[System rebooting at 100%]
[story synthesising at 59.9%]
🎶 “Hold tight, it’s a meteor ride. One taste, and I’m electrified. Sparks rain down in stereo. 네목소리가내우주야…” (Your voice is my universe) The speaker boomed, shaking the shelves until dust drifted down in lazy spirals. The faint smell of old paper and ink filled the air, mixing with the bitter tang of Diana’s coffee.
“Once upon a time,” Alita started.
“No, that is not where we start today. Our audience needs something more fun — it’s been months, you know,” replied Diana, her fingers brushing against the crackling pages of the script as she sipped.
“Black coffee again?” Alita questioned, wings buzzing like impatient moths.
“Yes. We have long weeks to go. We are protagonists after all,” Diana declared, puffing out her chest.
“No thanks to the author, man. It’s been weeks, you know! Being protagonists is such hard work,” Alita muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The library seemed to listen. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and crooked, as if trying to escape the books. A draft whispered through the aisles, though no window was open.
Now, let’s pause for a moment. Where did we last leave off? Ah, yes, this was the point… Turn on the TV, we need to continue the story.
[System ready to go 100%]
[System now delving into the story]
[ERROR! ERROR! SYSTEM GLITCH SPOTTED]
Alita panicked. “Wait, no! We don’t want to work — we’re not ready!”
The TV hissed, static crawling across the screen like ants. Then, with a violent pull, it sucked them in. On the screen, a woman appeared: Ariadne Van. Her voice cut through the static, sharp and commanding. “This is no time for sipping coffee. We have work to do… a life to write.”
The protagonists vanished into the screen. The script fell to the ground, its pages fluttering until one of them opened. The air smelled suddenly of smoke, acrid and biting.
“The serpent whispers as shadows call, yet it is unity that will break this thrall. The key to Heaven’s gate is near. When realms unite, the path ahead will be clear.”
Then came a low hum. Deep, resonant, omnipresent. It vibrated through the shelves, rattled the chandeliers, and seemed to pulse inside their bones.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Author intoned, each word heavy with inevitability. “Our story is just beginning.”
The script burst into a blue flame, its light flickering against the walls, casting ghostly shapes that danced and twisted. When the fire died, only a message remained: “It’s time to watch Black Butler Season Two… and Black Clover.”
The library door slammed open. Raymond rushed in, shivering, his breath fogging in the sudden chill. “Who let the ghost out of his grave?” he muttered, eyes darting around.
The chandeliers swayed, though no wind blew. The smell of burnt paper clung to the air, mixing with the bitter scent of Diana’s abandoned coffee. A single book dropped from the highest shelf, landing with a thud that echoed like a drumroll.
Raymond jumped. “Okay, that’s not funny. Who’s running special effects in here?” He tiptoed forward, whispering to himself. “If this is a ghost, at least let it bake. I could use a croissant.”
Another book fell. He yelped. “Alright, alright! Haunted library, fine. But seriously — buy five croissants, get one free! Even the undead should appreciate that deal!”
He looked around, realised Diana and Alita were gone, and sighed. “Figures. They get sucked into a TV, and I’m stuck negotiating with shadows. Typical.”
Raymond shook his head, muttering as he left. “If the Author’s watching, at least give me a snack break. Omnipotence should come with catering. I didn’t even get to tell Diana about the prophecy; Through sacrifice, their bond will endure, and dawn will rise to illuminate the way. ”
15 years earlier…
The world stretched wide, a canvas of mystery and light. But shadows crept closer.
“Gasp—hhhhh—gasp! Run, Diana! Don’t look back!” Tammy urged, his hands locked around mine as we darted through the city’s labyrinth of alleys. The night air was cool, each breath a plume of vapour. Pat-pat-pat-pat! Our feet hammered the cobblestones, echoing like drums.
“Brother… I can’t… I can’t run anymore!” I cried, sweat streaking down my face.
“We can’t stop now! I promised to keep you alive—I won’t let them take you!” His voice was fierce, his body weaving through narrow passages as he glanced back. Behind us, the mob surged like a tide. Clang-clang! Pitchforks struck against stone, thud-thud! Boots pounding closer.
We burst into a clearing at the city’s edge. Voices echoed: Don’t cross the boundary. But there was no time to hesitate. I clutched his hand tighter as we sprinted toward the bridge, dust rising beneath our feet.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Our hearts pounded in unison.
