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Lord of Perverted Ladies

Chapter 86: Hidden line · Oct 26, 2026

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Chapter List (228)

Page number / 5

51 Chapter 51 - 24 hours 2026-10-26
52 Chapter 52: Curtain rises 2026-10-26
53 Chapter 53: Opening day 2026-10-26
54 Chapter 54: Guest 2026-10-26
55 Chapter 55: Who are you? 2026-10-26
56 Chapter 56: Invitation 2026-10-26
57 Chapter 57: Letter 2026-10-26
58 Chapter 58: In the dark 2026-10-26
59 Chapter 59: Mystery 2026-10-26
60 Chapter 60: Crowd 2026-10-26
61 Chapter 61: Unexpected 2026-10-26
62 Chapter 62: Principal’s story 2026-10-26
63 Chapter 63: No answer 2026-10-26
64 Chapter 64: Ordinary 2026-10-26
65 Chapter 65: Festival 2026-10-26
66 Chapter 66: Case file 2026-10-26
67 Chapter 67: Missing professor 2026-10-26
68 Chapter 68: Eastbridge 2026-10-26
69 Chapter 69: Observer 2026-10-26
70 Chapter 70: Evidence 2026-10-26
71 Chapter 71: Detective 2026-10-26
72 Chapter 72: Track 2026-10-26
73 Chapter 73: Journal 2026-10-26
74 Chapter 74: Missing morning 2026-10-26
75 Chapter 75: Dead man’s name 2026-10-26
76 Chapter 76: Fifth witness 2026-10-26
77 Chapter 77: Forgotten 2026-10-26
78 Chapter 78: Historians grave 2026-10-26
79 Chapter 79: One who’s watching 2026-10-26
80 Chapter 80: Library 2026-10-26
81 Chapter 81: Page 107 2026-10-26
82 Chapter 82: Author’s floor 2026-10-26
83 Chapter 83: Locked book 2026-10-26
84 Chapter 84: First sentance 2026-10-26
85 Chapter 85: Hidden face 2026-10-26
86 Chapter 86: Hidden line 2026-10-26
87 Chapter 87: Beyond 2026-10-26
88 Chapter 88: Empty seat 2026-10-26
89 Chapter 89: Letter 2026-10-26
90 Chapter 90: Corridor of faces 2026-10-26
91 Chapter 91: Lonely boy 2026-10-26
92 Chapter 92: Draft zero 2026-10-26
93 Chapter 93: Rejected 2026-10-26
94 Chapter 94: Notebook 2026-10-26
95 Chapter 95: Man without record 2026-10-26
96 Chapter 96: Awake 2026-10-26
97 Chapter 97: Heartbeat 2026-10-26
98 Chapter 98: Beneath 2026-10-26
99 Chapter 99: Scriptorium 2026-10-26
100 Chapter 100: Behind the book 2026-10-26

Another shelf disappeared.

There was no explosion.

No collapse.

It simply... ceased to exist.

One moment it stood among thousands of others, overflowing with books and decades of recorded lives.

The next moment it became a rectangle of absolute white.

Not light.

Not fog.

White without texture.

White without depth.

Looking at it made my eyes ache. My mind refused to understand what I was seeing, as though my brain had encountered something it had never evolved to process.

The empty space spread silently.

Book after book vanished into it.

The pages didn’t burn.

They didn’t tear.

They simply lost the right to exist.

Whitmore staggered backward.

”The Unwritten...”

His voice barely rose above a whisper.

”It’s expanding.”

The Author remained standing beside the desk, one ink-stained hand resting on the fountain pen.

”It always does.”

Lucien’s eyes remained fixed on the growing white void.

”Not this quickly.”

”No.”

The Author agreed.

”Someone has accelerated it.”

The Editor looked toward the endless shelves.

”Can you stop it?”

”No.”

The answer came immediately.

”I can only slow it.”

Noah stepped closer to me.

