INDEX 444 D.A. Lanuarius 13. HOUSE BLAIR
The smell of freshly baked pie woke me up; it was alluring.
My body was aching all over, as if I had been hit by a truck, and it felt different from before, as if I was me and something else... Right, last night I was trying to escape from those people, I thought to myself as I sat by the bed mattress.
"This room is—unfamiliar. It seems that my fate in this world is to be put in different places every time I wake up," Rylee mumbled. "Well, at least this time it wasn't covered in blood, or it's not me being tied up to a chair."
Everything looked and felt cozy; it was as if some sort of safe haven. Along the bedside table was a picture of a family; it resembled love and affection. The room was also filled with some books and journals of different genres.
"I mustn't be distracted. No matter how good a house looked, it's still what lives in it that writes its colors, and not every house is a home."
I tried to recall what happened last night—everything.
"Right, I was able to conjure, manifest, and free myself, and—and Nicaisse. It seems I was really inhabiting his body. After our encounter, I was sure that it was all planned by the Author who brought me here." Then I remembered how Nicaisse was able to talk to me in the back of my mind. "Now that I'm out of harm's way even for just a moment, he might be able to give me more information about this game, or whatever it is that these Authors had put me in."
So I called. I shouted, not with voice but with thought—
"Nicaisse... Nicaisse!!"
But it was to no avail.
"Why isn't he responding? Or is it possible that our consciousnesses have merged?" No, that's illogical, I thought. But then, everything here, after all, is—in itself—illogical.
Before I was able to finish clearing up my thoughts, the door creaked open. There came a child,
a girl.
She looks 16, or something close to that, I think. She has fair skin and quite a slender body, one that would definitely allure boys of the same age. She wore pants and a vest; it resembled that of someone noble. I remembered the poor woman back at the torture chamber. If she hadn't wound up there, she might have looked just like this girl.
"No matter what world we live in, evil really does reside in the people." A realization that had occurred to me even back on Earth.
"Exactly."
A voice echoed, but it was familiar. It had the same kind of dread in it. It was Nicaisse.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"In this world, you're basically a lost sheep. You have seen the worst firsthand, haven't you? But it's nothing but the mere tip. But I did," he said.
"What are you trying to say?" I replied. But deep down, I already know where he's getting at. I was self-aware even as a child back then; this feeling is coming from a sense of safety, a sense of trying to reclaim security and stability.
"This is a world written by near-omniscient beings, and the only way to survive is to outsmart them, to take hold of your own pen, and rewrite the story, even if the blood of others becomes the cost.
"Isn't that what you do best? Right, R.Y.L.E.E."
"I don't understand," Rylee said.
"You don't need to fake yourself. I've peeked through some of your memories. I know you're different.
"Purposely making mistakes on your papers just so you wouldn't be perfect, or by simply ego-tripping your professors using subtle things. You even once made a bully doubt himself... you sly.
"Between you and me, we are the only ones we can put our trust in. I am the power without intellect, and you are the wisdom without power. You need me, and I need you."
He wasn't wrong. But I don't feel any guilt or remorse after all—
"I only did what I had to," I replied with a calm demeanor.
"I know."
For a moment, the girl stared back at me. She looked surprised and relieved. Then she entered and placed a plate by the small coffee table on the side. Her movements spoke of grace—someone who holds status. "She must be the daughter of a wealthy businessman or a politician"—
"How long do you plan to stare at my body?" she interrupted. "Never mind, I know you don't intend to do so. How are your wounds?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry. It seems almost healed... But my body is still aching all over.
"Can you tell me where—"
She interrupted me before I could finish my question.
"You don't need to know where you are, but this is a safe place. But I know that people from the Cathedral are looking for you. I only helped because it's what is right, but—" she said.
"But I don't want you to stay any longer. I know this might sound counterintuitive, but I'm the head of this house, and I need to make sure that no harm ever touches us. Soon those Believers would reach this place, so I will be doing my best to nurse you, so that you can leave already." She said with a tone that held shyness. Her words may be bitter, but I can feel she bears no ill will.
She's right, though. It might be out of good heart, but overstaying may spell danger to her household.
"I see. You did so much for me already. My conscience wouldn't let me stay any longer. I don't want my savior to be dragged into—Aughh... ngh—Agh..." I replied, as I collapsed slightly forward, letting the pain crawl across my expression just enough.
She leaped in urgency to help me, guiding me back into the mattress.
"Yes, yess... But—" she hesitated, her hands still holding my shoulders.
"But no..." I murmured, letting my voice tremble. "I must go, for your safety."
