Chapter 7:
The Writer System. The Writer Who Became the Main Character of a New Story
After Bread Comes Trial
Because that’s how life works.
Especially in a magic academy where olives hide portals to personal nightmares.
---
They walked in silence.
Illya — slightly ahead.
Marcus — slightly to the side.
Behind them, the crowd of students buzzed like mosquitoes before a storm.
The crystal in the sky glowed brighter and brighter.
Above the arena, a heavy pause hung — the kind that only happens before sleep… or before a nightmare.
> He wanted to make a joke.
But inside — there was nothing.
Even the unfinished bread didn’t seem funny anymore.
Because with every step, he walked toward a place where logic stopped working.
Where no one would help.
Where it was you — against yourself.
“Third trial,” someone murmured nearby.
“Or reality,” someone else corrected.
Marcus looked at the swirling portal of light.
Then at Illya.
She said nothing. Just stepped forward.
And vanished.
He followed.
---
Somewhere Inside
Fog.
Thick, damp, heavy.
It clung to his skin, his thoughts, his memories.
And a voice — distant, hollow — broke through it.
“Welcome to the Illusion Labyrinth,” the System said.
“Generated from your own templates: fears, failures, regrets.
Everything you hide behind sarcasm.”
He didn’t answer.
Because from the fog… emerged a slime.
Wearing an apron.
Holding a tray.
On it: a wobbling sign that read Chef’s Surprise.
He didn’t scream.
He just ran.
When fear becomes part of daily life,
It stops being fear.
It becomes… a lifestyle.
---
Rooms. Corridors. Doors.
The world folded in on itself like an overboiled noodle.
Reality dripped like melted cheese.
And his thoughts — like roaches — scurried in all directions.
In one room, the ceiling whispered: “You’re not enough.”
In another, a mirror said: “You’re not real.”
In the third, someone was reading his rough drafts out loud.
That one hurt the most.
> Somewhere between panic and hysteria, he started talking to himself again.
As always.
Sometimes, that helped.
---
Meanwhile, Outside
The crowd was silent.
The herald read the first name.
A boy stepped out of the portal.
Cold. Straight.
Wearing a dark navy uniform.
Ash-grey hair.
Steel-colored eyes.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
Just walked and sat down.
Name: Alric
Surname: von Dirshtein
Status: Impeccable.
No applause.
Just silence.
---
Back Inside the Labyrinth
“Confess a mistake,” said a door.
Marcus thought. Then sighed.
“…I once wrote a harem story. Under my real name.”
The door opened.
He wasn’t surprised anymore.
---
It got worse.
A room made entirely of books.
To escape — he had to write an ending.
His ending.
> He trembled.
Writing meant admitting.
And admitting was worse than losing.
He hesitated.
Then wrote:
> “The hero escaped.
Not because he was brave.
But because he couldn’t stay.”
The door opened.
He walked through.
---
Back on the Arena
The crowd stirred.
The herald called the seventh name.
Marcus tumbled out of the portal.
Covered in dust. Holding bread and a book.
His eyes — full of silence.
He didn’t walk. He drifted.
Like someone returning from a storm.
Illya stood nearby. She nodded slightly.
And then — the boy.
The one from earlier.
He handed Marcus a handkerchief.
“You’ve got something on your face,” he said. “Looks like ketchup. Or… maybe you.”
“…Thanks,” Marcus mumbled. “You’re… Alric?”
“I am.”
“You passed too?”
“I didn’t go too deep,” he replied.
“I
don’t have many fears.”
> And again — silence.
And somewhere in Marcus’s mind… a thought slowly sparked.
Who is he?
Why does he feel familiar? Dangerous? Or… maybe too right?
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