Ariana's heart pounded in her chest as her legs carried her as fast as they could. The world blurred around her, a blend of twisted fear and desperation. Her mind screamed with the knowledge of what she had done: I slapped a lord. That one thought echoed over and over, pounding inside her skull, drowning out every other noise.

Fear clung to her like a second skin, suffocating her. It wasn't just fear for her life, but fear for her family. She could see it now—the lord's men coming for them, dragging her parents and sister into some dark alley, never to be seen again. The weight of her mistake crashed down on her, and it was more than she could bear. She kept running, her vision hazy, her breath short and erratic.

Finally, she stumbled into the familiar doorway of the Barracks Bar—the pub where she worked. She leaned heavily against the wooden frame, gasping for air, her hands shaking. Her hair was a wild mess, her dress torn slightly from her hasty escape. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

Barack, the owner of the pub, looked up from behind the counter, his face etched with concern. He rushed over, his eyes widening as he took in her disheveled state. "Ariana! What happened to you? Are you alright?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine worry.

Ariana tried to speak, but her lungs burned, and the words caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, forcing herself to calm down. You can't tell him. He'll worry too much. He'll try to help, and it'll only make things worse. She had seen what happened to people who crossed the lords. If he knew she had slapped one, he would be terrified for her and himself.

She wiped her brow, trying to force a smile. "It's… it's nothing. I just— I was homesick, that's all," she lied, her voice shaky as she desperately tried to steady her breath.

Barack's eyes narrowed in suspicion, his concern deepening. "Homesick? You don't look like you just had a moment of homesickness, Ariana. You look like you've seen a ghost. Please, tell me what's wrong. You're shaking."

But Ariana forced the smile again, brushing her hair back from her face in an attempt to seem more composed. "I just… I ran too fast. Needed some air." She laughed awkwardly, but it was hollow, almost painful.

Barack's brow furrowed. He wasn't convinced. "You're sure? You don't have to lie to me. If something's wrong—"

"I'm fine, really," Ariana interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. I can't tell him. I can't. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting away from his gaze, the fear clawing at her chest. "I just need some rest. That's all."

Barack hesitated for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her, but finally, he sighed. "Alright… but if you need anything, I'll be right here. Go upstairs, get some sleep. Don't worry about work tonight."

Ariana nodded quickly, grateful for the escape. "Thank you, Barack." Without another word, she hurried upstairs, trying to put as much distance between herself and the memories of what had just happened.

The moment she stepped into her small room, she shut the door behind her and let out a long, shaky breath. The room was plain but comfortable. It had always been her sanctuary—her space of peace. But tonight, it felt smaller, more suffocating. The walls seemed to close in around her, reminding her of the danger lurking just outside.

She moved to the window, pulling the curtains aside and peering out into the night. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the town below. For a moment, she let herself believe that everything would be alright. That tomorrow, things would go back to normal. But deep down, she knew it was a lie.

The lord wouldn't forget her. He wouldn't let this go.

Stolen novel; please report.

With a sigh, she turned away from the window and began tidying her small room. She straightened her bed, pulled her nightclothes from the wardrobe, and took a long bath, hoping the warm water would wash away the fear that clung to her. The steam filled the room, and for a moment, she felt a sense of calm return to her.

But as she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the memories came flooding back. The lord's voice, his disgusting touch, the way his eyes had roamed over her like she was a piece of meat. She shuddered, curling up tighter under the blanket. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the edge of the sheets, willing the night to pass quickly.

Tomorrow will be better, she told herself, repeating the lie over and over until her mind began to believe it. Tomorrow will be good.

But as she drifted off to sleep, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the room, the MC couldn't help but feel the weight of the world pressing down on him. Floating in the stillness of the time freeze, he observed the memories of Ariana's life, piecing together the cruel realities of this world.

The author of this story—this world of despair—was careless, thoughtless in their design. The MC knew it. The writing was sloppy, the world half-formed. The rules didn't make sense, the logic of the story falling apart at every corner. It was like the author had thrown together a mix of genres and tropes, not caring if they fit or if the pieces held any meaning.