"I'm sorry, but I insist," she said at last. "I cannot allow anyone to leave this house, knowing full well that they'd be in a bad condition. That's not how I was raised," she said. "You can stay for at least another day or two. Your pursuers won't reach this place until the fifth day, so you still have time."
I locked gaze softly into her eyes.
"I suppose you're right. And I also don't want to waste your kindness by pushing myself over the edge right after you nursed me back to health. Again, thank you for your kindness."
I paused, letting the depth of my words sink deeper.
"You were definitely raised by great people."
She looked away. Maybe to hide the flush. Or maybe because it worked.
It may have worked, but I still lack the knowledge. Then I remembered one of the lessons I had on history back then: "Manners and Etiquette among Noble Families from the Ages."
"Right, sorry for my rudeness. I am—" I hesitated for a moment. "I am Rylee Caldwell. Do I have the honor of knowing the name of this young lady?" I said.
"Wha—" she exclaimed in a flustered manner. "I—I am Margaux Blair, the head and heir of House Blair, and I am a man!" she/he shouted.
"A man— I see. Apologies for misjudging you."
"Well, I'm used to it so far," she replied in a tired manner. "Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
"I will, thank you."
He left in a hurry afterwards.
"He definitely looked feminine, especially with that ponytail. It might be rare, but he might have Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (AIS). It makes someone who has XY chromosomes appear slightly feminine, with distinct features of a man. But in some cases, they may look completely like a woman.
I shrugged the thought as inconsequential as I chewed slowly, the warmth of the pie dulling the ache in my body—at least for now.
The taste grounded me. Familiar. Human. But I wasn't here to feel safe.
I needed to think.
Recollect. Align. Prioritize.
"I was dragged into this wicked world by the Author...
Into the body of Nicaisse Kholer—visionary, murderer, or maybe both.
I was tortured in a dungeon.
I broke free.
I survived."
But now survival was no longer enough.
I needed clarity. I needed a plan.
I wiped my hands on the cloth napkin and stared at the wall as if it could answer me.
So—what comes next?
A few questions flagged on my mind:
Why am I here? Who is the Author? And how am I going to write my own ending, my own story?
KNOWLEDGE
I whispered, I need knowledge. Only a fool walks blindfolded.
And this power—I need it. If I want to survive, I need what this power can do. I must understand how to properly use it.
"I know that this power requires 'memory' as a fuel, and I need to understand what I visualize in order to conjure it. Right now, I can negate pain all over my body, and conjure basic manifestations."
So I recreated the spells I did so far...
[Pain Negation & Amplification] – Localized nerve control, sensory manipulation.
[Instantaneous Combustion] – Thermodynamic acceleration at molecular vibration points.
[Cellular Regeneration] – Standard recovery spell, high memory cost over time.
[Neurogenesis] – The Ace. Force-growing neural pathways. Costly. Dangerous. But... effective.
But this is not enough. I need more if I want to survive.
Something fast but subtle, something that can't easily be detected.
Since I already managed to engineer my own thought, then—
Is it possible to reformat others'?
Hormones. Neuroreceptors. Synapses.
It came to me—an obscure condition from my old world:
Mirror Touch Synesthesia.
In that condition, a person feels the physical sensations they see inflicted on someone else. A passive empathy error. A neurological echo.
But what if I weaponize that?
What if I make them feel what I feel—because I will it?
A spectral projection of pain.
An illusory link between nerves.
Mimicry, but evolved. Forced.
Not just to make them mimic me—but to make them suffer for me.
.
.
.
I was lost in thought as I recalibrated my power. I didn't realize the sun was down already.
"I see, you're one of them." A soft voice—it was Blair.
"One of them?" I asked.
"One of the people who possesses the power from the Authors—the ones who kept looking down on us, blind."
I was confused. Blind? But she can clearly see. I need to know what she's talking about, but I cannot leave myself open.
"Blind, you say? But don't you have the same power?" I asked an open-ended question with a sarcastic tone.
"Power? What power? We can't even imagine, more or less manifest—"
I see. The term "blind" wasn't literal in that sense.
It was structural—a metaphor, meaning that she doesn't have CLAIRVOYANCE. That confirms one thing—not everyone has power. I remembered some famous words back in my old world:
"No matter what age, humanity would always hang unbalanced—those that had power and those that had none."
I didn't let him finish.
"You're mistaken. Isn't it that those blind people are the ones who truly understand reality? For if you close your eyes, can you only see?"
The words of the man before me resembled the wisdom from the words that my father always told me, Blair thought.
"So close your eyes and see. Do you think I belong to those people who think they're above others?" I added.
"Right, sorry," he said, bowing his head.
"It's okay, don't worry about it. Making mistakes proves you're a human. Owning responsibilities makes you a man," I replied.