”I feel... strange.”

”What do you mean?”

He frowned.

”I know why we’re here.”

”I remember the library.”

”I remember Detective Hale.”

He hesitated.

”But...”

He looked around uncertainly.

”I can’t remember what the city looked like.”

The words sent another chill through me.

The erasure wasn’t removing only people.

It was beginning with places.

The notebook in my backpack became warm.

When I opened it, new words appeared almost instantly.

Places disappear before people.

People disappear before stories.

Stories disappear before meaning.

I showed it to Hale.

He read the lines twice.

”So that’s the order.”

”The Archive isn’t collapsing randomly.”

”It’s unraveling.”

The Author glanced at the notebook.

”It learns quickly.”

Lucien quietly corrected him.

”No.”

”He does.”

The Author didn’t disagree.

Instead, they looked toward me.

”You’ve preserved memories.”

”You’ve preserved names.”

”But eventually...”

The pen tapped softly against the desk.

”...you’ll have to choose what deserves to survive.”

My stomach tightened.

”What does that mean?”

The Author didn’t answer.

Instead, they reached toward a stack of blank paper.

They lifted the top sheet.

The page contained no words.

Only a single circle drawn in black ink.

”When there is no room left...”

”...every story becomes a choice.”

The sheet dissolved into ash.

The ashes never reached the floor.

They disappeared before gravity could claim them.

Another shelf vanished.

This time Noah saw it happen.

He stumbled backward.

”I watched it.”

”It was there.”

”Then...”

He rubbed his eyes.

”...now I can’t remember what books were on it.”

Whitmore nodded weakly.

”That’s how it begins.”

”You never remember what you lost.”

”You only remember losing something.”

The silence that followed was broken by the scratching of the Author’s pen.

Scratch.

The sound had become strangely comforting.

As long as the pen continued moving...

Something was still being written.

Something still existed.

Then the scratching stopped.

The Author looked toward Lucien.

”How many remain?”

Lucien answered without hesitation.

”Five.”

”Less than expected.”

”No.”

Lucien’s expression darkened.

”More.”

The Author laughed quietly.

”You’ve always been optimistic.”

”I’m counting him.”

Lucien nodded toward me.

The Author didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

Instead, they looked at the notebook in my hands.

”Show me.”

I hesitated.

The Editor shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Don’t.

I understood.

The notebook had become more than a tool.

It had become a weapon.

Or perhaps...

A shield.

”I can’t.”

I finally answered.

The Author didn’t sound offended.

”Good.”

My confusion must have shown.

”You chose.”

The Author smiled faintly.

”That means it has already begun.”

”The what?”

”The first line.”

The System flashed.

______

Hidden Progress Updated

Author Compatibility

97%

...

98%

Reason:

First Independent Narrative Choice Recorded.

______

Ninety-eight percent.

Without writing a single word.

The realization unsettled me.

The Author wasn’t measuring my talent.

It was measuring every decision I made.

Every refusal.

Every choice.

Every act of preserving instead of destroying.

Lucien quietly observed the notification.

”You’ve almost reached it.”

”I don’t want it.”

”I know.”

”Then why me?”

For the first time...

Lucien looked genuinely tired.

”Because neither of us managed.”

The sentence hung heavily in the air.

Neither.

”So there was another.”

”There were many.”

The Editor closed her eyes.

”Too many.”

Whitmore slowly looked between them.

”You’ve done this before.”

Neither answered.

That silence was answer enough.

The Archive trembled.

The white emptiness had reached another row of shelves.

Only this time...

Something walked out of it.

No footsteps.

No sound.

Just movement.

A silhouette.

Entirely white.

No face.

No clothing.

No features.

Only the rough outline of a person.

Then another emerged.

And another.

Dozens.

They wandered slowly between the shelves.

Whenever one brushed against a bookshelf...

The books turned blank.

Ink disappeared from every page.

Noah stared in horror.

”What are those?”

