Chapter 119: Writing is Truly Painful
George’s gaze fell upon the black spear that was lying diagonally in the box beneath the bed. Under the light in the bedroom, the spearhead reflected a glimmer of brightness, its shape invoking a myriad of thoughts.
He raised his hand and pointed, asking, “What is this?”
Gemma stepped forward and kicked it under the bed, saying, “I say this is a walking stick for humans on the rugged road of knowledge, a sacred object essential for helping one ascend to the peak of knowledge. Do you believe it?”
“You’re speaking the truth. If I were still a virgin, I might believe you.”
“Indeed, you’ve realized your own downfall. You have true self-awareness.”
“No, this is not a downfall,” George replied earnestly. “It’s your habitual slander.”
“Since you know what it is, why are you asking, then?”
Gemma sat on the red bed, her rear sinking into the soft bedding. Last night, this bed had served as a training ground, and the ruthless gladiator Gemma wielded the black spear, defeating Jenna multiple times.
She patted the space beside her, saying, “Come, come, sit.”
George was not impatient and calmly sat down.
Gemma remained silent, staring at George. She recalled how last night’s fight left George’s fiancée exhausted, drenched in sweat, experiencing intermittent cramps and convulsions, with the black spear now lying beneath him. Perhaps this very spot where George was sitting had Jenna begging for mercy just last night.
A wave of elation and pleasure surged within her; she lifted her tail and happily swayed it from side to side.
Her face betrayed a wicked smile, revealing white teeth as she laughed at George.
George placed his hand on Gemma’s thigh and asked, “What are you laughing at?”
“Guess,” Gemma said, unable to contain her giggles.
George’s eyes softened as he stroked her leg. Gemma suddenly grasped his hand and said, “Don’t be dishonest; if you guess right, I’ll give you a reward.”
“If I say it, you’ll accuse me of being debauched again,” George replied, wrapping his other arm around Gemma’s waist.
Gemma realized that this jealous boy had misunderstood, thinking the black spear was for her to use. Reflecting on her behavior just now, it seemed overly ambiguous.
Gemma whispered, “You guessed wrong.”
But it was too late, and she didn’t bother to correct him.
The bed curtains began to sway.
…
…
As noon approached, Gemma walked out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped only in a bath towel, water droplets continually falling from her hair. She had just taken a hot bath, and steam was rising from her tender skin.
Unfortunately, no one could appreciate this beautiful scene because George had been driven away by her.
Gemma took a few steps, feeling a bit fatigued from her earlier exertions, and her lower abdomen felt bloated and uncomfortable while walking. She snapped her fingers, and a golden cloud formed beneath her, allowing her to sit down, feeling much more comfortable.
Yet her lower abdomen still felt bloated. Gemma pressed down with her hand, confirming that she had fully absorbed that pile of semi-solid “succubus food”; it was merely a side effect, putting her mind at ease once more.
“Hehe, you green-hatted boy are still unworthy.”
Though she mocked George’s abilities verbally, Gemma was secretly alarmed by the noticeable improvements in his performance, making her feel increasingly challenged.
At this pace of progress, if things continued like this, she would soon have to yield to that guy’s desires.
Thinking this way made Gemma uneasy. In her view, she considered herself a master in this field. Any master would feel displeased to be caught up by a novice.
This might be related to her having been pent up and also the fact that she had experienced a battle last night.
“Frostleaf is truly useless.”
Gemma was sure that nothing had happened between them.
While she was talking to herself, the golden cloud carried Gemma gently to her desk. The drawer opened automatically, and sheets of white drafting paper floated out, landing on the desk. The hastily written characters made Gemma’s head hurt, filling her with dread.
Of course, it wasn’t that she despised her poor handwriting; rather, it was her brain resisting the high-intensity labor of writing.
“Where did the plot for yesterday’s manuscript come from? Oh, right. The suffering knight needed some reason to sneak into the Northerner’s tent and overhear his fiancée groveling under the Northerner chief, and then… oh no, playing the flute?”
To maintain her creative passion, Gemma chose to write the climax of the plot first and then develop the preceding and following events.
