Lord of Perverted Ladies

Chapter 85: The Voice Behind My Voice

"Don’t listen to it."

The First Reader’s warning came from somewhere to my left.

I couldn’t see him.

I couldn’t see anyone.

The Reading Room had disappeared into complete darkness.

Only the sound of the pen remained.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every stroke seemed to happen somewhere different.

Sometimes above me.

Sometimes behind me.

Sometimes so close that I could almost feel the tip of the pen moving across paper beside my ear.

Then my voice came again.

"Adrian."

I froze.

It wasn’t simply similar to mine.

It was mine.

The exact tone.

The exact rhythm.

Even the slight hesitation I had before speaking when I was uncertain.

"Don’t open the book."

I swallowed.

"Where are you?"

No answer.

The First Reader immediately grabbed my shoulder.

"Don’t respond."

"Why?"

"Because it wants you to."

The darkness seemed to shift.

Something moved between the shelves.

I heard footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then silence.

The First Reader’s grip tightened.

"Whatever happens..."

"Don’t answer anything that sounds like you."

The Editor’s voice came from somewhere nearby.

"Why?"

"Because the Reader has already entered the narrative."

"And now the narrative is trying to imitate him."

The Historian’s Notebook suddenly opened in my hands.

I couldn’t see the page.

But I felt the paper moving beneath my fingers.

Words appeared.

I didn’t need light to read them.

A voice is not an identity.

Another line appeared.

A memory is not proof.

Then—

A reflection is not the original.

I breathed slowly.

The voice returned.

"You don’t understand."

I almost answered.

Almost.

Then I remembered what the First Reader had said.

Don’t respond.

The voice continued.

"I’m trying to help you."

Nothing.

"You don’t trust them."

Still nothing.

"They’ve lied to you."

My jaw tightened.

That part was probably true.

The voice laughed softly.

"You know I’m right."

The pen scratched again.

This time...

I heard the sound directly behind me.

I turned.

Nothing.

But there was a faint outline on the floor.

A pool of black ink.

It slowly spread across the stone.

Not randomly.

It formed letters.

LOOK UP.

Noah’s voice came from somewhere in the darkness.

"Adrian..."

I looked toward him.

"Don’t."

The First Reader’s voice stopped me.

"He didn’t say that."

"What?"

"I did."

I stared into the darkness.

The First Reader stepped closer.

"You have to understand something."

"Whatever is speaking to you doesn’t need a body."

"It only needs you to believe it has one."

The ink on the floor changed.

LOOK BEHIND YOU.

I didn’t move.

The words changed again.

LOOK AT YOURSELF.

A mirror appeared in the darkness.

It hadn’t been there before.

Tall.

Cracked.

Standing between two bookshelves.

I could see my reflection.

For a second, everything looked normal.

Then my reflection smiled.

I didn’t.

My body went cold.

The reflection raised its hand.

I kept mine at my side.

It pressed one finger against the glass.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Three times.

The same sound Elias had made from inside his portrait.

My reflection mouthed something.

I couldn’t hear it.

Then it wrote on the glass with its fingertip.

YOU’RE ALREADY LATE.

The mirror cracked.

The reflection disappeared.

The First Reader stepped forward.

"Don’t touch it."

"I wasn’t going to."

"Good."

He stared at the broken mirror.

"I’ve seen that trick before."

"What happened?"

"I touched it."

"And?"

"I remembered a life that wasn’t mine."

The Editor came closer.

"What life?"

He looked at her.

"Yours."

She went completely still.

The First Reader continued.

"I remembered being you."

"I remembered your childhood."

"Your first visit to the Archive."

"Your first meeting with the Author."

He paused.

"None of it happened to me."

The Editor’s expression tightened.

"But you remember it."

"Perfectly."

"That’s the danger."

The Historian’s Notebook wrote:

Memory can be transferred.

Then:

Identity cannot.

The First Reader looked at the page.

"That’s what the Archive was built to prevent."

A sudden crash echoed through the room.

The shelves shifted.

The darkness broke apart.

Hundreds of candles ignited simultaneously.

The Reading Room returned.

Books were scattered everywhere.

The white figures were gone.

The door was closed.

And in the center of the room...

The First Reader stood alone.

The others were gone.

Noah.

Hale.

Whitmore.

The Editor.

Everyone.

I spun around.

"Where are they?"

The First Reader didn’t answer.

"Where are they?"

He looked toward the shelves.

"They’re still here."

