Amidst the cacophony and chaos that accompanies my daily journey to the hallowed halls of learning, there exists a small oasis of tranquility within the well-worn pages of novels, cherished heirlooms passed down through generations from the ink-stained quill of my mother. The current tome, her magnum opus, ensnares my attention with its intricate tapestry of words and worlds, weaving a narrative tapestry that transports me far from the mundane realities of my daily existence. As I traverse the bustling streets on my way to school, I find solace in the rhythmic cadence of my footsteps and the comforting weight of the book nestled in my hands, a tangible connection to the woman who shaped my world with her boundless imagination.

"Curious indeed," I muse aloud, my thoughts drifting to the peculiar choice my mother made to eschew the modern convenience of digital transcription in favor of the intimate ritual of committing her words to paper by hand. It is a decision that speaks volumes about her reverence for the written word and the tactile connection she sought to maintain with her craft. And yet, I cannot help but wonder if her reluctance to embrace technology has inadvertently limited the reach of her work, relegating her masterpieces to the dusty shelves of obscurity rather than the bright lights of literary acclaim.

Nomenus the chosen, Greed's insatiable hunger, the lamentations of the Weak Magician—each title whispered reverently by the penmanship of my mother, each a testament to her boundless creativity and unwavering commitment to her art. Yet, for all their brilliance, these stories share a common thread: with the fall of each protagonist, the narrative thread unravels, leaving me to ponder the capricious whims of fate and the fragility of existence.

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"Could she not have altered the perspective, breathed new life into the tale with a fresh point of view?" I find myself musing, a furrow forming between my brows as I navigate the labyrinthine alleyways that lead me homeward. It is a question that has plagued me since I first discovered the pattern, a puzzle whose solution eludes me still.

And yet, even as I grapple with these weighty questions, a more immediate concern looms on the horizon—a trio of spectral figures awaiting my arrival, their presence a harbinger of impending torment. Todou, Kevin, Chelsea—names that strike fear into my heart, tormentors who lurk in the shadows, their demands a cruel reminder of my perceived inadequacies. Reluctantly, I acquiesce to their demands, the coin clutched tightly in my trembling hand a meager offering to appease their insatiable appetites.

Todou's gaze, a steely glare that pierces through the facade of my defiance, sends a shiver down my spine. "Defiance warrants reprisal," he declares, his words a grim prophecy of the trials to come. And come they do, with a flurry of blows raining down upon me, each strike a painful reminder of my own vulnerability and weakness.

Bruised and battered, I press onward, the weight of humiliation a heavy burden upon my shoulders. As the sun sets on another day, I am met with the smoldering fury of my father's gaze, accusations flying as I struggle to justify the missing coin, my words lost amidst the tempest of his wrath.

"Useless," he spits, his scorn a bitter dagger to my wounded pride. And then, like a bolt from the blue, the final blow falls—a swift and merciless eviction from the sanctuary of my childhood home, leaving me adrift in a sea of anger, confusion, and despair.

Alone and directionless, I seek solace by the tranquil embrace of the lake's shimmering waters, tears mingling with the gentle lapping of the waves. "Why am I cursed with weakness?" I cry out to the indifferent heavens, my voice a plaintive wail in the vast expanse of the night sky.

And then, just when all hope seems lost, a glimmer of light—a promise of redemption amidst the darkness that threatens to consume me. Intrigued, I lean closer, drawn inexorably towards the unknown, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.