But then came the problem—what she wrote needed to be presented for people to read, and she had to first intrigue them to continue, to enjoy reading, before abruptly hitting them with something unexpected.
So, she needed to understand the preferences of her target audience. Over the span of half a month, Gemma slipped into Adolf, consulting divinations, and looked up several bestsellers for reference.
By contemplating the psychology of readers, Gemma dismissed system fiction. It was simple—readers in this other world likely could not accept such a straightforward golden finger. Moreover, since this world lacked video games, a system would only make it difficult for them to understand.
In the end, Gemma decided to set the background during the period of the Northerners, the barbaric humans invading the south.
Next began the nightmare of endless detail.
Wouldn’t she have to write about what weapons those Northerners fought with? How they addressed each other? Their appearance while being beaten by the protagonist and running away? Otherwise, how could it even be enjoyable?
However, the details drastically diminished Gemma’s enthusiasm for creation and plunged her into self-doubt.
Would anyone even read this mishmash?
Sighing, Gemma picked up her pen and said, “System, system, if only you could double as a ghostwriter system! You wouldn’t need to consider cultural differences, just copy a book and publish it. The simpletons of another world would be stunned and go bankrupt just to buy it.”
The system, of course, did not respond.
“I’m too greedy. Without you, I might not even know where I’d die, with my bones gnawed by wild dogs, enjoying none of the perks of a harem.”
Complaining out loud, Gemma began to write furiously. The more she wrote, the less inspired she felt, so she decided to lie down while writing. In the end, she sprawled on the soft golden cloud, using her tail to wrap around the pen and scribble on the paper.
For her, writing a book was all about those few exciting NTR scenes. To create those scenes, she needed careful foreshadowing, to slowly build up, and coupled with the fact that she had always considered herself a Minotaur, she genuinely disliked the protagonist, making it difficult to immerse herself in the writing.
“So irritating!” Gemma stretched lazily, her tail still curled around the pen, “If only I could skip all the buildup and directly write the outline!”
“Wait!”
A flash of inspiration struck Gemma. “Why do I have to write it myself? I could just draft the outline and find a good writer to ghostwrite for me!”
She slapped her forehead, feeling as if her mind had finally straightened out.
As a distinguished platinum extraordinary being, she could find plenty of people to serve her in such matters. Moreover, it would even be beneficial—she could mass produce cultural detritus, and if readers didn’t like one book, she could simply stop it and move on to the next.
Thinking of this, Gemma was rejuvenated. Her tail released the pen, and she happily began to outline on the paper.
Two days later, a stack of outlines piled up on the desk.
Gemma sat on the bed, looking down at the paper, grading Jenna’s performance.
“Twenty-nine points, a bit of progress,” Gemma handed the paper to Jenna. “However, you’ve been too impatient lately.”
Last night, Jenna had voluntarily suggested practicing with the double-headed spear, but she had lost all three matches to Gemma. Gemma had done this intentionally, unleashing full force to suppress Jenna.
“Thank you,” Jenna said as she received the report card.
“You’re very diligent and clever,” Gemma said. “There’s a saying: ‘Haste makes waste.’ Take your time.”
“I understand,” Jenna said, forcing herself to be optimistic. “There’s still so much to learn; I’ve been underestimating them.”
Gemma thought Jenna could handle the next stage of combat, such as using the suspension technique to fight, like in martial arts films.
“You might consider challenging a higher difficulty in battles,” Gemma suggested, “It will involve the suspension technique.”
“The suspension technique?”
“It’s a belt that can lift a person up.”
“Can I do that?”
Gemma showed an encouraging smile: “Of course you can. Believe in yourself.”
Inspired, Jenna perked up again. “By the way, are you planning to attend the emperor’s victory banquet tomorrow?”
“I’ll attend, but George doesn’t plan to go.”
“Oh, I see…” Jenna said somewhat disappointedly. “There might be guests there that you wouldn’t want to see.”
“Church members?”
“The certified preacher from the Sigma Church approached me. His name is Walkma. He voted for the emperor and is also his ally; he said he doesn’t want to see you at the banquet.”
“The emperor has formally pardoned me, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he express anything about that?”
