The Miserable End Of Fiction

Why do I need power?—To burn down every enemy who poses a threat to my plans.

Why do I have to be strong?—The weak can't survive in this merciless world. Only the strong and clever have survived until now.

If I have power, can I protect my loved ones?—No. Even if you become stronger, there will always be someone stronger than you. It could be an enemy, an ally, or even another version of yourself.

Attachment is the root of all suffering.

If I try to improve myself, can I be with my family, friends, or girlfriend?—Foolish child. Loneliness is the first price you pay when you start to improve yourself.

Can I be happy if I become stronger?—...I don't know. For me, happiness doesn't seem to exist, but I don't know about you.

Like parents give love to their children, and teachers give knowledge to their students, death provides rebirth or liberation.

In a room full of darkness, someone—or perhaps myself—gives me enlightenment, answering the questions that have lingered in my mind since I arrived here.

But—

What is this?—A dream?

No. This feels too real to be a dream.

Darkness surrounded me. It was warm, comforting even, yet deep down, an unshakable feeling told me this place was dangerous. Still, I didn't want to leave.

A voice echoed through the void.

"Young Master..."

Was someone calling me? No, that couldn't be. There was no one who would care if I was gone.

"Young Master!!!"

Who is this "Young Master"? Why do they sound so worried about him? I feel... jealous.

A sharp pain struck my ear.

Ack—!

My eyes fluttered open, vision blurred. A figure hovered over me—soft brown hair, piercing blue eyes. I blinked, and something warm hit my cheek. Tears?

"Carla? What happened? Why are you crying?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"I'm not crying! I was just... worried," she sniffed, hastily wiping her face. "When I arrived, your eyes were bleeding, and you wouldn't answer me."

Bleeding? I reached up, fingertips brushing against the sticky warmth near my eyes. Crimson stained them. But why?

"I'll bandage you up. But you need to tell me what happened," Carla insisted, her voice laced with concern.

I didn't know. The only thing I remembered was the dream—or was it really a dream?

"Ahh—please be gentle!" I winced as she dabbed at my wounds.

She smirked. "Your moan is still cute."

I froze. What? Moan? Cute?

"W-What are you talking about, you pervert!" I turned my head away, face burning.

"You call me a pervert, but you were the one staring at my chest." She crossed her arms, smirking. "Now, who's the real pervert here?"

I sputtered. "I wasn't staring! I was just... lost in thought!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what were you thinking about?"

I hesitated. I could tell the truth, but that would only make things worse.

"I was just thinking... you're getting old—"

Agh!

Pain exploded in my head as Carla smacked me. Her blue eyes, once warm, turned icy.

"So? What are you trying to say, hmm?"

Damn it. I needed to fix this before she killed me.

"I meant that you're aging gracefully! No, more than that—you're still more beautiful than most of the young girls at the Academy. No, not just comparable, you'd outshine them!"

Carla blinked. Then she smirked, amused.

"Hoo... Young Master, where did you learn to sweet-talk like that? Or are you just a natural playboy?"

"Agh—No! No one taught me! And I'm not a playboy! It's just—"

"Forget it." She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm really worried about the young ladies."

"No, please let me explain! I—"

Knock, knock.

A voice called from the door.

"Young Master, the hour of awakening has arrived. The Duke is waiting for your presence."

I clenched my fists. What perfect timing.

"Tell him I'll be there. Wait for me."

I turned back to Carla, desperate to clear the misunderstanding.

"Carla, I'm not a play—"

Click.

The door swung open, and a man in servant's garb stepped in, his face impassive.

"What is this behavior towards the Young Master?"

Carla stiffened, her expression darkening.

"The Duke ordered us to use force if he delays any longer," the servant continued.

I exhaled sharply. That bastard. He really had no patience.

"But Young Master's eyes were bleeding! Can't the ritual wait?" Carla protested.

The servant sneered. "You have no right to question us. You are just a servant. And he—he is merely a test subject."

Silence fell.

A dangerous chill ran through my veins.

"You—!!" Carla's voice shook with fury as she took a step forward.

"Carla, stop!" My command cut through the air.

She hesitated, fists clenched. "But, Young Master—"

"No 'buts.' Just follow my orders."

I turned my attention to the servant, even though I couldn't see him through the bandages. I knew exactly where he stood.

"And you—" My voice dropped, cold as steel. "If I ever hear you disrespect Carla or any other servant again, that will be your last day in this world. Not even the Duke will save you."

The once-brave servant paled. "O-Okay, Young Master..."

"Now, let's go."

As I moved past Carla, I pressed a small piece of paper into her palm.

"Wait here and finish this before I return."

She looked down at it, her lips parting in hesitation. "...Okay. Take care."

I nodded.

Then, without another word, I turned and walked forward.

Toward my destiny.

Toward the power calling me.