A hush fell over the crowd as the Writer stepped through the door into the Challenge Room. As the door sealed itself, he cast a final glance over his shoulder. The exterior of the room was a made of glass windows, but once inside, the windows vanished.
The door, his last connection to the outside world, closed firmly, disappearing into the seamless white walls. The room was a stark cube, its simplicity amplified by the pristine white of the walls and ceiling. It was a blank canvas, waiting for him to fill it.
Suddenly, a table materialized before him, bearing an array of items:
* Typewriter – No Delete/Backspace: Free
* Laptop – All Keys: 100 Tokens – 1 Gem
* High-powered Desktop + 1 All Stats: 1000 Tokens – 10 Gems
* Tablet with Folding Keyboard +60 Minutes: 1000 Tokens – 10 Gems
The Writer reached for the typewriter. Its mechanical design and heavy keys were the same style of the one in his former cell. As his fingers brushed the cold metal and the other options faded away, leaving only the typewriter. A sturdy wooden chair materialized behind the desk.
The voice echoed through the room, “Objective: Write a fantasy story about seashells in a town.”
Taking a deep breath, the Writer surveyed the room, its stark emptiness mirroring the blank page before him. His index fingers found their places on the J and F keys, the familiar touch points grounding him. Yet, despite the comfort of the familiar, he found himself at a loss for words.
A wave of emotion washed over the Writer, immersing him in a vivid memory. Before him stood an 90’s box computer monitor, its screen black. To his left, a man of middle age sat comfortably with short beard and flannel shirt. The air was tinged with the scent of stale tobacco, a smell that wasn’t particularly pleasant, yet it brought a sense of comfort. The man turned towards him, a playful grin on his face, and declared, “It’s starting, cowboy.”
The screen flickered to life, the darkness replaced by the word ‘3DO’. A world engulfed in flames appeared, only to be reborn a second later. The scene shifted again, revealing a flag fluttering atop a ship. A voice echoed from the screen, “Seven weeks passed since we set sail from Enroth.” A woman disembarked from the ship onto a sandy shore, a grim battlefield littered with the fallen bodies of mages, golems, and titans. Among the fallen were the attackers, minotaurs, skeletons, and dragons. The woman examined the remains, her gaze drifting towards a castle burning in the distance.
In his memory, the Writer turned to the man and exclaimed, “Dad, this game is going to be good!” He was happy.
As swiftly as the memory had surfaced, it receded, leaving him back in the stark reality of the room. A timer floated above the typewriter, counting down: 28:52. But now, the Writer had an idea.
“Seven days had passed since they set sail from Encaster before their longboats were run aground against the shell-laden shore of the Western Isle. The queen was the first to disembark, her sturdy leather boot crushing a conch shell underfoot.
Her gaze swept across the coast, taking in the countless lifeless bodies. Her sister, the Duchess of the Isles, had dispatched her knights to confront the initial onslaught of goblins. However, a hasty examination of the corpses revealed they had swiftly been overwhelmed. She knelt beside a squire, a mere child of ten, lying face down. A spear protruded from his back, piercing his lung, his leather armor had failed to shield him during his attempted retreat. She turned him over, crushed shells stuck to his bloody face. Her men fanned out behind her, scouring the beach for survivors, but she knew their search would be in vain. Goblins and orcs enslaved the living.
She traced the trail of bodies up the dune, noting more of her sister’s men lying face down, their backs riddled with spears and arrows from their futile retreat. Here and there, she spotted the corpses of goblins and a pair of orcs, their purple blood seeping into the sand. The victors of this clash were clear.
Reaching the dune’s summit, she surveyed the town. The wall stood mostly unscathed, kindling a fleeting hope that her sister might have repelled the invaders at the gates. But the plumes of smoke billowing from within the walls swiftly snuffed out that hope. Her men gathered behind her, swords drawn, yet the queen felt no more fear than if she were in a graveyard.
Following the trail of bodies, she discovered the breach in the wall. Two colossal trolls lay next to it, each beside a boulder-sized bag of shells. She examined the bags, noting the mainland fabric filled with local shells. A warlock must be commanding the orcs, as no orc warlord would possess such foresight. She stepped through the breach, the ground littered with shattered seashells, evidence of another troll’s destructive entry.
The town had been ablaze for days, now reduced to smoldering ashes. Even the bodies had been consumed, transformed into smoke and ash. She looked towards the center where her sister’s wooden castle once stood, now gone.
Her men began to sift through the burning rubble as they entered through the breach. But the queen dismissed them with a wave. There was nothing left; they had arrived too late. She sank to her knees, shells piercing through her trousers and into her legs, held her face in her hands, and wept.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
As he typed the final words, a flood of memories washed over him. He found himself seeing his childhood. The Writer sat with his father playing this game, building castles and commanding armies, their Saturdays and lazy Sunday mornings spent huddled together before the computer screen. He could almost touch his father, the vision was so vivid, his slender frame, and the ever-present pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The Writer was filled with happiness.
The timer dwindled to 0:00, and the typewriter vanished, leaving his page suspended in the void. A display materialized before his eyes, “+35 XP” it read.
