Young Master's PoV: Woke Up As A Villain In A Game One Day

Chapter 373: Interlude [II]

Showing a boyish grin, the Lord of Stories laughed.

”How am I likin’ it? What a silly question, ya goof. It’s been thirteen millennia since someone found me to narrate their story! Of course I’m lovin’ it!” He tilted his head with the carefree curiosity of the little child he appeared to be. ”So why’ve ye stopped? Go on, Samael Theosbane. Don’t keep me waitin’!”

Samael rubbed the rough bristles on his chin and felt the stubble of dark black hair on his face, now grown thick enough almost to be called a proper beard.

It had been months since he had last shaved. And several more days since he had begun telling his story to this thoroughly bored god.

So it was hardly surprising his beard had grown this unruly... almost like his father, albeit a lot less groomed.

He dragged a hand slowly down his jaw and exhaled languidly. ”I stopped because I’m thirsty. Do you know how long it has been since I tasted a sip of water—”

Before he could even finish the complaint, Samael suddenly found his hands were gripping a large jug of chilled beer.

He did not flinch an eye in surprise.

Instead, he calmly glanced at it and said, ”Actually, I prefer scotch over beer.”

”Oh, right!” the Lord of Stories giggled, slapping his forehead lightly. ”My bad.”

Samael didn’t notice the exact moment when the beer jug in his grip changed into a glass of fine scotch. One moment it was there, the next it wasn’t.

But without any complaint, he took a slow, appreciative sip of the amber liquor.

”Ahh. That’s the stuff,” he murmured with contentment. Then he looked back at the child with a satisfied grin of his own. ”Also, I stopped because the First Act is over.”

”First... Act?”

Samael nodded, lowering himself onto the parchment ground and settling into a cross-legged position.

”Uh-huh. The story of my life can be divided using a simple Four-Act structure. The First Act was the Characters and Setting Introduction. That part is now done. The Second Act is the Rising Action. The story will reach its midpoint there and will have the biggest plot twist I ever experienced. Then there will be the Third Act, which is the Climax.” He gestured vaguely around them. ”That’s where we are right now.”

The Lord of Stories fell silent for a few seconds, deep in thought.

Then, from somewhere around them, several pages floated up from the parchment landscape and drifted neatly into his small hand.

He swiftly skimmed them over before scoffing. ”Oh really? Climax? But I don’t see any climax here in yer story.”

Samael’s grin turned so much more wicked than the polite smiles he had been wearing up until now. ”That’s because it hasn’t happened yet.”

The boy just rolled his eyes. ”Good heavens. Are ye one of those narrators who promise fireworks but always hold back the spark? I hate yer kind.”

Then he paused, clearly struck by a new thought, and leaned forward.

”Wait a minute. If we’re only in Act Three... what’s in the Fourth Act?”

Samael shrugged like the answer was as obvious as daylight. ”What else? Resolution. In Act Four, I will have finished telling you my story. Then I’ll get the means to defeat the Spirit King. And at last, I’ll have my promised happy ending. I’ll celebrate our victory with my friends, spend some quality time with my niece and nephew, mourn the companions who didn’t live to see the day, and curse the people who betrayed us along the way. But in the end, I’ll be happy. Because I’ll be lying next to my wife.”

”Yer wife? But... she’s not yer wife.”

The golden-haired man froze. A moment later, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

”Oh, dammit. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. ”I guess she and I are not officially married yet. Fine. I’ll wife her up first thing after the War of Heaven’s Path is over.”

The Lord of Stories stared at him.

For a brief moment, there was something almost sad in the way the child looked at the man before him. Like the all-powerful god was pitying the insignificant mortal.

But then the god snapped.

”Ye are so delusional, Samael!” He waved the pages held by his childishly tiny hands with furious intensity. ”There is no happy endin’ for ye to reach! I’ve got yer whole life story written here line by line — everythin’ that has happened to you, is happenin’, and will happen! Remember? Even the conversation we’re havin’ right now. It’s written here! Yer story has already gone dark. And from here on out, it only moves toward tragedy. The Spirit King is supposed to win. He will win. That is the only ending permissible.”

The mortal man standing before the god could only smile in response.

And while his golden eyes seemed so tired, in that moment, it was Samael who looked like the one pitying the great Lord of Stories, like the latter really was just a child and not some ancient deity.

The god in question ignored that look entirely.

Instead, he lifted the loose sheets of parchment in his small hands and waved them again, this time with far more theatrical emphasis. ”And while we’re on this topic. I’ve got several complaints about how ye’re tellin’ this tale.”

Samael stopped and raised an eyebrow. ”What? Didn’t you just say you’re liking the story?”

”The story, yes. Yer narration, not so much.”

The Archduke flatly stared at this supposedly omnipotent child for a few short moments before slowly taking another sip of his scotch. ”That’s a bold critique coming from someone who’s been giggling like a schoolgirl for the past several days when I was speaking.”

The Lord of Stories sniffed in offense.

”First of all, I have refined tastes,” he declared, pressing a small hand over his heart. ”Second of all, I’m a professional. I can enjoy a tale and still criticize the way it’s delivered.”