“I asked the emperor, and he assured me of your safety.”
“Then I’ll still attend,” Gemma said. “I trust my judgment. The emperor of the empire is an exceptional person. From pretending to be a debauched rich kid to fooling people into voting for him, then revealing his true self, gradually consolidating power through political means, it’s clear he’s a pragmatic person confident in using me, a demon.”
“I think the same. Besides Walkma, many others came to me, hoping you wouldn’t publicly attend the banquet. They even pooled together some money as compensation.”
“They?” In the common tongue, “he” and “she” are pronounced differently.
Jenna looked tired: “They are a lot more difficult to deal with than the church. They are aristocratic ladies from the city. As soon as they heard a succubus was coming to Adolf for the victory banquet, they put up all kinds of resistance. Some even openly said that if you attended, they wouldn’t attend and tried to persuade their husbands not to go.”
“This is the banquet celebrating Emperor Sigma’s victory over the green tide. After this, the emperor’s authority will be unquestionable,” Gemma said disdainfully. “Do they think they’re playing house? Moreover, I publicly identify as a wild mage.”
“That wouldn’t fool anyone,” Jenna said. “Someone returned from the expedition and told their wife your true identity. The next day, all the noble ladies in the city knew about it, and along with the emperor lifting your bounty, many were dissatisfied.”
“I never intended to deceive anyone; my identity as a wild mage is to save face for everyone, but some just don’t care for dignity,” Gemma replied. “In any case, I will attend.”
Jenna looked at Gemma sympathetically. “Prejudice is a mountain. I’ll head back now. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
After the kind-hearted saint left, the wicked succubus looked at the pile of manuscripts on the desk, which were slated for publication in Adolf.
Gemma had set her sights on the capital of the empire. It was the largest and most populous country in the old world, and its capital, Adolf, was the most prosperous city in the entire empire. Naturally, the commercial novel market was also the largest.
If she wanted to inflict pain on as many people as possible, she would need an apparent good identity to legitimately publish her novels and serve everyone her foul creations.
On the path to becoming stronger, Gemma never compromises.
Thinking about the manuscripts on the desk, which would be released as “works” onto the market.
Gemma couldn’t help but let out low, evil laughter.
“Hehehehehe….”
Like the whispers of a devil.
…
…
“My lord, this is a renowned history professor from the Imperial Academy. He wishes to interview you and document the emperor’s great achievements in history.”
“Professor, I’ve read your works.”
“I’m glad the empire’s hero is my reader.”
“That’s nonsense. Can I switch to another history professor? I’ve seen ratmen with my own eyes, yet you’re claiming they don’t exist. The records of the Black Death wars from six hundred years ago regarding ratmen are all fake.”
The history professor was a clean-shaven, thin scholar with a noticeably receding hairline. He remained calm and collected, placing his glasses on the book resting on his lap, narrowing his eyes slightly, and forming deep crow’s feet.
“Your name is Van Helsing, the witch hunter, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust your eyes?”
“Of course.”
“Then, did you see a black cat upon entering?”
“Yes.”
“From this, can you conclude that all cats in Adolf are black?”
“But I wouldn’t deduce from various historical materials that there are no black cats in Adolf—how ridiculous.”
“Your major isn’t history, you wouldn’t know,” the crow’s feet history professor said slowly. “I do not deny the existence of ratmen but rather deny the existence of ratmen civilization. Many have removed ratmen from the category of beastmen and claimed there’s a ratmen empire underground with high intelligence capable of producing advanced weapons. Some have even claimed they possess a weapon that can kill someone three hundred meters away with just a finger squeeze. Have you seen such a miraculous weapon?”
“No,” Van Helsing—who was also Akarnis—tapped his left prosthetic arm with his finger.
“Historical records are a mix of truth and falsehood. Many eyewitnesses, in a state of panic, tend to exaggerate, leaving behind distorted historical materials. We historians need to conduct extensive research to distinguish falsehoods from truths,” the crow’s feet history professor said. “Ratmen are no different from other beastmen—savage and backward. Previously, people believed the war of the Black Death was due to ratmen carrying the plague, which led to misunderstandings associating it with a ratmen conspiracy.”