Just as it had in the cell, a laptop appeared. The voice echoed once more, “Opponent: Main AI. Objective: Write a fantasy story about seashells in a town.” The AI system commenced typing at an even more furious pace than before. The Writer read the unfolding story, as the System typed:
“In the quiet coastal town of Haven’s Cove, the waves whispered secrets to anyone who cared to listen. But it was the seashells that held the most enchanting tales. Every morning, as the sun peeked over the horizon, they washed ashore—pearlescent, luminescent, and brimming with memories.
Lena, an artist with a penchant for the mystical, discovered the first shell on a moonlit night. It lay nestled in the sand, its soft glow casting intricate patterns on her fingertips. When she picked it up, she felt a surge of warmth—a memory, perhaps? But whose?
As days turned into weeks, Lena’s collection grew. Each shell revealed glimpses of lives long past. The iridescent spiral held the laughter of children playing by the cliffs. The jagged fragment whispered of a shipwreck, lost love, and a sailor’s final letter. And the largest shell, with its intricate carvings, seemed to echo the town’s forgotten folklore.
Lena’s dreams became vivid and haunting. She saw faces—weathered fishermen, elegant ladies, and a mysterious figure in a hooded cloak. Their stories unfolded like fragile parchment, inked with joy, sorrow, and betrayal. She painted these visions onto canvas, capturing the essence of Haven’s Cove.
The townspeople noticed Lena’s obsession. They gathered at her cozy cottage, drawn by curiosity and longing. They brought their own shells—the ones they’d hidden away, afraid of the memories they held. Together, they pieced together the town’s forgotten history.
The hooded figure emerged as the town’s guardian—a sorceress who had sacrificed herself to protect Haven’s Cove from a vengeful sea spirit. The seashells were her legacy, containing fragments of her magic and the love she’d left behind.
As Lena delved deeper, she uncovered a hidden chamber beneath the cliffs. There, she found the sorceress’s journal—a delicate book filled with spells, regrets, and a plea for forgiveness. The final entry spoke of a choice: to release the magic within the shells or keep it locked away forever.
Lena stood on the cliff’s edge, the wind tugging at her hair. The moon hung low, casting silver ripples on the water. She held the largest seashell—the one that held the sorceress’s essence. The town watched, breathless.
With tears in her eyes, Lena whispered her decision. She shattered the shell, releasing a burst of light that danced across the waves. The memories flowed back into the sea, weaving themselves into the currents, the cliffs, and the very air.
Haven’s Cove changed that night. The sea sparkled with newfound magic, and the townspeople felt a connection to their past. Lena continued to paint, capturing the luminous moments that now graced their lives.
And every morning, as the sun rose, fresh seashells appeared on the shore. Lena collected them, knowing that they carried stories—their stories—of love, sacrifice, and the enduring magic of Haven’s Cove.”
As the system concluded its narrative, a wave of satisfaction washed over the Writer. He was confident he had outdone it. The AI’s tale lacked depth, emotion, and even its plot was hazy at best. The entire segment about dreams and memories captured in seashells was vague and frankly perplexing. The Writer, on the other hand, had crafted a understandable and emotionally charged story, and he was certain of his victory.
A colossal display materialized on the back wall, and the Writer walked over to scan the incoming comments and reactions. His story was garnering numerous reactions, a flurry of thumbs-ups and hearts. However, a comment from caught his eye:
“Not much about Seashells…” - Donnyboy
The Writer exclaimed, “What! The entire beach was strewn with shells!”
Then another comment surfaced:
“Yeah, and what does he mean by ‘Orcs’. It feels like he is alluding to something else.” – DarknessKeeper1492
The tide of reactions began to shift. No longer was his story inundated with only thumbs-ups and hearts. Now a swarm of frowns appeared, and one person even flagged his story for hate speech.
The Writer stared at the screen, uttering a single word, “How?”
He glanced at the AI’s story, which was receiving a mixed bag of reactions. The comments were equally diverse.
“I grew up in coastal Maine 😉” – Portland1965
“Boring” – Author.reader.lover
A heavy sigh escaped the Writer’s chest. His certainty wavered. The reactions had ceased, and he was sure the voice would return, but it remained silent. He waited, his gaze fixed on the display, until finally, the voice filled the room, “+22 Followers: Success.”
Overwhelmed, the Writer sank to his knees, landing hard against the stark white floor, placing his face in his hands.
The green-tinted display reappeared:
+75 XP
LEVEL UP:
FOLLOWERS: 23
STATS
* Writing: 3
* Speed: 2
* Endurance: 3
* Creativity: 2
* Lives: 2
However, unlike his victory in the prison cell, a collection of items did not materialize. Instead, another spinner appeared, its segments displaying: 10 Gems, 50 Tokens, Framed Picture, Dictionary +1 Writing, White Pants.
He pressed the stop button, and the spinner halted on ‘Framed Picture’. Suspended before him was a painting of a serene seashell resting on a sandy beach. As he reached out to touch it, the painting vanished, and a notification informed him that it had been added to his inventory.
The Writer felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had triumphed over the AI once again. It wasn’t the resounding victory he had hoped for, but a win nonetheless. A door materialized on one of the walls, and with a spring in his step, the Writer strode through. However, as he reentered the lobby, a chilling sight met his eyes.