Chapter 4
The Language of Grief
Aki woke up in a world he didn't recognize.
Not his bedroom. Not Earth. Not a hospital or a ruin. Just a room bathed in gentle blue-gray morning, its stone walls the color of ivory marble. It was quiet here. The kind of quiet that almost felt sacred.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, eyes unfocused, breath shallow.
His body was clean. That alone startled him. He remembered the dirt clinging to his skin, the blood under his nails, the mud he'd collapsed in after running through the forest like a madman. But someone had bathed him. Dressed him. The simple gray tunic he wore was rough but comfortable. A woven belt fastened loosely at his waist.
He sat up slowly.
Everything ached—but not from injury. Not physically, at least. The wounds were deeper than the skin. They were made of memory.
His fingers twitched.
Reya.
He could still see her.
Her severed head falling through the air. The way her hair whipped like a banner in the wind. That moment of silence, terrible and infinite, before his scream tore it apart.
Aki buried his face in his hands.
"So it wasn't a dream…" he whispered, voice cracking.
His voice sounded strange in this room, too clear and too alone.
The bed he sat on was simple but finely made, carved from some dark wood with silver inlays. The room around him was small, but elegant. A round-topped window let in light filtered through pale curtains. A low table sat in one corner with a silver basin and jug. A cabinet, a single chair. No visible weapons. No bindings.
He wasn't a prisoner.
It was only then that he realized something else.
The clothes he wore—this tunic, this belt—he recognized them.
They were clothes from Seriglia. From the world he created. The world of his comic. He had drawn these designs before, sketched them onto nameless townspeople and traveling merchants in the city backgrounds. They were just filler details. A patchwork of inspiration drawn from medieval fantasy. But now they were real. Worn. Lived in.
Which meant—
The door opened.
He didn't move. His head turned slowly, heart spiking.
And then he saw her.
A long cloak trailed behind her, dark and wind-tossed, fringed in silver and violet. Faint armor glinted beneath the cloth, ornate and worn from travel. A blade hung sheathed at her side, inscribed with markings that pulsed faintly, as though reacting to something unseen. At her chest, a pendant—strange and violet—glowed with a dull, flickering light, as if barely containing some buried force.
Hair—long and pale, almost white but tinged with gold—moved like silk as she stepped forward. Her crimson eyes met his—sharp and alert, but softened by something he couldn't name. Pity? Curiosity? Alarm?
The pendant at her chest pulsed again. Stronger this time. As if his grief had awakened something in it.
She was stunning.
Too much.
Aki sat for what felt like hours, hands unmoving.
The image of her—Aurelia, alive—still burned behind his eyes.
She was exactly as he drew her.
No, more. Realer. More stunning. Perfect, but not hollow. Beautiful in a way no real person ever was. Not fragile. Not passive. Not artificial. Beautiful like a tempest, fierce, refined, elegant, and dangerously alive.
He had created her as the ideal—the opposite of himself. Brave, righteous, unwavering.
And now she existed.
He wanted to say something, anything. But he didn't. Couldn't.
Because he knew—she wouldn't understand him. And he couldn't understand her.
She stepped forward and spoke.
Her voice was just as he imagined. Clear. Cool. Calm. But the words were meaningless. A melodic rhythm, shaped by a language he'd never heard in real life.
He remained silent.
Her brows furrowed slightly. She tried again. Her tone gentler, slower. Still, he didn't respond.
She must've thought he was mute.
Or broken.
Or both.
After a long pause, she sighed—just a soft breath through her nose—and stepped back. Her expression had shifted, slightly cautious but not unfriendly. She glanced once toward the pendant, as if it had told her something, then turned and left the room without another word.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And Aki was alone again.
But he wasn't afraid.
If anything, he felt… relief.
Because of all the people he could've met first in this world—it was her.
Aurelia Barclay. The main protagonist of his webcomic. The person he had written into existence with more care than anyone else. The one who carried the weight of justice, resolve, and strength in a world teetering on the edge of collapse.
He knew her. Her values. Her code. Her hatred of Wrathborn and demons. Her compassion for the broken.
She wouldn't hurt him.
He was safe—for now.
But safety didn't ease the ache in his chest.
Aki stood slowly, legs slightly unsteady, and moved toward the low desk beside the bed. There was nothing to write with. No pen, no pencil. No brush.
He clenched his jaw.
He needed to understand them. Their words. This language.
And if he was still who he thought he was—
He bit into his finger.
The pain was sharp and hot. Blood welled up. He let it drip onto the wood, then smeared his finger carefully across the surface.
One word.
He wrote in English,
"Let the tongue of this world be known to me"
He closed his eyes.
A ripple moved through the air. Barely visible. Like heat off stone.
And then something cracked inside him.
A memory. A thought. Gone.
He staggered back, breath stolen, vision reeling.
What was it? What had vanished? He gripped the edge of the table, panting, heart thudding.
It worked.
He could feel it.
The world the language had shifted. Not just one tongue, but all of them. He could now understand **any** language spoken in this world. Any dialect. Even nonverbal cues, the way meaning moved beneath surface sound.
But the cost—
He didn't know what he had just lost. But something was missing. A flicker of warmth. A color. A name?
And it terrified him.
This was his power.
Not just creation.
Authority.
Script-writing.
Tapestry-bending.
He could rewrite reality. Rewrite the world. But with every act, the world would **take something back**.
Reya was dead and it wasn't that the Tapestry didn't care. It was him.
He was the one who couldn't accept it. When he scraped trembling fingers against the dirt, desperate to draw her back into being, the truth had struck like a blade to the gut: he wasn't saving her. He was lying to himself.
Even if he succeeded, even if the image came to life, it would only be a hollow echo. A replica. Not Reya.
Just a ghost in ink.
And deep down, he knew it would break him more.
Because he was the one who wrote all of this. The city, the darkness, the monster that tore her apart.
Aki sank to the floor.
There was no running from this.
Only forward.
But he would remember her.
Always.
Chapter 4 END
NOTE FROM MANGOKILLER:
Chapter 4 wrapped, and our dear protagonist Aki is doing…
well, he's alive. Technically.
He met his own fictional character, didn't say a word, and proceeded to carve reality into his skin with blood and depression.
Aki:
You make it sound so dramatic.
Author:
You bit your finger to write comprehension into your brain like some edgy demigod Shakespeare!
Aki:
Sorry for trying to survive in the nightmare you dropped me into!
Also, still not over Reya. Still don't forgive you. Still confused why Aurelia is hotter in real life.
Author:
Because I love you, bro.
Aki:
Love me less.
Let me know what you thought, friends, Is Aki too quiet? Too sad? Just right?
Any theories, feedback, emotional first aid kits you'd like to share?
This is your space too. Especially if you also scream internally every time a gorgeous woman with a glowing sword walks into your trauma recovery room.
And oh!! just a heads-up , the current cover art was made using AI tools. It's a temporary placeholder while I save up to commission a proper cover from a real artist (because Aki deserves cheekbones rendered by human hands).
The story itself is written and revised by me, with AI used only as a creative assistant for brainstorming, editing, and occasional emotional support during existential writer spirals.
—MangoKiller (who gave Aki god powers and anxiety)