“There! Don’t let the sacrifice escape!” the chief roared, torch in one hand, pitchfork in the other. The villagers’ frenzy grew—eyes wild, chants fevered.
“Capture the Holy Maiden! Sacrifice her to the gods! Seize the child bride!”
Goosebumps erupted across my skin. Terror knotted in my stomach.
Then—whssshhh—thk-pshhht! An arrow sliced the air, striking Tammy’s hand with a sickening crack! Blood sprayed in jagged arcs.
Silence.
He froze, eyes wide, as if the world itself had stopped. Then he staggered, knees buckling, and collapsed. His body convulsed, foam spilling from his lips, each breath a broken gasp that seemed too fragile to exist.
“Tammy!” My scream tore through the night. Don’t fall asleep, Tammy! Don’t leave me here alone! Foam spilt, flickering, fading fast. The bridge loomed—sixteen meters high, the river below roaring like thunder.
They call it sacrifice, but I call it murder. How could they demand this of me? How could they call it holy? His sea-glass eyes dimmed, lips bruised blue, each breath a broken prayer.
I ripped my dress with my teeth—rrrip!—pressing cloth against the wound, tears streaming hot down my cheeks. My hands moved in frantic rhythm, thump-thump-thump! Pressing his chest the way he had taught me. His cold fingers brushed my face, his fading gaze locking onto mine.
“Live… don’t die here. See the world… taste every cake you desire. And remember—when the skies weep blood and flame, two souls as one shall rise. One, dark with golden eyes of fire; the other, crowned in gold, noble of heart…”
His words faltered as cold hands seized my shoulders. Mr Wagu loomed above, his smile unsettling.
“Don’t believe his lies,” he hissed. “The ritual is painless. Do it for your family, for the city. Your parents’ sacrifice must not be in vain.”
Mrs Wagu’s eerie smile followed: “You’ll end the plague. Prosperity will return.”
Others chimed in, voices pressing, suffocating.
“You’re the only one who can do this. Do it for little Tibolt—two years of life, they said. Two years, stolen from mine.”
My voice caught in my throat. Tammy’s weak hand was kicked aside—thwack! —by the crowd. Hands reached for me. Grab-grab! Panic surged.
I ran—not forward, but over the bridge, plunging into the sixteen-meter drop. Screams echoed—Aaaahhh!—as I felt like a broken kite. Tammy’s lifeless eyes reflected my descent, a single tear slipping free.
Silence. Wind whipped against my face—whoosh! The roar of the river grew louder—crash! I locked my arms, praying the water would consume me whole.
The impact was brutal—SPLASH! —like stone shattering my body. The current spun me, dragging me into blackness. Freezing water clawed at my lungs. I sank deeper, vision fading.
Then—a voice rose from the depths. Do you want to live?
It was human, yet otherworldly. My body felt heavy, numb, leaden. A light formed—a silhouette mirroring mine, reaching out. Tears—or blood—slid down my cheek.
“I… I want to live,” I whispered in my heart.
“Then so be it. Live eternally, mortal being.”
Energy surged. Whoosh! Water expelled from my lungs. Memories—mine, not mine—rushed through me. Voices echoed.
And then… silence.
I opened my eyes. Light flooded my vision. The scent of flowers and damp soil surrounded me.
Rustle-rustle. Leaves whispered in the breeze. Chirp-chirp! Birds sang overhead, their voices sharp and sweet. Buzz-buzz-buzz! Insects danced between blossoms, wings shimmering like glass.
Munch… munch… munch. A deer grazed nearby, its jaw grinding rhythmically, ears flicking at the faintest sound. A fox darted past, paws scritch-scritch against the earth, its tail a flame of red. Butterflies spiralled upward, wings flutter-flutter-flutter in a kaleidoscope of colour.
I rose slowly, surrounded by oak and pine, a meadow of blossoms stretching endlessly. The air was thick with fragrance—wild honey, crushed grass, damp moss. My fingertips brushed petals soft as silk, while the ground beneath me pulsed with hidden life.
My heart thudded—thump-thump-thump—not with fear, but with awe.
“Run, resist, remember.” The words echoed in my mind, louder now, like hoofbeats pounding across the earth.
