Free fall through kaleidoscopic chaos—colors that didn't exist, sounds that tasted like copper, the sensation of being unmade and remade with each heartbeat. Ino's consciousness fragmented, scattered across impossible dimensions, pulled apart like taffy stretched too thin.
Then— STOP.
Ino gasped, his heart felt hammered against his ribs hard enough to bruise.
He was floating. No—not floating. Suspended. Like a specimen in formaldehyde, held in place by invisible forces that pressed against his skin from all directions at once.
Slowly, his vision cleared.
"What the..."
「 DING! 」 You've arrived at Vista Myr!
The notification hung mockingly in his vision, but Ino barely registered it. His attention was consumed by the impossibility surrounding him.
Vista Myr.
Books. Everywhere. Thousands—millions—of them, drifting through space like celestial bodies in their own gravitational dance. Each volume glowed with its own inner light—some warm gold, others cold silver, still others pulsing with colors that made his enhanced vision ache.
And beyond the books: galaxies. Real, actual galaxies wheeling in the distance, stars scattered like diamonds across velvet darkness. The space went on forever in every direction. No up. No down. Just infinite library stretching into cosmic eternity. It was the most beautiful thing Ino had ever seen.
It was absolutely terrifying.
Tak.
The sound cut through the impossible silence. Sharp. Deliberate. Ino's head whipped around—or tried to. Movement felt sluggish here, like pushing through honey.
Tak. Tak.
Footsteps. But from where? There was nothing but books and stars and—
"You're here."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It resonated through Ino's chest, vibrated in his bones. Male, middle-aged, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much.
Ino's throat worked. "Where—"
"The chosen one." The voice continued as if he hadn't spoken, each word deliberate. "Ino Siente."
Recognition jolted through him. Orlando. This was Orlando's voice from the memories.
"It seems you have successfully read my works." A pause that felt weighted with meaning. "You've arrived earlier than I expected."
「 DING! 」
SUB-MISSION COMPLETE 『 Find Orlando De Von Deus 』
Reward: +10 to ALL STATS
Updated Stats:
Intelligence: 100 (90→100)
Strength: 18 (8→18)
Dexterity: 15 (5→15)
Endurance: 17 (7→17)
Charisma: 48 (38→48)
Luck: 24 (14→24)
CHAIN QUEST ACTIVATED
New Sub-Mission: Explore Vista Myr and unlock Orlando's final book
"I don't understand," Ino said, his voice finally carrying properly through the void. "Where are you? What am I supposed to—"
「 DING! 」
Initiating Memory Transfer Protocol Orlando's Final Memory: Loading...
⚠ WARNING ⚠
Content:
Traumatic Risk: Emotional contamination
Disorientation: Guaranteed Transfer in: 3...
"Wait—" Ino's hands came up defensively. "I just went through his memories, I can't—"
2...
"System, stop—"
1...
The universe lurched.
Pain.
No—worse than pain. Wrongness.
My consciousness—I'm Ino, I'm Ino Siente—gets ripped out and slammed into—
Into—
Where am I?
My head throbs. Pounding. Splitting. The kind of headache that makes thinking feel like dragging broken glass through my skull.
I force my eyes open.
Wrong. Everything's wrong. Brick walls pressing close on both sides. The smell hits me—garbage, rain-soaked pavement, something rotten in a dumpster nearby. City sounds filter in: traffic, voices, a distant siren wailing.
My hands—
I look down and they're wrong. Older. Ink-stained fingers. Calluses from holding pens too long. These aren't my hands. These aren't—
I'm Orlando.
The thought surfaces with crystal certainty, and I don't know if it's mine or his or if there's even a difference anymore.
"There! There! It's Orlando!"
The shout comes from behind. My body whips around before I can think about it—muscle memory that isn't mine.
People. A group of them. Five, maybe six. Faces twisted with anger. One's holding up a phone, filming. Another clutches a newspaper with my face plastered across it.
Instinct overrides everything else.
I run.
My legs pump, feet pounding wet pavement. My hands grab walls to swing around corners. This body knows these routes, knows which alleys connect where, knows how to escape.
Am I being chased? The thought feels distant, like I'm asking about someone else's problem. My hand moves automatically to check my watch—when did I start wearing a watch?—and the numbers blur into focus.
5:00 PM.
Where am I supposed to go?
My pocket vibrates. The sensation is familiar in a way that makes my chest tight. I pull out a phone—old flip phone, scratched and worn—and there's a text waiting.
"Orlando, please come home." - Mrs. Von
Mrs. Von. My wife.
"System," I try to say. My voice comes out breathless from running.
Nothing responds.
"System?" I try again.
Still nothing.
I slow down, checking over my shoulder. The group has fallen behind, their shouts fading. A poster catches my eye it was plastered on the brick wall to my right. My face stares back at me. Younger photo, from better times. The word WANTED stamped across it in angry red letters.
And then the memories hit.
