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Chapter 1: The Five-Hundredth and Fourth Misfortune
In the year 2022, I started writing a book. No title, no grand plan—just a story I poured my intuition into, a private escape. It was all going smoothly, until it wasn't.
This narrative is the story of how I found myself inside the very book I was still writing.
A story of how I wrote myself into a corner,and then straight into the plot.
And this...this is that book.
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"In the beginning, there was nothing. A pale, black canvas. No light, no matter. Only a profound and endless silence... a perfect stillness. Then, a bright fissure tore through the void. This blinding light fractured the emptiness, exploding the darkness, and for the first time, the Void was no longer void. It was filled with something new.
Light.
This was the first step in the Creation of all that we know."
Mephis shut the book with a definitive thump that echoed in the vast, silent library. He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh, then tossed the volume onto the teetering pile on the floor beside him.
"More trash," he muttered to the dusty air. "Another author from the Denomination of Light, peddling the same old genesis." Not that he knew how it actually began. He glanced at the piles surrounding him—some claimed it was Chaos, others a great World-Tree from which planets hung like fruit. The rest, whatever their theories, were equally unconvincing.
He stood, his back cracking in protest after hours of sitting. Time to reshelve the rejects. He bent down, gathering an armful of ancient texts, handling them with a care born of necessity. If he so much as creased a page of these masterpieces, his pay for the month would be forfeit. Oh, right—he'd forgotten to mention.
He was a librarian. Well, more accurately, a cleaner and shelf-stocker at one of the most prestigious libraries in Valen Province. Just one of his many transient occupations over the years. He dusted off his hands, the task complete, the books neatly returned to their homes on the enormous, archaic shelves.
A glance out the tall, leaded-glass window confirmed it was evening. The deep, resonant clang of the great clock in the city square echoed through the streets, its monolithic silhouette stark against the twilight sky. His workday was over. Every bone in his body ached. He desperately needed a good night's rest..
Well..not after he collected his wages for the day..
That held upmost importance and Priority
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His name was Mephis Meredith. A cool wind whipped against his face as he trudged down the cobblestone street. Exquisite carriages and common passenger coaches waltzed past him. Men, I wish I could ride one of those, he thought, but the few copper Vals jangling in his pocket protested. The sum was barely enough for a bowl of cold stew at the inn, let alone a carriage.
In the distance, he could hear the familiar cacophony of haggling. The market district was just ahead, a cluttered maze of sheds and stalls he'd been actively avoiding. Why? Because it possessed a dangerous, magnetic pull on the few coins in his possession. This, his five-hundredth and fourth life, wasn't shaping up to be any more prosperous than the last. Or was it the five-hundredth and fifth? He'd lost count. All he knew was that he had died and been reborn in a continuous, inexplicable loop over five hundred times.
Absurd? Shocking? It was for me, too, the first time. He let out a heavy breath. He'd promised himself he wouldn't forget that first death, but it had long since been jumbled with the other 499. Dying so many times, always within a 17-year span, wasn't something to be proud of. It was a testament to spectacular, cosmic-level bad luck. He'd been killed nearly fifty times by slipping on a bathroom floor. A dozen more by carriage accidents. Seventeen from food poisoning. The list went on.
He'd have been permanently buried long ago if not for this… ability. Now, death felt less like an end and more like an inconvenient nap.
I am immortal, he thought, a crooked, humorless smile touching his lips.
His stomach grumbled loudly, pulling him from his thoughts. He stood before a fruit stand, its vibrant red apples a cruel temptation. The owner was a mountain of a man with palms that looked like they could cave in a skull. Mephis's stomach growled again, issuing an ultimatum.
He was hungry, and he had no money for luxuries like fresh fruit. Every last Val was earmarked for rent and the aforementioned cold stew. Which meant only one thing: he had to liberate an apple without the mountain-man noticing.
Thievery was an art that had significantly inflated his death count. But he'd died enough times to have perfected the act. The worst they could do was kill him, and he'd just reset to a point before this whole fiasco—maybe back in the peaceful quiet of the library.
With a quick, practiced motion, he palmed not one, but two apples, tucking them safely into his pockets as he expertly sidestepped the hulking proprietor. A smile of victory began to form, only to die as he met the wide, apprehensive gaze of a boy, no older than twelve. The kid had seen everything.
Mephis heaved an internal sigh. He tossed one of the apples to the boy with a conspiratorial wink before walking off, ignoring the child's stunned expression. The little urchin just profited from my hard labor. He smugly pulled the remaining apple from his pocket—this one was his, no matter what. He brought it to his mouth and bit down with a loud, satisfying crunch. The sweet, crisp flavor flooded his senses. Such fresh fruit was a rarity, thanks to the swarms of plant-devouring pests everyone called the Green Blighters.