“Where… where am I?” I whispered, though the forest itself seemed to answer in chorus—rustle, chirp, buzz, flutter, thump, caw.40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzhkmGvSMst
Present Day…
**Kvalheim Empire; Capital City: Tolkin – Midday**
In Whitehall Palace with the Privy Council
The marble halls of Whitehall Palace shimmered beneath the midday sun, velvet banners heavy with the empire’s sigils. Outside, the grand clock tower tolled — Dong… dong… dong… — its iron voice rolling across Tolkin, pressing against the chamber walls like judgment. Within, incense curled through the Privy Council chamber as advisors gathered, their whispers sharp with suspicion and ambition.
The grand council chamber was heavy with voices, each one layered with urgency and suspicion. Sunlight slashed through tall windows, dust motes swirling in the beams like restless spirits. The great clock hammered its rhythm: tick… tock… tick… tock. Servants shuffled along the edges, trays rattling faintly, the scent of ink and wax mixing with the musk of velvet curtains.
Thud! A German advisor slammed his fist against the oak table, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat. “You can’t be serious! Vladimir has already summoned a thousand heroes!” “Majestät, Vladimir hat bereits tausend Helden gerufen!” [Your Majesty, Vladimir has already summoned a thousand heroes!] His words carried alarm, but his darting eyes betrayed envy.
The French advisor leaned forward, beard trembling, goblet clinking softly against the wood. “Mais, Sire, n’est-ce pas une folie? Ils ont invoqué le maudit… et tant de vies seront sacrifiées.” [But, Sire, is this not madness? They have summoned the cursed one… and so many lives will be sacrificed.] His voice quavered, but the way his knuckles whitened around the cup hinted at ambition.
The Polish elder’s voice rumbled low, steady as stone. “Panie, proroctwo mówi o tysiącu bohaterów. To waży więcej niż nasze sentymenty.” [My lord, the prophecy speaks of a thousand heroes. That carries more weight than our sentiment.] His words were calm, but his eyes gleamed — hunger disguised as loyalty.
The Dutch advisor shook his head, nasal tone sharp. “Majesteit, dit is gevaarlijk. Het rijk kan niet nog een vloek verdragen.” [Majesty, this is dangerous. The realm cannot endure another curse.] His warning was clear, but the faint curl of his lips was the clue: disaster could be opportunity.
From the far end, Rashid’s Persian voice flowed like smoke, curling around the chamber. “Shahanshah, in rah be suye marg ast. Qahramanan be khun faro-rikhteh mishavand.” [Emperor, this path leads to death. Heroes will be drowned in blood.] His words lingered like incense, but his faint smile betrayed desire.
The chamber swelled with unease until Silus raised his hand. Bang! His palm struck the table, goblets rattling, parchment fluttering. “Enough! We cannot make this decision rashly. Demons are knocking at our borders. I have had visions…”
“Visions of what, Emperor Silus?” one advisor pressed, voice sharp as a dagger.
Silus’s black eyes narrowed. “Visions of death, fire, destruction, plagues, demons. The veil is breaking—the second coming. When the skies weep with blood and flame, two souls as one shall rise to claim their fate.”
The words hung heavy, like smoke choking the chamber. Advisors muttered fragments under their breath: “One, dark and with golden eyes of fire…” “The serpent whispers as shadows call…” “It is unity that will break this thrall…”
Percival’s voice cracked, sweat dripping down his temple. Drip… drip. “So, you would rather let thousands die, only to find one in a million? This hypocrisy cursed us—cut us off from the other realms!” His words rang raw, but his trembling hands betrayed fear. Almost unconsciously, he whispered: “Through sacrifice, their bond will endure, and dawn will rise to illuminate the way…”
Silus closed his eyes, the weight of years pressing against him. For a moment, he saw himself as a boy — chasing shadows in palace gardens, laughter echoing like bells. That innocence was gone, smothered beneath prophecy and crown. His voice dropped, heavy as stone. “This is our only hope. The time is drawing near, and that woman warned us—the war approaches. We must prepare.”
“You speak of Ariadne Vance? The lost child… the one tied to the saint?” asked the eldest council member, his Dutch words hushed. “Het verloren kind… verbonden met de heilige?” [The lost child… bound to the saint?]
“Yes,” Silus replied quietly. “Her.”
“The meeting is adjourned,” Silus declared, his voice slicing through the chamber like a blade. Clang! The sound of chairs scraping against stone followed, advisors, rising in uneasy clusters.