“Witch hunters. Have you heard the rumor that the church once prohibited people from bathing? Let’s discuss that.”
“The church believed bathing could lead to illness, so they forbade people from bathing.”
The crow’s feet history professor chuckled: “Do you think the church was foolish?”
“Yes.”
“You’re mistaken; that’s a rumor,” the crow’s feet history professor clarified. “At that time, many scholars found that communal baths were often filthy and easily spread disease, so the church closed many communal baths. People, feeling disgruntled, spread the notion that bathing was forbidden, and later generations even believed people during that period only bathed three times in their lives. You think a policy against human nature could last that long?”
Akarnis listened in astonishment and nodded.
The crow’s feet history professor leaned back, satisfied, and stated: “My job is to distinguish falsehoods from truths. Before interviewing you, I’ve interviewed many people, and they all unanimously praised the emperor’s greatness, claiming he is Sigma in the flesh, who turned the tide when faced with defeat, single-handedly defeating the green skin leader and reversing the situation?”
“Sounds like you don’t believe it?”
“It’s simple logic. If the emperor was so brave, he would have simply beheaded the green skin leader at the start of the war, and there wouldn’t have been a follow-up.”
“But that’s a fact.”
“A fact laced with lies,” the crow’s feet history professor corrected. “I heard a very interesting saying that you were assigned to infiltrate the green skin army, pretending to be a goblin shaman?”
The witch hunter Akarnis stared at the elderly man before him, not many could remain so composed in front of a witch hunter, and coincidentally, the crow’s feet history professor was one of them, smiling in response.
Akarnis suddenly wanted to know how interesting it would be if this incident were to be recorded in history.
He nodded slowly: “Yes.”
The crow’s feet history professor displayed a victorious smile, writing as he inquired: “As far as I know, the green skins are quite straightforward; if they agree to duel, they duel. At the critical moment of the duel, did you ambush the green skin leader?”
“Everyone wants to ambush each other,” Akarnis said. “Only I succeeded, but I lost my left hand. The emperor was incredibly brave and instantly knocked the leader’s head off.”
The crow’s feet history professor remained silent, and Akarnis, sharp-eyed, noticed that he wrote on the paper: “…the assassin’s loyalty to the emperor emphasizes the emperor’s valor while denying that the emperor won through ambush.”
“Did you see that?”
“The emperor isn’t as despicable as you think.”
“Relax,” the crow’s feet history professor advised. “If you knew that before the emperor was elected, he was Adolf’s notorious debauched youth, renowned as the second gigolo of Adolf, a recognized second generation in upper society, and if you understood the empire’s voting system for emperors, you would admire the emperor’s cunning.”
“This is remarkable intelligence.”
“Whether it’s cunning and treachery or outstanding intelligence is left to future generations to evaluate,” the crow’s feet history professor stated. “I heard a wild mage helped you pretend to be a green skin?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s a succubus; what kind of deal did she strike to have the demon race assist in the emperor’s endeavors?”
“Should I hang you or burn you instead?”
The crow’s feet history professor smiled but said nothing, writing on the paper: “…the loyal assassin of the emperor reacted strongly and personally threatened me.”
Akarnis took a deep breath; if the emperor hadn’t warned him beforehand, he would have stabbed the man long ago.
“Alright, thank you for your cooperation in contributing to the pursuit of truth,” the crow’s feet history professor closed his notebook. “I must take my leave now. Tomorrow I hope to meet the wild mage; you won’t obstruct me, will you?”
Akarnis replied, “Unless you’re not afraid of death.”
The crow’s feet history professor turned to leave, and as he reached the door, a strange male voice echoed from behind, sounding like a rat attempting to imitate human speech.
“Right, right, old man, my teacher was a ratman assassin. When I set out, he died! Right, right.”
The crow’s feet history professor, well-versed, knew that ratmen liked to repeat words.
He suddenly turned around, only to see the witch hunter, who had originally been seated in the chair, transformed into a ratman, dressed in exquisite armor that was crafted as well as that of humans.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, only to find that the ratman had vanished, and the entire room was empty, with only faint rustling sounds faintly perceptible.