He took another crunchy bite. The irony was that farmers sometimes paid common folk like him to cull the Blighters. It wasn't a huge sum, but it was enough to lure his hungry self into the fields, where he was certain he'd died at least twice—painfully stung to death by the swarming things. Those deaths had been particularly traumatic, searing the lesson into his mind: some endings are worse than others.
He crunched into the apple again, savoring the juicy goodness. A wave of nostalgia hit him as he saw only a core remaining.
Good things never last, do they?
Thump.
Someone bumped into him, hard. The precious remains of his apple flew from his hand and landed in the grime of the street. Anger flared hot in his chest. His eyes snapped up, locking onto a petite, small-shouldered figure in a hood, already melting into the bustling crowd. A woman, he guessed.
He cursed. So, out of two hard-won apples, he hadn't even managed to finish one. He slammed a hand against his tunic in frustration, and that's when he felt it. The flat, empty lightness of his pocket.
He frantically dug his hand in, pulling out nothing but lint and dust. His copper Vals were gone. His mind raced, retracing his steps. When did he last feel their weight? The answer clicked into place with chilling clarity: right before the hooded woman had bumped into him.
"Curse this... double bad luck," he gritted out, his eyes desperately scanning the sea of people. Then he saw it—a flicker of movement, a hooded figure slipping into a dark alley behind a cobbler's shop.
Elation warred with fury. He had his culprit. Without a second thought, he tore into the crowd, shoving past people who muttered curses and shot him dirty looks. He didn't care.
Within seconds, he stood at the mouth of the alley. It was a narrow, dark crevice, promising nothing but shadows and cold. A primal apprehension clawed at him, warning of unseen dangers. He snuffed it out.
He couldn't die. What was worse than death? Nothing he hadn't already faced.
He dashed into the gloom. Those coins were his lifeline; losing them was a form of suicide. The darkness enveloped him, cold and unwelcoming. At first, he saw nothing. Just an empty, creepy alley. But when had that ever stopped him?
A foolish determination settled in his bones.
"Hello?" he called out, keeping his voice low to avoid attracting outside attention. "I'm here for the money you... accidentally took." Silence. The thief wasn't going to make this easy. He had to dangle a carrot. The thought was physically painful.
"Alright, look," he tried again, "hand over my money, and I'll give you a cut. A thirty percent finder's fee! No? Fine, forty percent! That's more than fair!"
His answer came not in words, but in a pair of bright, blue eyes that materialized from the darkness right in front of him, shining with an otherworldly luminescence.
His words slurred. The world around him began to warp and swim, the walls twisting like liquid. He staggered back, hand slapping against the cold stone for support. Witchery?
"Seems you fell for it. How stupid," a sweet, female voice chimed inside his head, which was now spinning violently. He tried to focus, but the world was dissolving into a nauseating swirl, with those blue eyes as the only fixed, terrifying point.
Come on, he pleaded inwardly, just kill me and get it over with. I'll reset with the coins still in my pocket.
But the blow came from behind—a sharp, intense jab at the base of his skull. His vision tunneled into darkness. He hadn't expected abduction. Damn it all. Consciousness fled, and he crumpled into an unceremonious heap on the filthy ground.
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He woke to a biting, pervasive cold and the ragged, rhythmic thumping of the floor beneath him. He yawned and stretched; it was, ironically, the most restful nap he'd had in a while. Blinking, he surveyed his new surroundings: a dark, squarish space made of cold metal, like a huge crate with barred doors. Through those bars, he saw a picturesque yet forbidding snowy landscape—a vast tundra dotted with the skeletal forms of hardy trees, all dominated by a distant, looming mountain. Beyond the swirling snow, it was a world of white.
And this cage... it was moving. He could see the tracks it left in the deep snow.
He slumped back against the frigid metal wall, hugging himself for warmth. His breath plumed in thick, foggy clouds. He wasn't even going to ask how he'd gone from the temperate streets of Valen to a frozen peak. His abductors clearly had their methods.
Abduction meant one of two things: slave trade, or a sacrifice in some barbaric rite to a forgotten deity. Slavery was an absolute no-go. The last thing he needed was eternal servitude on top of his already miserable existence.
Death was the preferable alternative. A clank sounded from the far end of the cage. Huh, he wasn't alone. His eyes adjusted, tracing the noise to another male figure. Dark-haired, similar stature, face hidden in shadow. The boy's hands were rhythmically, almost obsessively, thumping the floor. Mephis considered a greeting, but the boy seemed too engrossed in his strange ritual. Fine. The strong, silent, traumatized type. I'll leave him to his brooding.
His gaze shifted and landed on the third occupant. A female, confirmed. She had a cascade of white hair over her small shoulders, and...
He paused, disbelief washing over him.
Enchanting blue eyes. Surprise and a twisted sense of amusement welled up inside him. It was her. His beautiful captor. She was gazing in his direction, but her eyes were distant, unfocused.
"Hi..." he ventured with a small wave.
Silence. She withdrew her gaze, fixing it on her own feet. Had she already forgotten him?
