Lord of Perverted Ladies

The chamber fell into complete silence.

No blue windows.

No notifications.

No familiar hum from the System.

Nothing.

It took me a full second to realize what bothered me so much.

The System wasn’t broken.

It was... absent.

For the first time since arriving in this world, I couldn’t feel it.

It was like losing a sense I hadn’t realized I depended on.

The stranger stepped fully into the circle of pillars.

He wasn’t what I expected.

Average height.

Black overcoat buttoned neatly to the neck.

Dark leather gloves.

Well-polished shoes.

His hair was neatly combed, and he looked no older than thirty.

There was nothing remarkable about him.

If I had passed him on a crowded street, I wouldn’t have looked twice.

And yet...

Something about him refused to stay in my memory.

I could see his face.

I knew I was looking at it.

But every time I tried to focus on a specific feature, it slipped away.

His eyes.

His nose.

The shape of his mouth.

The details dissolved the moment I noticed them.

It was like trying to remember someone from a dream.

The First Historian instinctively moved another step in front of the original notebook.

"You shouldn’t be here."

The stranger smiled politely.

"I’ve heard that several times today."

"You crossed a boundary."

"I walked through an open door."

"They weren’t meant for you."

"They rarely are."

His tone remained calm.

Almost conversational.

The Editor slowly exhaled.

"How did you find this place?"

"I read."

"Impossible."

"So I’ve been told."

He lifted the heavily annotated copy of Chapter One.

"I simply followed the instructions."

Whitmore stared at the pages in disbelief.

"There weren’t any instructions."

"There were."

The stranger lightly tapped the margin with one gloved finger.

"They were written between the sentences."

Noah frowned.

"Between the sentences?"

The stranger looked at him.

"Every story has blank spaces."

"Most people ignore them."

"I didn’t."

Nobody knew how to respond.

The Historian’s Notebook suddenly twitched in my hands.

Without the System, its pages had become the only thing still reacting.

Fresh ink spread across an empty page.

Do not trust your memory.

The next line appeared almost immediately.

Read him twice.

I looked up.

The stranger was still standing exactly where he had been.

Then I looked again.

Something changed.

Not in him.

In my memory.

I suddenly realized I couldn’t remember whether he’d entered the room with the book in his left hand or his right.

I had watched him walk in.

I had watched every step.

Yet that tiny detail had vanished.

The stranger noticed me staring.

"You’ve begun to see it."

"See what?"

"My condition."

He folded the annotated manuscript closed.

"I cannot be remembered accurately."

The First Historian clenched his fists.

"Stop talking."

"Every word makes it worse."

The stranger chuckled softly.

"You still believe silence solves everything."

"No."

"It only delays it."

The room trembled.

One of the remaining pillars cracked from top to bottom.

Stone fell away in chunks.

Inside...

Instead of solid rock...

There were books.

Hundreds of them.

Each one sealed shut with black thread.

The stranger glanced toward them.

"They’re still here."

The Editor’s voice became noticeably colder.

"You know those books."

"I sealed some of them."

The First Historian’s eyes widened.

"No."

"You couldn’t have."

"I could."

"I did."

The stranger looked almost nostalgic.

"It took weeks."

Whitmore stepped forward.

"Who are you?"

The man looked at him for a long moment.

"I’ve had many names."

"I don’t keep them anymore."

"I asked who you are."

"And I answered."

Whitmore fell silent.

The answer sounded meaningless.

Yet somehow...

It also felt completely honest.

The stranger slowly removed one glove.

His hands were covered in black ink.

Not stains.

The ink moved.

Thin lines flowed beneath his skin like veins.

I instinctively looked down at the fingerprint Draft Zero had left on my wrist.

The stranger noticed.

"So."

"You met him."

"You know Draft Zero?"

"I knew him before he became Draft Zero."

The chamber seemed to grow even quieter.

The First Historian looked away.

Almost guiltily.

"You shouldn’t speak about him."

"He’s speaking about me."

The stranger smiled faintly.

"That makes it fair."

I stepped forward.

"Who was he?"

The stranger’s eyes met mine.

"For a while..."

"...he was hope."

The answer hit harder than I expected.

Hope.

Not a failure.

Not a rejected version.

Hope.

"What happened?"

"He refused to stop asking questions."

"I thought that was good."

"It was."

The stranger nodded.

"Until he began asking the wrong people."

The annotated manuscript suddenly slipped from his hand.

It hit the floor.

The pages spread open.

Every margin was filled with tiny notes.

Corrections.

Questions.

Crossed-out paragraphs.

Entire conversations.

One sentence immediately caught my attention.

Written in bright red ink beside the opening page—

The protagonist is observing the wrong narrator.

I bent to pick it up.

"Don’t."

The First Historian shouted.

Too late.

My fingers brushed the page.

The world lurched.

For less than a heartbeat...

The chamber disappeared.

I stood somewhere else.

Rain.

A ruined city.

Broken towers.

Books burning in the streets.

A lone figure sat beneath a collapsed archway.

Writing.

Not on paper.

On the ground itself.

Every sentence he finished became another crack in the sky.

Before I could see his face—

The vision ended.

I staggered backward.

Noah caught my shoulder.

"Adrian!"

I looked around wildly.

The chamber had returned.

Only a second had passed.

The manuscript had already snapped shut.

The stranger watched me carefully.

"What did you see?"

"A city."

"Burning."

He nodded once.

"So the manuscript accepted you."

The First Historian looked genuinely alarmed.

"It shouldn’t have."

"It did."

The stranger calmly put the book back under his arm.

"You’ve already read farther than I expected."

The Historian’s Notebook flipped open again.

This time, the handwriting wasn’t its usual neat script.

It looked rushed.

Almost panicked.

He isn’t lying.

Another sentence appeared beneath it.

That’s what makes him dangerous.

The stranger glanced toward the notebook.

"It still remembers me."

"It remembers everyone."

The First Historian answered.

"No."

The stranger quietly corrected him.

"It remembers everyone who leaves."

His words echoed through the chamber.

Then...

The original notebook opened.

Not slowly.

Violently.

Every page turned at once.

Ink rose into the air like smoke.

Instead of forming words...

It formed faces.

Lucien.

Elias.

The Editor.

Draft Zero.

The First Historian.

One after another, the ink portraits floated above the notebook before dissolving.

Then...

One final face began to form.

Nobody recognized it.

Not even the stranger.

His calm expression finally faltered.

"Impossible..."

he whispered.

The First Historian stared upward.

His face had gone completely white.

"It found him."

"Who?" I asked.

The ink portrait finished forming.

An elderly man with gentle eyes and a tired smile looked down at all of us before fading into drifting black droplets.

The original notebook wrote a single sentence across both open pages.

The First Reader has awakened.

The stranger slowly closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the calm confidence he had carried into the chamber was gone.

For the first time since he appeared...

He looked afraid.

"I thought..."

he murmured.

"...he would never read again."

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