It was the usual late nights at the desk, writing while she sleeps alone— The assistant staying late, eager to help— Finding the body, blood everywhere, no time to think just RUN— Police sirens, investigation, headlines— "Famous Author Wanted for Murder"— Her tears, her questions, the distance growing—
I'm a well-known author. Was. Used to be. Before someone killed my assistant and framed me for it. Before my life collapsed into this nightmare of running and hiding and—
The phone buzzes again.
"Dear.. please.. please come home even once.."
The desperation in those words cuts deeper than any physical wound. My chest tightens with guilt so profound it's hard to breathe. I need to go home.
My feet change direction without conscious thought. They know the way. Through familiar streets, past buildings I recognize without remembering when I learned them, toward a small townhouse on the edge of the city. Toward her. The walk feels both eternal and instant. Time has stopped making sense. I'm aware of every step, every breath, every panicked glance over my shoulder.
And then I'm there.
The townhouse. Small, well-maintained. Flower boxes under the windows—she must water them every day. A light in the living room window. She's waiting. My hand raises to knock but—
The door opens.
She stands there. My wife. Dark hair pulled back, eyes red from crying, wearing a cardigan that's too large on her frame. My cardigan it was wrapped around herself like an armor. Until our eyes meet.
Something in her expression just crumbles.
"Dear..." Her voice breaks on the word. "You've worried me so much..."
She crashes into me arms wrapping tight, face buried against my shoulder. Her body shakes with sobs held back too long, and I feel my arms rise automatically, returning the embrace.
"I'm sorry," the words come out rough, choked. "I'm so sorry..." She holds tighter for a moment, then pulls back enough to take my hand. Leads me inside without speaking, locking the door behind us. The house wraps around me like a memory. I know this place. The couch where we used to watch movies. The coffee table with its permanent water ring from my careless mug placement. The photos on the wall chronicling a life I'm living right now.
We sit together on the couch. She won't look at me. Her hands twist in her lap, fingers knotting and unknotting. "Dear..." The word comes out strangled. "Did you really kill him?"
The question hangs in the air like a noose. My heart shatters. That she has to ask. That doubt has grown so deep between us that she can't even meet my eyes while voicing it. I shake my head. Firm.
No. I didn't do it.
"A...are you sure?"
I nod. Yes. I'm sure. Slowly, her gaze rises to meet mine. Brown eyes searching, desperate for truth, terrified of finding lies. Her hand reaches out. Gentle. Trembling. Her fingers brush my cheek. "Liar."
The word comes out soft. Almost kind. Her expression goes empty. The tears stop mid-track. The trembling ceases. Like someone flipped a switch, all emotion drains from her face, leaving behind something cold and hollow.
"You're not Orlando."
Ice floods through me the body going rigid.
What?
She moves with sudden, terrible speed. Grabs the decorative vase from the coffee table. Smashes it against the wood as the porcelain explodes into shards, then she picks up the largest piece. And lunges.
Training I don't have—stats I shouldn't possess—kicks in. The body throws itself sideways, and the shard whistles past where my throat was a second ago. She stands slowly. Deliberately. Blood drips from her palm where the shard cut her—she doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are empty. Completely, utterly empty.
"I killed him," she says. Flat. Stating a fact. "You saw it."
Confusion crashes over me. She killed—the assistant? But the memories showed—
Wait. What memories? Orlando's? Mine?
Who am I?
"Yet you act like you don't know?" Her head tilts. Curious. Predatory.
I'm missing something. Something crucial. The memories I received were incomplete, showing the surface but hiding the depths— "You..." Her voice cracks slightly. Emotion bleeding through the emptiness. "You never had any time for me."
The shard drips blood onto the carpet. "It's all those excuses of novels... novels... again and again, repeating by itself!" The words build, faster now. "Do I even have a place in your heart?!"
Tears fall from her dead eyes. The contradiction is awful—grief without feeling, pain without life. And I feel it. In my chest. Orlando's guilt. My guilt. The crushing weight of truth—all those nights spent writing while she waited. All those promises broken for the next bestseller. All the ways I failed her. We failed her.
The pain is indescribable. My chest feels like it's caving in. "It was for us!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "To succeed!"
"You mean your success!" She steps closer, shard raised. "While you were obsessed with your own success, all the vows we made during our marriage were left for nothing! NOTHING! NOTHING!"
The shard bites deeper into her palm. Blood flows freely now, pattering onto carpet that holds years of our shared life. She doesn't notice. I try to move forward, to take the weapon away— But I'm frozen. Paralyzed by the weight of everything I destroyed. Everything we destroyed.
"Stop this already!" The words come out choked. "If you didn't kill my assistant, then I wouldn't get accused like this!" My hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist.
!!
Her other hand strikes my face. The slap echoes. My cheek burns. She points at me with her bloody hand, finger trembling inches from my nose. "You... your ego... your selfishness... everything..." Her voice breaks completely. "I'm so sick and tired of it!" She wrenches away.