"You haven't forgotten me, right?" he pressed, leaning back against the wall, his tone inquisitive.
Still nothing. Not a shrug, not a blink. Only dismissive silence. Veins throbbed in his temples. Not only had she stolen his last coins and engineered his abduction, but now she was giving him the silent treatment? He deserved at least a reply. An explanation!
"Ahem... You stole my coins, remember? Led me into an alley? Did that weird thing with your eyes... was that magic?" he asked, his patience thinning.
Still, the only reply was the rattling of the cage and the boy's incessant thumping. He exhaled, deflated, but he wasn't one to give up.
"You know what, you can keep the money. I'm abducted, thanks to you, so it's not like I can spend it now," he said, amazed at his own capacity to placate his own thief. Was it because she was cute? "I get it, it must be hard being betrayed by your cohorts and ending up in a cage with the rest of us. Our fates are entwined—wait, no, not like that. Anyway, don't you think you owe me an apology? Or at least a single word?"
"Can you please shut up?" a cold, masculine voice cut through the air from the dark corner. Mephis turned. So, the brooding fellow could speak. "I'm reminiscing here."
"You there..." a feminine voice, laced with frost, drew his attention back to the blue-eyed girl. "Aren't you far too relaxed for someone who's been abducted? Or do you simply lack the cognition to understand your situation?" Her gaze was fierce, intense enough that he half-expected her eyes to start glowing again.
"Oh, about that," he said lamely, meeting her stare. "I've been through enough peril to know that panic is a luxury you can't afford. The best state of mind is a calm one. It's my only real possession." He ended with a low whistle. His words seemed to strike a chord with the brooding boy, who was now staring directly at him.
A sudden, violent jolt shook the cage, tossing the three of them against the metal walls.
Mephis exhaled a ragged, foggy breath. The cold was seeping into his lungs now. A violent shiver wracked his body. He desperately needed a warm bed.
He rubbed his hands together frantically, trying to generate a sliver of friction-based warmth.
"What are you doing?" the blue-eyed girl asked. He looked up to see her gazing at him as if he were a simpleton.
"Generating warmth. I'm not exactly a fan of snow and cold," he answered, as politely as he could while suppressing the urge to wipe that look off her face. "But anyway, now that we're all talking, can someone please tell me where we are? The concise location. We can skip the dramatic name introductions for later."
First, he needed to know if they were in a designated Danger Zone, a place plagued by monsters.
But the silence returned. The brooding boy resumed his thumping. The blue-eyed girl hugged her knees.
Come on.
"Please..." he stressed, pouring as much empathetic desperation into his voice as he could muster. He didn't know he had such humility in him. Guess he was truly desperate. And disappointed. Again, no reply.
He heaved a sigh, downcast. These two were determined to make him look like a fool. Fine. He was done worrying. Even if it was a Danger Zone, the worst they could do was kill him. It would be traumatic, searing, and painful, but it was just a few more bad memories to add to the collection. He placed his hands behind his head, feigning nonchalance.
"The Snowy Peaks of Articus," the blue-eyed girl said, her voice quiet but clear. "Far west of Valen." Then she resumed her previous position, hugging her knees.
Belatedly, he muttered a thanks. For a girl who'd orchestrated his abduction, she was slightly more kindred than the cold, detached fellow.
But his mind was already racing. The Snowy Peaks of Articus. He'd read about it, mostly in passing. It was many miles west, a frozen wasteland. Most texts agreed it was once a verdant forest, cursed into eternal winter by a dark deity of frost after the local tribes refused to offer it tribute—or some such myth. The human settlements here were scattered, minute, living in isolated clans. They were collectively known as the West Artics, or the West Nomads.
This was the advantage of working in a library; you were exposed to countless books and compendia.
But official reports listed the Peaks as a Danger Zone. He'd always assumed it was due to the perilous weather. That conclusion was shattered when the brooding fellow's voice cut through the cold air once more.
"This frozen land," the boy said, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the floor. "It's his home." He looked up, and his eyes were dark and serious. "The Frost Tyrant. The Winter Monstrosity. Whatever you call it... the thing that made this land lifeless, barren, and devoid of almost all life. This is its home."
"Oh."
It was all Mephis could muster. His eyes drifted back to the blue-eyed girl. She was still hugging her knees, her eyes squeezed shut. He could see the faint tremor in her hands.
Now he understood their silence. Unlike him, with his reset-button immortality, they had no such safety net. The fear was real for them. The Frost Tyrant was a name that promised a truly horrific end.
He rested his head against the icy wall, finally acknowledging the heavy silence that filled the cage. For the first time, he found himself sincerely hoping they wouldn't wake the monster from its slumber. After all, he really didn't want to be gouged, spewn, or severed into pieces. Deaths like that left deep, lingering trauma. And he had no idea when his ability might run out. He could die for real.
Damn it. All this peril, just for a few copper coins.
He really was cursed with a world-class bad luck spell.
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