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Your favorite broadcast from the belly of the beast...
> Murphy: January 5th, 2000. 7:44 PM. What would you do if you knew how the book ends, but were asked to live every line anyway?
Ainz-sama: Transmission 6 – "To-Desire." A mind born with memory... in a world that forgets.
Guest Voices
Heraclitus: "You cannot step into the same river twice, unless you remember where every stone lies."
Karna, Son of Surya: "I was born with armor, but never with shelter."
A Persian Carpet Maker: "The pattern was decided before the thread was dyed."
The Locked Closet in Your Father's House: "You never opened me, and still I haunt you."
---
There are questions so heavy they don't fall—they hang.
Not in air.
But behind your ribs.
Where breath is stored and sobs are born.
What brings peace?
He asked himself this not with yearning
but with precision.
As if trying to fix a machine.
---
Peace wasn't silence.
He'd had that.
Peace wasn't food.
He'd starved while surrounded by it.
Peace wasn't shelter.
His stall had four walls and still felt like a prison.
No. Peace was control.
---
Control wasn't power.
It was structure.
An invisible spine through the day.
A rhythm no one else noticed,
but he could conduct like a maestro
with just a breath.
The secret to peace wasn't winning.
It was building.
---
What brings trust?
Not honesty.
He had told the truth and been mocked.
He had lied and been punished.
No, trust came from precision.
From showing people you were predictable.
Safe.
Reliable.
In control of yourself,
so that others could relax their grip.
He would become predictable.
Not boring—essential.
---
Respect?
That came from silence.
He had seen it—how adults changed
when a child didn't beg for attention.
They feared it.
Respected it.
They thought it was wisdom.
They thought it was grace.
And he would let them believe it.
---
Authority?
That was the reward for usefulness.
The world bowed to those who solved its problems.
Not to those who explained them.
Not to those who cried about them.
He would fix things.
Quietly.
Ruthlessly.
Unnoticed.
---
And what of love?
He swallowed the word like phlegm.
Ugly. Sticky. Always lingering in the throat.
He had no use for it.
Not the love of women, with their demand for performance.
Not the love of religion, with its hunger for obedience.
Not the love of tradition,
that cage carved into him with every Friday sermon and every slap behind closed doors.
No, he didn't want to be loved.
He wanted to be held.
By a man.
Once.
Even if it was a lie.
Even if it never happened.
Even if no one ever knew.
Just once—
To be called beautiful.
To be wanted,
without being used.
---
But that door was sealed.
Nailed shut by every molvi,
every uncle,
every prayer mat soaked in shame.
So he folded that longing.
Tucked it deep.
Into a place so silent
even he forgot it was there.
Desire was a luxury.
He couldn't afford it.
Not here.
---
So what did he want?
Everything else.
Not wealth.
But the structures behind wealth.
Not fame.
But the systems behind power.
Not history.
But the future.
The code beneath it all.
The first breath of every consequence
before it was even born.
He remembered it all.
The next 25 years.
Every war.
Every election.
Every disaster.
Every slogan,
Every rise,
Every fall,
Every lie polished into a campaign,
every truth crucified in a courtroom.
He didn't just know outcomes.
He knew moments.
Where to stand.
When to speak.
When to stay silent.
When to blink.
When to tilt his head in just the right way
to make the world lean in.
---
What do you do
when you know
the end of the world
but still have to eat dinner
with the people who won't live to see it?
---
He did what he had always done.
He sat on the charpai.
Bare feet pressed into the dirt.
Back straight.
Hands folded.
Eyes quiet.
A child.
Five years old.
Mute.
Lucky.
Innocent.
And yet the one thing he never had before—
leverage.
This was his inheritance.
The true first right.
Not to own land.
Not to bear a name.
But to build the rules before the game began.
---
Karna: "The world will always find ways to punish your existence. So write your own weapons."