The Victorian setting clashed with the arbitrary presence of full moons every three days. The lords seemed to exist purely for the sake of power, without any sense of structure. No kings, no hierarchy—just lords ruling over patches of land like self-proclaimed gods. And then there was The Baby, a shadowy organization that stole children and women, performing unspeakable horrors behind the thin veil of a bustling, indifferent town.

None of it made sense.

It's as if the author didn't care about consistency, just wanted to keep readers hooked with twisted horrors, the MC thought, feeling a wave of frustration. This world is nothing but a mess. Yet here I am, stuck in it, trying to make sense of it all.

He floated back to Ariana, her face peaceful now in sleep, unaware of the dangers waiting for her tomorrow. She had no idea how deep into hell she had stumbled. The MC clenched his fists, knowing that he had to protect her—somehow. The world may have been poorly crafted, but these people—Rade, Ariana, the broken girls in the cells—they were real.

The MC floated in the stillness of the night. His mind buzzed with frustration, not just at the horrors unfolding before him but at the absolute mess of this world.

What the fuck did the author do to this story? he thought, clenching his fists as the chaotic pieces of the narrative spun in his head like a broken puzzle. Is this even readable? Much less survivable? How the hell do I get through this? Nothing makes sense!

He replayed the memories he had just witnessed from Ariana. The backstory of a simple girl from a farm, trying to make a life for herself in the city, only to be caught in the crosshairs of a depraved lord. Classic victim trope, he thought bitterly. But what's the point of it? Why am I watching this? And Rade, the supposed protagonist, had powers—powers that activated on a full moon every three days. What even are these powers? Strength? Heightened senses? The system doesn't explain shit!

The world felt cobbled together, like the author had slapped pieces from every genre they had ever encountered into a half-assed narrative. There was no logic to the world-building—just a confusing mix of eras, technologies, and tropes that didn't fit together. It was like the author had started writing a Victorian horror, then threw in some fantasy elements, and topped it off with gratuitous violence and adult content, thinking it would somehow all work.

This is like a first-time writer's fever dream, the MC seethed. As if the author watched some degenerate porn or read adult manhwa, thought, "Hey, that's cool," and just dumped all those unthinkable scenes here without any reason. Then they probably watched some light-hearted story and tossed in happy memories too. And horror? Sure, why not mix that in for good measure. Nothing in this world is original. It's like the author just plagiarized their favorite genres, thinking it would make the perfect stew of chaos.

His head throbbed with the absurdity of it all.

Those bastards of readers—the ones who complain about everything—yeah, this must've been written for them. Those picky fucks who don't appreciate good work. Maybe that's why this story exists, just to make them suffer. God knows they probably said books like "Solo Leveling" or "Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint" set some kind of standard, making it impossible to appreciate whatever crap the author throws at them. So the author said, "Fine, I'll give you garbage. I'll throw in every trope, every messed-up scene I can think of, and you'll eat it like the trash-eaters you are!"

The MC's mind was spiraling, his anger boiling over. This story is straight out of the gutters. It's not even a coherent world—it's trash, a complete dumpster fire of a narrative! How am I supposed to make plot armor that works here?

He cursed under his breath. The restrictions the system had placed on him felt suffocating, like invisible chains holding him back. Scarlet, this is all your fucking fault, he growled inwardly, his rage flaring at the memory of her cold, mocking smile. *If I ever get out of this world in one piece, I swear I'll make your life a living hell, Scarlet. Mark my words. You think you're untouchable, but if I survive this... You're done. You're fucking done."

He imagined her, back in her pristine, perfect little world, laughing at his suffering. It made his blood boil. Just pray I don't leave this world alive, Scarlet. If I do, your whole world will sink beneath me. He gritted his teeth, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Fuck this system. Fuck these restrictions. And most of all, fuck you, Scarlet.

With a final frustrated sigh, he turned his attention back to the frozen world around him. He had no choice but to keep moving forward, no matter how nonsensical everything seemed. I'll figure it out, he thought, determination creeping back into his veins. One way or another, I'll make this mess work. But the bitter taste of rage lingered on his tongue, a reminder of the promise he had just made to himself—and to Scarlet.