The writer noticed extravagant ears protruding from the garden of the woman's hair. An elf, he noted.

Her eyes were almonds brimming with brilliance upon her flawless face. Irises pulsing with concentric rings of colors he had never seen before. Her angled eyelashes guided the right amount of light to complement her already overflowing aura of grace. Her lips, like hills of pastel pink skin, stood proudly at a placement more unique than the golden ratio.

His eyes could judge her beauty more profoundly than actually getting closer to her.

"Dearest of my heart, is something bothering you?" she spoke again, butterflies of her words fluttering wildly aimed for the man's defensive decency. Even a kitten's purrs would be outmatched by the subtle excellence and softness of her tone. "Why speak about ill matters like death, so early in the hour of the sun?"

The writer blinked with a poker expression on his face. She blinked back with motion indescribably adorable.

'Who? Is she talking to me?' he wondered whilst pointing at himself as if blinded by a fog of confusion. Just out of curiosity, he peered over his shoulder to check behind him. An empty wall waved back blankly. 'Me? Her dearest something?!'

"Yes, my chandelier of life," she softly answered back, as if she rummaged his mind telepathically. "To you, I speak. For you, I live."

'Ehh?'

He couldn't believe his ears. Luckily, it made him wake up from the trance. A phantom of distraction had bribed his mind to look away from the primary concerns he had : where was he?

Additionally, he ignored the newly encountered pill of curiosity casually walking towards his head to plague him with yet another question : why was she speaking so strangely?

"You seem confused, my love," she threw the blankets to a corner of the fairly large room by a kick from her long, bare legs. Before he could even catch a glimpse of her body, a cluster of dandelions burst out from every patch of her skin below her neck, leaving behind a dress - as if by magic - so impressively pretty that human women would be cannibalizing each other to claim its ownership. "Is something wrong? I wish to know what ails you and your wellbeing."

"Uh... I'm sorry, your words..." deformed sentences poured out of his mouth as he stepped back; she took one forward. Trust wasn't so cheap for him. Hoisting up a dumb bell of courage, he honestly asked her what his eccentric thoughts cheered him for. "Excuse me, ma'am. I believe I'm lost. Where am I? Who are you? How long have we known each other?"

The elfin idol of a lady uneasily smiled, as if startled. Or perhaps out of expectation.

"I knew this day would dawn soon, L'Esson," her tone suddenly adopted a new volume of entropy. Her voice seemed sad. Thin streams of shimmering tears paved the path from her precious eyes, exhibiting her sorrow. A sadness emerging out of nowhere. "The day... when you'll forget about the existence of your own wife!"

'Wife? Forget? What?' the writer's brain experienced a roller coaster ride up a steep slope of information overload. 'And what did she just call me? L'Esson? God, I have no idea whatever the hell is happening to me....'

"S-see?" she began sobbing, making whimpering and pitiful noises that were already straining his humility with lightning strikes of guilt and regret. "Y-you alr-ready forg-got wh-who I am..."

Her happy face transformed into the most wretched and desolate expressions tragic enough to make a serial killer grieve for his crimes.

"Whoa whoa... please stop! I'm being honest! I do not know how in the world I arrived here," he bent his knees and clapped his hands together in the posture of begging pardon. "I think I'm not the person you married. Crazy as it seems, I may have somehow possessed your husband's body...."

It was no use.

She bawled even louder, tainting her mature appearance by her rather childish attitude. Droplets of her tears parachuted onto parts of her exquisite dress, forming circular monuments of wetness like badges of tragedy.

"They told me this time would soon be upon us.... A dreadful time!" her medium-sized torso heaved with the huffs of breaths she inhaled and exhaled rapidly. "Lady Marveno... declared the prophecy earlier... but we didn't listen! Oh, woe to us! We didn't heed her honorary advice!"

'Crap... It feels like I'm in an immersive version of a Shakespearean play.'

The crying elf ignored that comment.

"She told me your memory would soon be cri-crippled by reasons unknown. She pr-promised a cure... but we were ignorant. Oh, L'Esson! We were ignorant, my love!"

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The writer, currently being assumed a person by the name of L'Esson, inched away from the elf. Hard to believe, he found himself in a civilized prison; his thoughts were openly readable by that elf girl. Even the mere activity of thinking seemed like a punishable offence. Never in his entire lifespan did he ever imagine such a situation would cluelessly barge into his life!

"Erm... if you'd please excuse me, ma'am," he cautiously continued trying to dilute the misunderstanding. "I'd rather take my leave now. I don't know anything whatsoever. Maybe some fresh air will be beneficial for me."

