"Why?"
"Why?"
"Why?"
The writing desk of Johnathan Farragumo now resembled a forgotten battlefield. Burnt paper curled like dying leaves, and black ink dotted the wood like dried blood.
The very air stink of smoke, failure, and sleepless nights.
Today, John had finally lost the war he had been fighting for years.
For five long years, he had poured his heart and soul into a novel he called Akashic Records of the Supreme Magus. It told the tale of Veera Von Voidheart, a man shattered by tragedy who stumbled upon a forbidden Soul Book that granted him unholy power.
Veera was meant to be a morally gray hero, driven by vengeance for his mother, his heart torn between light and darkness.
The story after many twists and turns headed toward a grand finale. Veera would slay the true evil and then split the world in two. One realm for dark mages, one for light.
The sequel was already outlined, starring the fallen villain's son as the next protagonist.
But that story would never see the light of day.
John's desk was pilled with rejection letters from countless publishers. Each one was like another nail in the coffin of his dream.
He had thought his work was perfect. Trial readers called it a masterpiece. So why did the world keep turning him away?
Was it jealousy? Incompetence? Or something deeper he refused to face?
He stared at the ashes on his desk blankly. For a fleeting moment, he thought they were whispering something back to him.
Maybe the truth was simpler. Maybe the story wasn't alive anymore. Maybe he wasn't alive too.
The pages he had burned...they were more than paper. They were pieces of his pitiful existence. Every rejection had hollowed him out, little by little.
Just like his protagonist, John also tried to build a new world from the ruin. But in the end, he had only broken his own.
He suddenly collapsed onto his worn out chair. Those lifeless eyes reflected the dying glow of a life's final candle.
The silence inside the broken room was absolute.
"It seems I have failed to keep my promise, Father, Mother. I am sorry. But at least, I can rest now."
With that, the pen loosened in his hand and clattered onto the floor, marking the desolate end of the failed Author's life.
His husk lay like a shrunken mummy, utterly alone.
No one would come to see him off. No one's going to mourn for his death.
He would be found and buried only when the neighbors catches the rotten smell of his flesh.
However, just then, several voices echoed outside the rundown apartment.
Outside, four young people were excitedly talking about something while walking to John's small apartment.
"Nina, it's such a run-down apartment. How can that great author live here?" one of the two boys asked, looking incredulous.
The beautiful girl, Nina, smiled faintly. "Great men like him come from these kind of places, David."
Another girl chimed in, looking sad. "I feel so sorry for Sensei F&B (Flamingo & Butterfly). His work is such a masterpiece, and yet he never got the chance to publish. If the world knew such a legendary story existed, he would've been pretty famous by now."
"Hehe...You're right about that, homie. I have been obsessed with it ever since you recommended it to me. I found Veera's personality very cool and domineering. That villain had no chance after Veera's Soul Book leveled up to a Dimensional level," the other boy in ripped pants added, looking like a fanatic.
"And now I want to know how the sequel goes. Will Veera recover from his injuries? Or will the villain come back as he promised?"
"But I really don't want to see that sicko's evil smile. He is really creepy," David said, looking disgusted.
"Haha," the other three shared a laugh at his cowardice.
But after a while of waiting, they found no response from inside.
"Sensei isn't responding?"
"Yeah. He might be busy. Let me call him," Nina said, dialing her phone.
The phone rang, but no one responded.
"Nina, if he's not responding, then there's no need to disturb him. Let's leave. We can come tomorrow," David said.
At this, Nina grew worried.
"No, David. Sensei always picks up my call. Something must be wrong."
"Relax, Homie. How long have you known him? He might just have overslept," Mark added, grinning.
Nina shook her head.
"Sleep at this hour? Impossible!" she said. "Three months is enough to know a person, David. Let's break the lock. I'm getting worried. He might have overworked again."
David and the other three looked helpless at their friend's overconcern.
"Alright, alright. Let me use my secret lockpicking skill. The way how ancient this lock is, breaking it wouldn't even take a minute," Mark said, rolling up his sleeves.
Very soon, the door opened with a metallic click. Mark earned suspicious gazes from the others, who wondered if he used this skill for less innocent purposes.
Nevertheless, the four fans quickly entered inside.
The room was dimly lit with just the flickering screen of the computer on the desk. The environment resembled a neglected shrine.
As their gazes turned to the chair, they froze.
The zombie like face of a thirty-year-old man was slumped lifelessly, tilted to one side.
The sight shattered their reality.
"Nina, Don't look! David, call 911..." Mark said while shielding Nina's eyes.
And yet, Nina removed his hand, refusing to ignore this.
"Sensei..." Her lips quivered, and tears gathered in her eyes.
"Why?" she echoed tremblingly, moving closer to the frail man.
She then slowly touched his neck, finding no pulse in the veins, which confirmed their worst suspicion.
The Author: Flamingo & Butterfly Had Died.
The flashback of their memories together flashed in her mind:
The first time she messaged him, she had been vibrating with excitement.
"Sensei F&B," she had typed excitedly, "your new draft is a masterpiece! Why won't anyone publish it?"
Elias, looking thin and perpetually tired on the low-resolution video feed, had given a weary smile. "The world sees what it wants to see, Nina. And it doesn't see ghosts who write about ghosts."
One evening, she had finally asked about his strange online penname.
"Flamingo and Butterfly," she'd asked. "Why those two, Sensei?"
He leaned closer to the webcam. "Because I am the Flamingo—tall, awkward, and easy to overlook. But the Butterfly, like Nina, is the fragile beauty I try to capture in the story. It's what I aspire to be."
Another time, when she was frustrated with her own school writing, he had offered guidance.
"Don't chase applause," he had advised in his soft and firm voice. "Chase the truth of the character. Even in fantasy. People crave the truth, even if they reject it at first."
Nina's voice, which had asked Why? to the lifeless figure moments ago, broke into a desolate sob. She clutched the collar of the dead author's shirt, her face buried in his chest.
The irony was a physical blow. The man who had chased the "truth of the character" and created "fragile beauty" had died believing he was nothing.
"Sensei, since this world didn't believe you, may you create your own World someday. Sadly, I won't be able accompany you anymore. This is goodbye. Forever."