"Right." She—I mean he—blushed.
"Ah, right. I came to check on you, and also, if you wanted, you can check my father's workroom. I thought that you might get bored just staring into the ceiling while waiting to heal," Blair said out of concern.
"Is it alright? Am I not overstepping my stay?"
"No. My father would have liked it if he were still alive," he said as he gestured for me to follow.
Along the way, we bumped into someone. A woman. Nothing in her character looked special—just a typical stereotype housewife.
"Oh, this is my—" Blair hesitated. "My stepmom. She was helping me with the household. She also helped me nurse you back to health."
She bowed, with a broken grace.
"Good to know you're getting better, sir," she greeted. Then, turning toward Blair, "Uhm, where are you going?" she asked.
"Just at my father's workroom. I figured that it would help him recover if he wasn't stuck with the same view all day. Moving around would also help hasten his recuperation. Well, see you around," Blair replied as he led the way through the corridor, dragging me along in hesitation.
In the corner of my eye, I could see her about to stop Blair, but she failed to do so and was just staring in disbelief.
"Something is wrong with that woman," I thought to myself.
"Sorry, I had to drag you away," Blair said. "It's just... I don't really like talking to her. Not in a casual manner, that is. I don't really think she's up to any good. I may sound delusional, but I'm not—really. I just can't shake this feeling that something is wrong," he explained.
"Don't worry, I'm not judging you. Sometimes gut instinct tells us what the eyes cannot see," I replied, to satisfy him.
"Well, enough of that. We came here to view my father's workplace, and not gossip about others," he shrugged, clenching his fist.
"Do you like history?" she asked.
"Only if I were blessed with someone to learn about it personally," I replied.
She smiled at me with satisfaction and shyness.
"Then I hope you won't get disappointed."
I watched as he grabbed a book on a shelf, without even looking at the cover, as if it was memorized from the intro to the end. It reeked of something old but looked maintained.
"You like studying, don't you?" I asked.
"Yes. It was one of the things my father taught me before he died. He said that if one lacks strength, he can always account for it—for it's the most abundant power of all," he replied eagerly, as he recalled old memories.
"Your father is right. He seemed a great man," I voiced.
"He is..." he whispered. "Do you know, a hundred years ago, when Artists were starting to emerge and artifacts were a trend, one person was actually able to create an object that granted him an audience with the Authors?"
"I think I heard that story back as a child, but I wasn't able to remember. Care to share?" I said, with an honest expression.
"Well, the man was able to create an artifact that granted him an audience with the Authors. After that, he vanished. Some thought he ascended into godhood himself, and the artifact was left." Later, historians found a journal of an explorer saying that very artifact was here, where the Holy City was founded," she continued the story. "That's why the High People, and the ones that have the power, pushed us down to the south—because many other nations attempted to get a hold of that artifact, and we were being used as a lifeline, a shield."
This was such substantial knowledge. If I wanted to get in touch with the Authors, then this would definitely be my way. I need to probe him more.
"I know you're not telling this by coincidence," I replied, implying that I've read between the lines.
"Yes, I suppose you're cunning yourself. Well, at some point, I wanted to grab hold of that artifact—not because I wanted power or anything, but rather I wanted answers. I wanted to ask the Authors: why did they give power discriminatively? And why do they let the people of this world turn over? Why do they let evil and greed succumb to the minds of the people?" he said.
I opened my mouth, paraphrasing some quote I heard back then.
"Just like chaos and order—" I began, as if some teacher lecturing a student. But in Blair's eyes, a different reality unfolded.
"What?!!!" The world suddenly turned blank. It was dark, abyssal even. I cannot even see the corners, the ceiling, or the floor. Then he noticed a colossal table and a seat waiting for him.
At the end of it was Rylee Caldwell, the man who was just with him in his father's workplace. But he seemed different. As he continued to speak, he looked as if he was some shadow of a being bearing omniscience—a demon staring directly at his soul.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't speak.
All he could do was look at the godlike entity and listen.
"Kindness and evil aren't oppositions but rather in equilibrium. For one cannot appreciate kindness without evil, and cannot overcome evil without kindness," I continued.
Blair looked amazed and petrified. Maybe my words held deeper meaning to him, or that he was astonished. After all, people like him—those that crave knowledge—tend to bow in reverence towards others that hold wisdom, I thought.
Then—
Blair snapped back to reality, with cold sweat dripping down his temples, and his breathing was shaky.
"I—I think I forgot to do something," he said, rushing downstairs.
"What was that? WHAT IS HE?" he questioned—not himself, but reality.
That was scary—but it was also captivating, as if trying to call me.
A phenomenon, unbeknownst to Rylee.