"I'll just kill myself! That way everything... everything will be gone!"
"No—" I try to move. "Wait—" But she's already running. Through the living room. Into the kitchen.
I stumble after her—why are my legs so slow? Why can't I move fast enough? She grabs a knife from the block. Large. Sharp. "Please—" My voice. Desperate. "Don't—"
She presses it to her throat and meets my eyes one final time.
And I see it: she's already gone. Has been gone for so long. The woman I married, loved, neglected—she died by inches. This is just the body catching up.
"I loved you," she whispers. Then she pulls the blade across her throat. Blood sprays. Too much. Too fast. She collapses, I watch the light fade from her eyes. Watch the pool spreading beneath her, soaking into carpet that still holds our footprints.
Watch the last piece of my world shatter beyond repair. My knees hit the floor without permission. No screams. No denial. Just hollow and empty silence. I did this. The thought surfaces clear and terrible.
Not directly. But every choice, every priority, every time I chose the work over her... I killed her as surely as if I'd held the knife myself. The guilt is crushing and suffocating.
Anta, something whispers from very far away. A name that feels important. I'm so sorry, Anta...
But I don't know who Anta is.
I don't know who I am anymore.
There's just this pain. This grief. This unbearable weight of having failed someone I loved.
「 DING! 」
The sound shatters the moment like glass.
MEMORY SEQUENCE COMPLETE Congratulations! You have experienced the depths of Orlando De Von Deus's final memory!
NEW TITLE ACQUIRED: 『 Life Observer 』
Effect: +5 Dexterity
Description: You have witnessed another's life in its entirety—the heights of success and the depths of failure. You understand now that every story has a cost.
Final Book Status: UNLOCKED
Integration: 100% Returning to Vista Myr in 3... 2... 1...
Ino gasped, his own lungs, his own body, his own skin.
He was back in Vista Myr, floating among the infinite books and impossible stars.
A man stood—no, floated—before him. Middle-aged, graying at the temples, wearing clothes that looked like they'd been worn for days. Wire-rimmed glasses. Tired eyes.
Orlando De Von Deus. In the flesh.
"You have seen it," Orlando said. Not a question.
Ino couldn't speak. His throat was raw from screaming—or from watching someone else's wife die. He wasn't sure which.
He just nodded.
「 DING! 」
Orlando's Favorability: INCREASED
Current Level: Trusted Colleague
New Feature Unlocked!
System Update in Progress...
Please Wait...
Orlando extended his hand. The gesture was simple, formal, but weighted with shared understanding.
They'd both failed the people they loved. Ino reached out and clasped Orlando's hand. The grip was firm. For the first time since arriving in this nightmare dimension, Ino felt seen.
System Update: COMPLETE!
NEW ABILITY ACQUIRED: 『 World String 』
Description: Enter any novel you have completely read. Live as a character. Change the story. Extract *&^$W)!(!)!!!!!!!!!!?>
Limitation: Cannot enter incomplete works
Warning: Death in a story may result in permanent consequences
Warning: Time dilation varies by world Congratulations, Apostle! Your god is thrilled with your progress~
The screen expanded:
MAIN MISSION: UNLOCKED 『 Enter the First Novel and Extract the First Revelation 』
Time Limit: 7 Days
Penalty Upon Failure: Permanent Death
Additional Information:
The First Novel: "Chronicles of the Fractured Crown"
Author: Unknown L
ocation: Orlando's Personal Library
Difficulty: A-
Survival Rate: 12% Good luck! You'll need it~
Ino stared at the notification. Then at Orlando. Then back at the screen.
"Seven days," he said hoarsely. "Seven days to enter a novel, extract a 'revelation,' and survive."
Orlando's expression was grim. "The First Revelation is the key to understanding what the Higher Existences truly want."
"And it's hidden in a novel?"
"Not just any novel." Orlando released Ino's hand, gesturing to the infinite library around them. "The first story ever told. The template upon which all others are based. The ur-narrative."
He turned, and a book materialized in his hands. Massive and ancient it feels like bound in something that looked disturbingly like human skin. The title was written in symbols that hurt to read directly.
"This," Orlando said, "will kill you if you're not prepared. The story inside is alive and aware. It knows when someone enters it, and it doesn't like visitors." Ino took the book. It was heavier than it should be, and warm to the touch. Like holding a beating heart.
"Then I'd better prepare," Ino said. Orlando's lips quirked. Not quite a smile. "Spoken like a true Apostle." The countdown pulsed.
Ino looked down at the book in his hands.
Inside was a story. And somewhere, a god was watching with great interest to see if he'd survive long enough to find it.
[END OF CHAPTER 7]
NEXT OBJECTIVE: Prepare for Story Immersion
Recommended: Learn Vista Myr navigation
Recommended: Train with World String ability
Recommended: Make peace with your probable death
Time until forced entry: 6 hours Your god suggests you hurry...