What stopped wasn’t the wind. Not the clouds.

  Just… the people.

  Frozen the moment she stepped out.

  Dozens of them—men, women, children in dust-streaked tunics and loose trousers, some barefoot, some clutching sacks or baskets mid-step. A child’s mouth hung open. An old man’s fingers froze halfway to his prayer beads.

  Every head snapped to her, like she had interrupted a funeral.

  All of them watched.

  Ren Lin didn’t breathe. Her heart thundered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. “This isn't real. This is a dream. Wake up. Wake up at your desk—“

  A rice bag hit the dirt with a dull thud.

  The trance broke. People moved. Talked. Looked past her like nothing had happened.

  “What the hell…” she whispered.

  The last thing Ren Lin remembered was collapsing at her desk—spine bent, eyes heavy. The unfinished manuscript was glowing on her screen.

  Then darkness.

  Then—

  A room she didn’t recognize. Cracked walls and a straw mat. That was all.

  Now she was barefoot on hot dirt, accompanied by the smell of smoke and soil.

  It felt unfamiliar—did it?

  The world peeled open like a memory.

  Floating islands swam overhead like ownerless ships. A red-walled palace rose from the city’s heart with yellow imperial tiles. Purple trees. Blue leaves.

  Those colors…

  “No. No, no,” she muttered. “It can’t be…”

  Her hand shot out and grabbed the nearest person’s wrist. A woman. “Where am I?”

  The woman flinched. “I-What?”

  “Where am I?” she snapped. “Say.”

  “F-Feiyun!” The woman stammered. “The capital—Feiyun—”

  “And the ruler?”

  “Feiyun Tianji, why? Is something wrong?”

  Ren Lin let go. Her hand shook so violently she had to tuck it into her sleeve. Feiyun. Her city. Her world. She felt a surge of nauseating terror, followed immediately by a cold, brittle instinct to survive.

  “If you stand out they will get you,” she thought, a rule from her own notes surfacing. “Act like you belong. Act confident.”

  The woman stumbled back, wide-eyed. Without looking, Ren flicked her hand—sharp, dismissive, absolute.

  “Go.”

  The woman didn’t hesitate.

  As her footsteps faded into the crowd, silence settled briefly around Ren. She stood still, eyes scanning the city with growing unease.

  Could it really be her world? The one she had written—alive around her?

  She needed to be sure. To see more. But in her gut, she already knew.

  The heat of the earth pressed against her bare feet as she walked. Her senses sharpened—each sight, each scent stirring a strange recognition.

  Details she had once glossed over now surrounded her in vivid clarity: blue grass underfoot, purple-streaked wood framing the homes, the aroma of smoke and fresh bread threading through the air. Yes. She had written these things. Or things like them.

  But there was more.

  Things she had never described.

  The imperfections in the wood, the murmur of hushed gossip in the alleys, the faint scent of sweat in the warm breeze.

  And then—a sign swayed along the wind; it read, “Goat’s Stench.” A tavern she hadn’t even mentioned once.

  Ren Lín stopped as her brows furrowed.

  She didn’t like that. Her editors made her change many things already. And now even more was different?

  This must be some cruel joke.

  The heavy wooden door groaned as she stepped inside. The ceiling was low enough that smoke clung to it, trapped in greasy layers. Bodies packed the room shoulder to shoulder, stools scraped close, laughter spilling sharp and careless.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Arriving at the counter, something caught her eye—it was the oddity of the tavern's method.

  The bartender leaned over, hand resting on a slightly transparent goat. With a casual motion, he positioned a mug below its... underside, and a stream of liquid began to flow, filling the cup. It wasn’t urine that filled the mug—it was beer.

  While others didn’t mind, Ren Lin stared. Her mind raced to categorize it, to find the logic she had invented.

  “An Ethereal Core,” she muttered, mostly to convince herself she wasn't insane.

  “Hm,” the bartender grunted, not looking up. “Most just call it a Core. You buying, or just gawking?”

  Ren Lin felt a spike of irritation. This was her creation, yet he looked at her like she was dirt. She leaned in, trying to sound like a scholar rather than a confused girl in a tunic. “Could you explain how it works?”

  “I channel essence into it,” he said calmly, rinsing a glass with practiced ease. “It responds. Like you saw.”

  “Mhm… would you mind telling me your rank too?”

  Becoming slightly annoyed, he held up his bronze tag. “Only First Order. Now, will you finally order something?”

  “I will, I will. Just one last question.” Her tone was polite. “Where did you get it from?”

  His brow lifted. “Why? You think I stole it, or what? It took me two days of hell to make it.”

  That kind of craftsmanship was like balancing a coin on your fingertip for forty-eight hours without blinking.

  “No, I’m sorry if it came across like that,” she said, before he could continue rambling. “I’ll take one beer then.”

  Foam crowned the mug when it arrived.

  Her fingers hadn’t yet reached the handle when a shadow stretched across the counter. A man slid onto the stool beside her—too close, too casual.

  His looks reminded one of a mantis.