The Author answered quietly.

”Readers.”

My heart skipped.

”What?”

”They consume stories.”

”They finish them.”

”They remember nothing afterward.”

One of the white figures reached a book bearing someone’s name.

It opened the cover.

Every word disappeared.

The book became blank.

Then...

The name embossed on the spine faded.

Gone.

Whitmore gasped.

”That’s...”

He rushed toward the shelf.

His hands searched frantically.

”No.”

”It was here.”

”What?”

”My wife.”

His voice broke.

”I kept her book here.”

”There should be...”

He froze.

His expression became empty.

”What was I looking for?”

The notebook reacted instantly.

Without understanding why...

I opened it.

My hand moved almost on its own.

I wrote.

Helen Whitmore.

The ink settled.

Whitmore suddenly inhaled sharply.

”Helen.”

Tears filled his eyes.

”Helen.”

He looked at me in disbelief.

”My wife.”

”I remembered.”

The notebook glowed faintly.

A blue line appeared beneath the name.

Memory Restored.

The Author watched everything in silence.

Finally...

They nodded.

”So that’s your method.”

Lucien smiled.

”It resembles Elias.”

”No.”

The Author corrected.

”It surpasses him.”

The white figures all stopped moving simultaneously.

Every featureless head turned toward me.

Not toward Whitmore.

Not toward the notebook.

Toward me.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Watching.

The Editor stepped in front of me immediately.

”They’ve noticed.”

”They shouldn’t have.”

Lucien’s expression hardened.

”They smell fresh ink.”

”What?”

”They follow new stories.”

The nearest white figure began walking.

Slowly.

Its movements were unnaturally smooth.

Like words sliding across paper.

Another followed.

Then another.

The Author calmly dipped the fountain pen into the inkwell.

”You should leave.”

”You aren’t coming?”

The Editor asked.

”I can’t.”

The reply carried no sadness.

”This is where my Chapter ends.”

The scratching resumed.

Lucien stepped backward toward the endless shelves.

”I’ll delay them.”

”For how long?”

He looked at me.

”As long as the story believes I’m still necessary.”

The sentence felt like a farewell.

”No.”

I said.

”You still haven’t answered my question.”

He paused.

”What are you?”

For the first time...

Lucien smiled without mystery.

Without amusement.

Without irony.

Just quiet honesty.

”I’m what remains...”

He glanced toward the Author.

”...of someone who once reached ninety-nine percent.”

Before I could ask what that meant...

He stepped into the nearest aisle.

The shelves immediately shifted.

Closing behind him.

He vanished.

The white figures accelerated.

Not running.

Gliding.

The Editor grabbed my arm.

”We have seconds.”

Detective Hale helped Whitmore to his feet.

Noah clutched the Historian’s Notebook against his chest while I held the brass key.

”Where?”

Hale demanded.

The Editor pointed toward a narrow corridor that hadn’t existed moments earlier.

”There.”

”What’s there?”

”The beginning.”

We ran.

Behind us, the scratching of the Author’s pen continued steadily.

One last sentence reached my ears before distance swallowed the sound.

”Every writer eventually discovers...”

Scratch.

”...that the hardest sentence...”

Scratch.

”...is the first one.”

The corridor stretched impossibly far ahead.

Stone walls replaced bookshelves.

The air smelled of rain and fresh ink.

At the very end...

A single wooden door waited.

Unlike every other door I’d encountered, this one bore no lock.

Only three words carved into the wood.

BEGIN HERE.

The System appeared one final time before the door.

______

Main Story Quest Updated

Location Discovered:

The First Chapter.

Objective:

Open the door.

Warning:

Once entered...

The story cannot return to its previous draft.

______

The blue window faded.

I reached for the handle.

Behind us, the white figures entered the corridor.

Slowly.

Silently.

Patiently.

They weren’t chasing us.

They already knew exactly where we were going.

And somehow...

That terrified me even more.

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