides, if that really was the case, wouldn't it be a good thing?

Who didn't long to have supernatural powers?

"You'll die!"

"Sean, history has always gone in circles. The Witch Hunt from six hundred years ago has begun all over again!" Chris's eyes were bloodshot from straining. He seemed close to madness, and a hint of unmistakable fear crept into his voice.

"The Witch Hunt?"

"Exactly!"

Historical accounts said the Witch Hunt had emerged from the collapse of the feudal system and manorial economy in the Middle Ages. It was a dark and brutal time. People generally felt unsafe and trusted no one. They believed the devil and witches were responsible for the chaos in society, so whenever a disaster or calamity struck, they accused others of being witches on baseless charges and sent them to the stake.

But that was only the surface.

The Witch Hunt's true purpose was to hunt down the real witches hiding among ordinary people and forcibly change everyone's beliefs!

Chris didn't sound like he was joking at all. Sean had known him for years, but this was the first time he'd ever seen him so terrified and uneasy. As he looked into Chris's eyes, the intense panic there began to infect him, and unease crept into his own heart.

Could Chris be telling the truth?

"But I'm not a witch, either?"

Chris gave him a miserable smile. "It doesn't matter, my friend. If they say you are, then you are."

Sean was confused. "Who are they?"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The door suddenly shook with another round of pounding, harder than before, as if someone were battering it with their fists.

Chris's face instantly went pale. "It's over. We're too late..."

Sean began to tense up, too. "Are they after you?"

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The pounding grew louder and louder.

"Remember what I told you. Don't write another word!" Chris gave Sean one last warning.

The moment he finished speaking, the door burst open with a bang. Sean stared in shock at the two police officers who rushed inside. He'd expected men in black, wearing sunglasses and looking vicious. Instead, they were police officers?

The two officers didn't seem to have expected anyone else to be in the apartment. The shorter one quickly pulled out his badge and apologized to Sean. "Sorry, sir. We didn't know anyone was living in this apartment. We're here to arrest a patient who escaped from the psychiatric hospital yesterday afternoon."

Sean: "?"

What did he mean, a psychiatric patient?

Chris??

"Pah! You sons of bitches, you'll never catch me!" Chris swore, then recited a string of trilled syllables that sounded like some kind of spell. He shouted, "Phase Through Wall!"

He snatched the sofa cover, pulled it over his head, and charged straight at the wall beside him.

"Thud!"

He moved so fast that Sean didn't even have time to react. There was only a dull impact, and then Chris's eyes rolled back as he knocked himself unconscious. He slumped against the wall, tongue hanging out, his throat letting out intermittent, unintelligible moans.

The room fell instantly silent.

The two officers: "..."

Sean: "..."

He hadn't even had time to be surprised.

So his old friend had vanished without a trace because he'd been in a psychiatric hospital this whole time?

...Damn, he'd almost believed what Chris said.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir." The short officer gestured for his partner to help Chris up, then apologized again to Sean. "This was our mistake. We'll pay for the door and compensate you for the disturbance. When would be convenient for you? We can arrange a time for someone to come and replace it."

Sean's gaze remained on Chris. He grumbled to himself, but couldn't help feeling sorry for what had happened to his old friend.

"Could you tell me which hospital he's at?" he asked.

"Floris Hospital," the short officer replied. "Is he a friend of yours?"

Sean nodded. "When he wakes up, please tell him I'll visit in a couple of days. Tell him to take care of himself."

"You can fix the door this morning."

"All right." The short officer tucked away his badge. "We won't disturb your rest any longer, sir."

The two officers carried Chris away.

Sean looked at the drafty doorway. He thought of Chris as he'd been two years ago, full of energy with a pack on his back, telling Sean he was going on an outdoor adventure. He let out a soft sigh.

"How did a perfectly good person end up like this?"

What a handsome head—he was clearly very sick.

Sean thought again about what Chris had said earlier and felt somewhat guilty. Maybe Chris had ended up this way from reading his novels.

Chris had also gotten the spell wrong. Those trilled syllables from the old language were part of the worldbuilding in Sean's books, too, but they didn't let you walk through walls. On the contrary, the affix meant "to make something" hard. So even if Chris really had been a witch, he wouldn't have been able to pass through the wall.

"That must've been hard on him. Sigh."

After all that commotion in the middle of the night, Sean couldn't get back to work. He tidied up the mess in the living room, sat back down on the sofa, and picked up the glass beside his laptop. He figured a few sips of warm milk would calm him down.

But when he put the rim to his lips and tipped the milk toward his mouth, things once again took an unexpected turn.

He clearly saw that the milk, which should have been liquid, had somehow turned solid inside the glass. He slowly tilted it almost ninety degrees, but the milk didn't budge. Not a single drop slid out.

Sean's eyes widened, and his heart suddenly began to thump for no reason.

"No way..."

Bang!

Without warning, a raven suddenly smashed through the window and burst into the living room. Its feathers were a blazing crimson, like a ball of fire. It flew past Sean, then smashed through the glass on the other side and burst out through the broken window.

Sean's hand jerked in fright, and the cup fell straight to the floor.

"Crash!"

The glass shattered on impact, scattering shards everywhere.

Yet the milk retained the shape of the cup that had held it, as if it were a solid block of iron.