"NO!" she yelled out, her voice unusually loud. "L'Esson, dear nectar... Please DON'T LEAVE ME!!"

The elf rose up from the bed and rushed towards L'Esson with an intent to grab his legs. Her eyes were drowning with tears. He wondered if she was mentally unlucky to have a limited supply of wits or if she was always crazy by this degree even before his consciousness sank into L'Esson's body.

He almost felt the elf woman wrap her delicate arms around him out of the need to embrace.

Changing his mind about trying to poke some answers out of her, he decided to let the current of her wishes flow with his own. Closing his eyes, the hair on his body stood up in an assembly. To warmly welcome the touch of a woman. For an angelic beauty like her, it was every man's dream to be stopped and hugged.

"Huh?"

The writer's fate faced another hiccup, as he found himself in a new scenario. A drastic jump down a gradient of inferior quality. Instead of the heavenly white palace he was in seconds ago, dull and dark metallic bars of iron welcomed him.

Darkness dripped from the ceiling like unstable stalactites. Metal cages loosely hung from chains corroded down to their minimum required for supporting their weight. The writer was unluckily and unfairly inside one of them. Silence grew from the cracks like cave mushrooms. A few orbs of wind ventilated the subterranean region. A dungeon.

His head was already dizzy with the swift and unpredictable situation 'jumps', throwing away assumptions and brewing new reasons behind the events he faced.

He could've sworn he was in another room (or even possibly another world) just seconds ago.

Unfortunately for him, this time he was all by himself. Trapped in a cell like a dangerous demon. Imprisoned for crimes he hadn't committed.

'Did I just get teleported?' he sent out an echo of his own internal thoughts into the darkness. 'The odds are low, but I hope you are out there, elf woman. Can you hear me?'

"There is no elf down here," a brash male voice answered. "Rizekai, you spoiled brat! You'll pay for your crimes!"

"Who?" the writer inquired, swatting away the fact that his jailor was also able to overhear his thoughts telepathically. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

The air split into smithereens as a giant alien-like creature shoved its face against one of the walls of the cage. Its hand wrapped around the single chain keeping the writer's cage from falling down into the immeasurably deep abyss below. No signs of solid ground could be found anywhere nearby.

"You wanted, so I came!" the demonic being mocked sarcastically. "You are an uncouth entity, you know that Rizekai? Few boast a hall of fame full of misdeeds like yourself," it almost sounded proud. "I must say, I am envious of your accomplishments."

He kept his eyes averted from meeting the demon's gaze. The last thing he wanted in this current state of trauma was to introduce more fuel for nightmares later on.

'Great. Now I'm probably in another body belonging to someone named Rizekai,' the writer sternly pointed out to himself. 'How I wish I knew what's behind all of this? Why are these incidents happening? Where am I? More importantly... who am I?'

The demon presumed the questions oozing from the writer's mind were meant for his ears, so it replied dutifully.

"You are Rizekai, the firstborn of King Isekai, ruler of the Twelve Days. Perhaps the dusts of time have polluted your memories, young one. Allow me to refresh and recapitulate a brief history of your sins..."

'Oh damn, please don't bother!' he nearly groaned.

Whether speaking through his head or mouth, these otherworldly creatures knew no barriers.

"Ah, but I MUST! You have the right," the demon rattled the cage, "to remain silent, Guilty One!"

'Please... just kill me already!' the writer slammed his palm onto his face. 'At this rate, I may end up forgetting who I am! The actual me!'

"Rizekai," the demon's voice boomed once more. "I know not why you speak so strangely as of late. But I can sense something oddly improper about your behavior. You don't seem to be the person you ought to be. If not, then I ask... who ARE YOU?"

You... you... you....

The final words tailing the demon's speech etched permanent tattoos on the skin of his mental hearth. The writer's sanity was hanging onto the last straw above a pit of eternal lunacy. If even one more ton of weight became inflicted on his mind, he would lose his own sense of being possibly forever.

"I... am... an AUTHOR!" the writer yelled out, standing firmly on top of his desperation for escaping all of this trickery.

The world collapsed around him, revealing an exosphere of light so bright it blew the fuses running his nervous system. As if his body was suddenly being filled with lead, he lost his balance. His eyes shrank from the drought of light whiter than sacred blood. He believed he was about to die.

'Finally... an end to my suffering....'

Before his eyes drew on the curtains to end the show of his life, an elderly man's face curiously looked at his own.