Samael lowered the glass. ”Professional?”

”Of course!” the child puffed his chest out, pointing broadly at the endless sea of parchment surrounding them. ”Do ye have any idea how many stories I’ve presided over? Entire civilizations have risen and fallen while I curated their narratives! I am practically the patron saint of storytelling.”

”Ah.” Samael nodded gravely. ”So you’re a critic.”

The boy’s eye twitched.

”Fine, fine!” Samael relented, taking one more sip before politely backing down. ”Please continue with your complaints, Mr. Lord of Critics. I’m very curious now.”

The Lord of Stories narrowed his eyes further, then gazed down at the pages in his hand again.

”Well, for starters,” he said, flipping one sheet with far more drama than the action required, ”ye ramble.”

Samael was... flabbergasted to hear that. ”I— what?”

”Ramble,” the child repeated matter-of-factly. ”Ye circle around a point for too long like an alcoholic pigeon before finally landin’ on it.”

”...T-That is called proper buildup.”

”That is called wastin’ page space.”

Samael took slight offence at that. ”So you’re the god of stories and you’re complaining about pacing? Really?”

”Yes, I am! And another thing! Ye keep foreshadowin’ things without resolvin’ them quickly. Yer whole plan against Juliana was stretched out so long that I barely remembered half of it by the time the payoff came.”

”That is how suspense works!”

”That is how impatient readers start skippin’ paragraphs!” The child shot back. ”Oh! And sometimes ye don’t foreshadow enough either. Like, her heart was on the right? Really? Ye reveal this information right when she gets stabbed? That’s one of the most stupidly used action clichés I’ve ever seen.”

Samael’s patience was growing thin. ”The fuck? What do you mean cliché? What would you have me do if she was literally born with her heart on the right? And I did foreshadow it.”

”Not well enough,” the god tsk’d. ”Also, from a structural standpoint, ye could tighten yer pacing by at least twelve percent.”

”Twelve percent?”

”Yes! Ye could edit out so much unnecessary material. For instance, no one wants to read about Ivan’s love story. It didn’t advance the plot in the slightest.”

Samael took another long sip of his scotch, glaring at the child over the rim of his glass. ”Anything else?”

”Oh, plenty,” the Lord of Stories said, flipping through several pages with visible enthusiasm, like someone who had been waiting a millennium to do exactly this. ”Yer adjectives repeat.”

Now Samael was truly stunned. ”My... what?”

”Yer descriptors,” the boy went on, tapping the page with an accusatory little finger. ”Ye keep usin’ the same ones over and over again. Ye should try expandin’ yer vocabulary. Right now ye’re just rotatin’ words like a lazy bard! And what’s with all the unnecessary comedy? The entire Noctveil Wilds sequence had so much potential! Ye described some of those beasts in such gruesome detail. There was so much terror. It could’ve been a proper horror arc! But instead, ye ruined the mood with cringey lines of cheap humor! I’ve got yer actual story right here in my hands, and that forest was nowhere near as jolly and cheerful as ye made it sound.”

Samael leaned back slightly, studying the child with renewed irritation. It had taken him less effort to find his presumably non-existent name than it was taking him to restrain himself from punching this deity in the face.

”I feel like you’re missing the point of my story.”

”Oh, I understand the point perfectly,” the god replied breezily. ”Existential suffering. Cosmic betrayal. Doomed heroism. A dash of romance. It’s a very classic tragic structure.”

The mortal man shook his head, and his shoulders slumped slightly as if weary from carrying some unseen, unbearable weight for far too long. ”I won’t lie. It was hard. It has been hard. I’ve witnessed many misfortunes in my life. I’ve lost people who meant the world to me. I’ve buried comrades who trusted me to lead them. I’ve watched cities burn while I stood there too late to stop it. I’ve heard the last words of people who believed I could save them... even when I knew I couldn’t.”

For once, the Lord of Stories did not interrupt. He simply watched. His dark eyes remained hidden behind the thick curtain of his even darker hair.

”But that’s not the point of my story,” Samael said after a while. ”The point is that this is my life. I made an oath long ago to live it without regrets. And I had done well on that oath. When I look back now, the first things I remember are the moments I spent with my friends. Why are there so many jokes, you ask? Why do the grim moments get buried in cheap humor? Because that’s how I remember those days. I just remember the stupid jokes, or the ridiculous arguments, or the pranks we played on each other. Of course, sometimes I also forget a lot of things. But you get my point.”

He glanced somewhere into the distance, as if looking back across years only he could see. ”Noctveil Wilds was a dangerous place. It was dark and brutal. We were just lost kids in a forest full of incomprehensible nightmares. But it’s also where I found some of my best friends. And after that, I just kept making more. And I love every single one of those idiots.”

The child lowered his head a little.

All at once, the atmosphere in the entire hall turned ominous. The sea of parchment papers beneath them seemed to rustle with an unseen wind, and the air grew in weight.

When the boy lifted his face again, there was an expression of pure disgust twisting his childish features. ”You are insufferable.”