Servants exchanged nervous glances as they cleared goblets and parchment, their hands trembling. One muttered under his breath, barely audible: “It is the thousandth that faces either calamity… or the survival of the realm.”
The chamber emptied, leaving Silus alone. The silence pressed against him, thicker than the voices had been. His fingers toyed with a coin, spinning it. Clink… clink… clink. For a heartbeat, his gaze softened — the faint echo of a boy’s game, of innocence long lost. Then the coin struck the table with a sharp ping! And the softness vanished.
“Amos… you were my father’s closest advisor, were you not?”
“Yes,” Amos answered, his tone steady but his gaze lingering too long. “Not only his advisor, but his friend—until his final breath.”
Silus’ jaw tightened. A friend of my father, never mine. Childhood ended the day the crown fell on me.
“Then tell me, Amos… what do you believe makes a good king?”
Silus walked toward the tall windows, crimson velvet curtains fluttering in the wind. His black eyes stared down at the bustling city. Fingers clenched as he turned away, the coin of doubt spinning in his palm.
“I don’t know, Amos. I’m only twenty-six. My youth surrounds me, and the world is unknown to me. I feel nothing but failure. My brother was heir, my father stood strong, my cousin was next in line… now there is only me.”
Amos’ brown eyes glimmered, his grey hair shining as he smiled faintly. His voice was calm, but his words pressed like a blade against Silus’ chest. “Your father once told me: Ne timeas quod nescis. (Do not fear what you do not know.) Fear sharpens, if you let it. Do not let dread consume you.”
He paused, leaning closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. Servants froze mid-step, straining to hear. “But remember, Silus — hesitation is poison. A king who falters loses not only battles, but thrones. The temples are restless. The advisor's hunger. If you stumble, they will not wait.”
Silus’ jaw tightened. Why does he speak of temples as if they are his to command? Why does he sound as though he waits for me to fall?
Amos’ fingers twitched, tapping against one another, his smile thin and predatory. He tilted his head, studying Silus like prey. “Yet… calamity is power. Harnessed, it could bend temples, regions, even empires. Do not dismiss it so quickly.”
Silus frowned, his gaze sharpening. “You speak as though you desire it.”
Amos bowed his head too quickly. “I speak only of caution. But the temple must be informed.”
Lies, Silus thought. You want the Pope’s ear. You want the prophecy for yourself. And in the silence that followed, the coin spun once more, catching the light — a child’s game turned into a king’s burden.
Bang! The heavy doors slammed open, echoing like judgment. The sound rattled through the chamber, making the servants flinch. Trays trembled in their hands, goblets clinked against silver, and parchment fluttered to the floor. One whispered to another, barely audible: “Did you see his eyes? He hides something.”
Silus sat in silence, his back hunched, the coin dancing across his fingers. Flip… flip… flip. He murmured, almost to himself, “I’m a good king… right, Amos?” His voice sharpened as the coin spun in the air, catching the light like a blade. “Come out, Rashid.”
From the shadows, a voice answered with a grin. “You’re as clever as the day I first met you in that tavern,” Rashid drawled, stepping forward, his dimple flashing. His words were playful, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.
Silus snapped his wrist—ping! The coin shot across the chamber, embedding itself deep into the wall. Smoke curled in thin wisps around the metal. Servants gasped softly, then quickly lowered their heads, pretending not to see.
“Good aim, Silus! Nearly struck my most prized jewels.” Rashid strolled forward without shame, slinging an arm around the king’s shoulders. “You mean your face?” Silus smirked. “Yes—but more importantly, my personality. Not all of us are blessed with such dazzling gifts, you know!” His laughter rang hollow, masking ambition.
Dong… dong… The grand clock tower outside tolled, its iron voice rolling through the city like thunder. The sound pressed against the chamber walls, heavy and inescapable, as if time itself were judging them. Each chime seemed to remind Silus of the prophecy’s refrain: When the skies weep with blood and flame…
Silus’ voice dropped, low and deliberate. “Have you found the one of calamity yet?”
“Yes.” Rashid’s tone was precise, but his eyes betrayed desire. “She is the thousandth hero—Diana Hart. Twenty-five years old. Powers unknown. She shattered the saint’s crystal, causing the saint to faint. Banished. Location unknown.”
The words hung in the air, thick as smoke. Rashid’s grin lingered, sly and dangerous. His eyes gleamed with unspoken hunger: If calamity can shatter saints, imagine what else it can break.
