When Silas' blade atomized the boulder beneath Celia, the epiphany struck like lightning:
The original author was a flop-hounded madman.
His novel warped reality—
A harem parade of beasts seducing the protagonist: siren-song vixens, doe-eyed sprites, even muscle-bound minotaurs...
All slaughtered in increasingly grotesque tableaus.
Ascension via genocide.
And I—mule-headed reader—had devoured every word.
Now I wore the fur of his final victim.
But the true horror?
Silas Brooks had zero romance flags.
His heart was a locked vault with "KILL" etched on the door.
My momentary delusion—that blush? That grip on my wrist?—
Proof I'd caught the author's insanity.
The shattered rock became my shattered delusions.
I snatched Celia mid-air.
RUN.
Dirt sprayed behind us in a comet-tail of desperation.
Silver lining: fleeing was now my celestial-tier skill.