  “Essence flows through on the Veil,” hummed a voice near her ear. Calm. Curious. Off. “If you had a connection to it, I might teach you.”

  A pause.

  “But you don’t have a tag…”

  His tone softened—almost pitying.

  “No tag. No worth.”

  Ren Lin didn’t turn. “You’re too close.”

  Something glinted at the edge of her vision—an iron tag on his belt. Second Order.

  “You know you really stand out here,” he said softly, grabbing her hand turning it palm-up.

  Green. Her eyes were green—quiet, unblinking, intense. In the tavern’s dull light, her brown hair fell loose down her back.

  “Hmm…” His thumb dragged across the inside of her wrist, slow enough to make her skin crawl. “I can feel how fast your heart’s beating.”

  A grin slithered across his face.

  “Are you scared? I hope not.”

  He didn’t blink. Not once. Like a predator waiting for something smaller to move.

  “Never seen colors like that. Everyone here’s got black on black. Not you.”

  Her voice cut in. “And now?”

  Breath brushed her ear as he leaned in.

  “You look like you’re lost,” he whispered. “A stray like you. Someone is bound to take you eventually. And I’d rather it be me.”

  A loud slap rang.

  The barkeeper’s rag hit the counter. “Enough. Harass another guest, and you’re drinking puddle water for the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, calm down.” The man rolled his eyes. Then his dirty smirk returned. “Am I not even allowed to joke around anymore?”

  He let go of her hand, slow and deliberate, like she wasn’t a person—just something to be set down.

  As he stood up Ren Lin didn’t move. Not right away. Her hand stayed suspended midair, skin cold where he’d touched her. Her throat burned. So did her eyes.

  Memories swelled. Not of this world, but hers.

  A manager’s scolding. Not just his—her parents, her so-called friends. No one ever cared enough to understand her. Over the years rules were burned in on her: stay quiet. Stay small. Don’t be difficult.

  The coffee-fueled nights at her desk. Writing her worlds because she had nothing in her own, but even there she was restricted. Editors butchering her intentions.

  She hated how familiar his tone had been. The ownership in it.

  Like it was her place to be claimed.

  Like nothing had changed.

  Not even here.

  Something snapped.

  Her shin shot upward.

  The man let out a sharp, wet breath—more surprise than pain at first—then doubled over with a choked grunt, arms clutching his groin.

  He didn’t fall. Not completely. Just crumpled like something ashamed.

  The tavern silenced. For a heartbeat, even the walls seemed to hold their breath. Before the people started talking:

  “What just happened?”

  “She must be insane.”

  Ren Lin stood there, fists shaking, jaw locked, the taste of bile creeping up her throat. Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up—

  Out of the tavern. Into the dust and heat. Past the drifting stares and muttered words.

  Back into that room. That stupid, cramped room where she had woken up.

  She slammed the door. Sank to her knees.

  Her breath came in short, broken gasps.

  She pressed her hands to her face, then dug her nails into her scalp.

  The air here felt too thick.

  Too real.

  Even in her own story—even in a world she made—they still found a way to treat her like nothing.

  No tag. No worth.

  She didn’t cry.

  Didn’t scream.

  She just sat there, shaking in silence, the weight of two lives crushing her from both sides.

  It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. Time had vanished. The shadows of the room stretched with the sun, silent and slow.

  Dust hung in the slanted light like ash.

  Her body still trembled, but her breath had steadied. Her hands had stopped clawing her scalp. They now rested limp in her lap, red marks sinking into the skin.

  She stared at them.

  These hands wrote all of this. Names. Deaths. Lovers. Wars. And yet—her own creations treated her like nothing.

  Her jaw tightened.

  “I won’t live like that again,” she whispered. Not here. Not ever.

  She took one last breath. Cleared her throat. Wiped the sweat from her brow and straightened her tunic. Her gaze cut through the silence.

  In this life, she wouldn’t survive.

  She would trample. But for that she needed to know what she could work with.

  Even if her body had no Essence, she had to know for sure.

  Ren Lin steadied her breath. Focus. Reach inward. Just like she always described.

  Does my new body possess any talent?

  Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. No hum of power. No flicker of connection to the Veil. Only silence, thick and mocking.

  She laughed slightly crazed. “Of course. Why would fate gift me power when it can watch me claw for it?” Her voice lingered in the stale air, sharpening into something brittle. Fate is no different from a publisher—another cage, another hand rewriting my story.

  Ren Lin stood, brushing dust from her knees with deliberate slowness. The gesture was almost ceremonial, as though she were shedding not grime but the last vestiges of her old self—the author who had bent to demands, who had let her story be carved into pleasing lies.

  Outside, the moon hung like a pale sphere of glow, its light soothing through the window. It painted her reflection in the grimy glass: a young woman with long, dark brown hair and eyes sharp like a tiger’s, her mouth a blade’s edge.

  In this world, no matter your situation, through strength and Cores you could achieve anything.

  The first spark of a plan ignited in her mind, cold and bright.

  If the Veil denies me, I’ll carve a path to it.

  If talent is withheld—

  I will steal it.