Silus’ gaze darkened. “And the temples?”
“There’s been an increase in suspicious dealings between the northern and eastern temples. The Great Pope Ishmal has reached out to the Shamil Saintess of the Kingdom of Vladimir.” Rashid’s words carried weight, but the subtext was clear: The temples are aligning. Power shifts. Thrones tremble.
“Good. Continue with your observations.” Silus coughed, waving his hand to clear the smoke. “You shouldn’t smoke that filth. It kills the mind.”
“What a buzzkill,” Rashid muttered, blowing smoke deliberately toward the servants, who flinched. “What did you say?” Silus asked sharply. “You’re such a blessing,” Rashid sighed, rolling his eyes as he turned to leave. His grin lingered, sly and dangerous. “I’ll take my leave now. And be careful—your uncle is returning.”
Before Silus could ask any questions, Rashid vanished into the shadows. 40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡisgeJFWE1T
Whsshh. The servants froze, their trays rattling in their hands, as if the very walls had whispered treachery.
Silus remained by the window, the coin still warm in his palm. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—young, uncertain, crowned by chance. Outside, the clock tower tolled again, its voice echoing across Tolkin. Dong… dong… dong… A sinking ship, he thought. And yet… the only ship left afloat.
Meanwhile, at Diana’s Side…
Far from the empire’s turmoil, Diana’s morning began with a run.
Thump, thump, thump! My white Nikes slammed against the ground, kicking up clouds of dust as my black hair streamed behind me in the brisk wind. The navy blue and white bodysuit hugged my hips and chest tightly as I pushed forward. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my heart raced, and each breath came in quick, ragged puffs of vapour.
It was a chilly morning—the cool air brushed against my flushed cheeks while tree trunks echoed with the rhythmic tapping of woodpeckers, harmonising with the sweet whistling of wrens perched in their nests.
Just eight hundred more meters, I thought, glancing at my watch.
The sun began to rise, its dawn rays breaking through towering city buildings and spilling onto the narrow forest path. With one last burst of energy, my quadriceps and hamstrings screamed in protest. I looked up, momentarily blinded by the brightness—but I pressed on.
Three… Two… One! I had made it to the end of my run. Slowing my pace to a walk, I headed toward the town, the trees thinning around me as the cobblestone streets came into view.
“Congratulations, Mom!” Alita exclaimed, her tiny fairy wings fluttering as she shivered, a trail of snot dribbling from her nose, which was a bright shade of red.
Though my teeth were chattering, I couldn’t help but smile at her dimples.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on running at this hour,” Alita yawned and grumbled. “You’re a witch! You should be focusing on your magic—which honestly needs a lot of work right now.”
I hoisted Alita onto my shoulders as I made my way down the street. “Magic takes a backseat in my life, even now,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow.
“But you’re a witch! Magic should be your focus right now. We should be gearing up to fight the demon king!” Alita snorted, rubbing her temples in frustration.
I took a breath. “I used to be a police officer, and one thing I learned is that staying in shape is crucial. I don’t want to be a witch with the physical prowess of a chicken. Plus, I picked up something from my days as an anime fan and a messenger of peace: ‘A weapon is only as effective as the will of the one who wields it. I am justice! I am the blade that will pierce the heavens! The bone of my sword.’”
“You really do love quoting anime, don’t you?”
The streets were already alive with morning bustle—windows flung open, laundry swaying in the breeze, and the aroma of fresh bread and curry drifting from kitchens. Before heading back to the inn, I decided to stop by the butcher’s shop. If we were going to register at the Hunters’ Guild later, we’d need a proper breakfast first.
The wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, painted with bold letters: فروشگاه اکنون باز است {foroshgah aknon baz est}. I squinted at the sign. Alita yawned before saying, “It’s Persian—it means ‘shop now open.’”40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6ObpedawOK
“Oh, thanks! When did you pick up Persian?” I asked. “I’m a system that stands above everything else. Even though this world is steeped in magic, it’s built from fragments of thousands of experiences,” Alita replied, conjuring a cup of noodles out of thin air. She slurped loudly, then added, “This is what you could do if you took magic seriously. For now, though, you’ll have to get used to making your own noodles.”
The door creaked open, and the butcher stepped outside, smiling warmly. “خوش آمدید! بفرمایید تو، بفرمایید تو!” The words translated in my mind: Welcome! Come in, come in!