"I can’t see them."

"Because you’re looking for them in the wrong place."

"What does that mean?"

He pointed toward the books.

"Every person in this room is being stored."

I stared at the shelves.

Their names had changed.

No longer titles.

Now each book carried a single word.

MEMORY.

Hundreds of identical books.

Then one book fell from the highest shelf.

It landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

The cover was plain.

No title.

No name.

Exactly the book he had warned me about.

The First Reader immediately stepped backward.

"That’s it."

My fingers tightened around the cover.

"You said I should open it."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

"Because I know what it contains now."

"What?"

He looked at me.

"Your first memory."

I frowned.

"I know my first memory."

"No."

"You know the first memory you were given."

The words struck me.

"Given?"

"Yes."

He walked closer.

"Everyone assumes memory begins with childhood."

"It doesn’t."

"Memory begins when someone decides what you’re supposed to remember."

My hands went cold.

"What was my first memory?"

"I don’t know."

"You said you’ve read my story."

"I have."

"Then you should know."

He shook his head.

"Your first memory wasn’t written."

"That’s why the book has no title."

I stared at the cover.

"Then why does it exist?"

"Because someone is afraid you’ll remember it."

The room went silent.

The pen began scratching again.

This time...

There was no mistaking the location.

It was coming from inside the book.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

I slowly opened the cover.

The first page was blank.

Then words appeared.

Adrian Cross woke up.

I frowned.

That’s not right.

The sentence changed.

Adrian Cross was born.

Changed again.

Adrian Cross entered the academy.

Again.

Adrian Cross died.

Again.

Adrian Cross never existed.

The words kept changing.

I shut the book.

My breathing had become uneven.

"That’s not a memory."

"No."

The First Reader’s voice was quiet.

"It’s an argument."

"Between who?"

He looked toward the ceiling.

"Between the people who wrote you."

The lights flickered.

A single chair appeared behind me.

An ordinary wooden chair.

Nothing special.

Except...

I recognized it.

The empty seat.

The one from the classroom.

The one marked Reserved.

My stomach tightened.

The First Reader stepped backward.

"No."

The chair hadn’t been there a second ago.

Now it stood directly behind me.

Waiting.

The Historian’s Notebook opened.

Three words appeared.

Do not sit.

I took one step away.

The chair moved with me.

I stepped left.

It moved left.

Right.

It followed.

I backed away.

The chair remained directly behind me.

The First Reader’s expression hardened.

"It’s chosen you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the first Chapter is trying to close."

"How do I stop it?"

"You don’t."

"Then what do I do?"

He pointed toward the nameless book in my hands.

"Finish reading."

I looked down.

"No."

"You told me not to open it."

"I was wrong."

"You said—"

"I know what I said."

His voice cracked.

"I’ve been wrong for centuries."

He stepped closer.

"And every time I was wrong..."

"...someone disappeared."

The book trembled.

The first page turned by itself.

A sentence appeared.

The reader opened the book.

I stared.

Another sentence formed beneath it.

The reader understood.

Then another.

The reader remembered.

The First Reader whispered,

"Don’t let the fourth sentence appear."

"What happens?"

His eyes met mine.

"Then the book gets to decide what you remember."

The pen began moving faster.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

The next sentence started forming.

I slammed the book shut.

Nothing happened.

Then the cover began pushing against my hands.

Something inside was trying to open it.

I held tighter.

The First Reader shouted,

"Don’t fight it!"

"Why?"

"Because it’s stronger than you!"

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Choose!"

The book stopped.

Everything stopped.

The candles.

The shelves.

The chair.

Even the sound of the pen.

The First Reader looked directly at me.

"That’s what the Story has been waiting for."

I looked down at the closed book.

Then at the empty chair.

Then at the endless shelves.

I finally understood.

This wasn’t a test of strength.

It wasn’t asking me to destroy the book.

It wasn’t asking me to sit.

It wanted a choice.

I opened the book again.

The page was blank.

I picked up the broken fountain pen from my pocket.

The same pen the First Historian had given me.

The same pen Draft Zero had repaired.

I placed the nib against the empty page.

The First Reader stared at me.

"What are you doing?"

"I don’t know."

For once...

That was the truth.

I wrote the first sentence that came to mind.

I don’t remember who I was before this story.

The ink spread across the page.

The entire Reading Room shook.

The empty chair cracked.

The shelves screamed.

Every book opened at once.

And somewhere deep beneath the Archive...

The Story laughed.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!