Inside, vibrant cuts of meat lined the counters—goat, beef, pork, mutton, deer, and more. The butcher’s dark eyes gleamed as he pointed proudly at each piece. His daughter appeared from the back, apron tied neatly, her plump hand tugging his ear as she scolded him. “Father, stop overwhelming our guest. Let her choose in peace.”
I nodded, scanning the meat. The air was thick with fragrance, but beneath it lingered something sharper—like smoke. The butcher leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Strange times, miss. They say a black-haired woman was banished from the capital. Some whisper she is cursed, tied to calamity.” His eyes flicked toward my hair, then quickly away.
Alita’s wings buzzed nervously. “Plot’s catching up to us,” she muttered.
I forced a smile, kneeling to choose the oxtail. “We’ll take this one.”
Five minutes later—Ding-a-ling! “Wow, you not only bought oxtail but beef steaks too. Pricey,” Alita sighed, shaking her head. “You always have to be considerate of empty stomachs,” I said firmly. “If there’s one thing I refuse to die from in this world, it’s starvation and malnutrition.”
We walked toward the inn, unaware of the storm brewing inside. The scent of bread and curry drifted out to meet us, warm and inviting, like a promise of comfort.
Meanwhile, in the Inn’s Kitchen…
The inn pulsed with life. Voices rose and fell from the serving counter and bar, a chorus of chatter and clinking glasses. Laughter rippled as men placed their bets, while women sighed beside them. The air was thick with aromas: tea, coffee, beer, cocktails.
On the tables, steamed Arepas are split open to reveal fluffy corn interiors. Platters of Asados glistened, smoky juices curling upward. Bowls of feijoada simmered thick with beans and tender meats, while Pabellón Criollo shone bright with shredded beef, black beans, and fried plantains.
Behind the kitchen doors, harmony gave way to chaos. Clang! Crash! Pots collided like cymbals in a discordant symphony.
“Quid cum tanto strepitu in culina? (What with all that noise in the kitchen?)” A man muttered, biting into empanadas.
“Videtur iterum domina Helga… (It seems Ms Helga is at it again!)” another laughed, carving into churrasco steaks.
Munching on food, another replied, “Nobis, ut hominibus strenuis… (As hardworking folk, all we can do is savour good food and thank our beloved God, Amos. By the way, have you heard about the nobles summoning heroes?”
The woman beside him leaned in, eyes gleaming with gossip. “My grandson’s friends at the palace say a young woman, about twenty-five, was banished because she made the saint faint.” The bar worker polishing glasses interjected, “I heard that too. My sources say she had black hair.” “Black hair? Isn’t that the same as the demon king from the legends? And with riots in the North and South, workers demanding better conditions, trafficking becoming a problem…” “In any case, let’s not talk about this. The nobles want it hushed. Just eat.”40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc2yHQcPSN4
Then—Clang! Crash! Bang! Pots and pans jingled.
“You damned fox, get your butt back into this pot! I waited twelve desperate hours to capture you, and I’m not losing you now!” Helga lunged, face fierce, as the chicken clucked and dodged. Its long neck craned as if mocking her.
“Give up. Ziggy and I have just decided to have a vegan breakfast,” Tom the helper groaned, his face smeared with dough. “Two hours, and this dough’s evolved into weapon-grade material!”
Then—BANG! The chicken barrelled past Tom’s station, bulldozing the dough ball to the ground. Its beak opened, spewing flame that scorched his bread to a black crisp.
Old man Ziggy sat quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he cradled a cup of hot water.
Suddenly—THUMP! The chicken tumbled to the ground just as Diana burst in, sweat slicking her brow from the heat outside. The inviting aroma of bread and curry wrapped around her like a warm hug as she pushed open the inn’s door.
Helga fell to her knees, eyes widening in disbelief as she let out a dramatic sob. “Why? How can a door kill this chicken after I’ve spent my whole life trying to catch you? This is ridiculous! What kind of plot armour is this?” she exclaimed, cradling the fallen chicken in her arms, a single crocodile tear rolling down her cheek.
“Ey, don’t blame the plot, blame the author for making you a side character!” Alita exclaimed, dragging Diana upstairs. “We have to get ready—the story waits for no one!”
The wooden floor creaked, the door slammed, and a picture fell from the wall. “Yo! Shut up!” the next-door tenant barked, his voice gravelly and slurred.
The inn fell silent momentarily. Then continued.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.