PrologueYou awaken to chaos—murmurs cshing, trinkets jangling, and the occasional cackle of some mad immortal haggling over smut with another equally deranged entity. You try not to listen, but they’re loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. Begrudgingly, you open your eyes.

  Welcome to the Webnovel Realm: the lowest rung on the transcendent dder of Narrative Immortality. An infinite, sprawling bazaar of ideas where every imaginable plot twist, trope, and half-baked premise is hawked from stalls cobbled together with purple prose and shameless overstatement.

  The sight should inspire awe, but it only fuels your irritation. Do they not realize you’re here? You—reader of the Dao of Worldmaking, tamer of Nelson Goodman’s esoteric riddles, enlightened master of narrative creation! You, who slogged through a hundred hours of drafting, redrafting, and depleting your narrative Qi to discover the ultimate truth: coherent, infinitely stretchable worlds! You ascended beyond mortal storytelling struggles, yet here you are—surrounded by discarded plot outlines and the pungent stink of stale cliffhangers.

  And worst of all? No one cares.

  The gall!

  You climb to your feet, clutching your magnum opus—a glowing digital manuscript brimming with undeniable brilliance. Without hesitation, you stride to the market’s heart, scaling a pile of abandoned prologues no one dares approach. Standing tall atop this mountain of mediocrity, you bellow:

  “BEHOLD MY WORK!”

  Your voice cuts through the din, silencing the chaos for a breathless moment. Heads turn—jaded, unimpressed immortals who look like they haven’t been moved since the dawn of the first trope. Some clutch their own manuscripts like sacred relics; others wield bloated tomes with titles too verbose to read in one gnce.

  A woman strides closer, her vibe screaming “bratty vampire.” She gnces at your book, arches a skeptical eyebrow, mutters “Hmm,” and walks off.

  Undeterred, you scoff. One immortal's disinterest? Pathetic. You've braced yourself for rejection. These ancient bores with their sagging metaphors and faded prose need your story—they just don’t know it yet. Clearing your throat, still raw from your first impassioned scream, you bellow:

  “This is the truth of worlds! A tale to consume you, transport you, immortalize you!”

  A few more wander over, their expressions a cocktail of curiosity and pity. They conjure copies of your magnum opus like the omnipotent show-offs they are and begin reading. One flips pages with exaggerated slowness, as if hunting for offense.

  After a moment, he snaps the book shut with a derisive snort.

  “Your protagonist is too perfect. Fwless heroes are boring. Gary Stu? Really? At least pretend it’s ironic.”

  He tosses the spectral book at your feet, and before you can defend your brilliant subversion of tropes, another pipes up—a guy with a yellow ponytail straight out of an anime vilin convention.

  “Your pacing sucks. A monologue for Chapter One? Nobody reads that anymore. Start with action, genius.”

  “And the infodumps?” sneers a figure in a mask that screams, “Look how mysterious I am.” “What is this? A story or a metaphysical vacuum cleaner manual?”

  The critiques cut deep, sharper than you expected. Still, you steel yourself. They’re wrong. They don’t get it. You did everything the writing gods decreed. Ignoring the sting, you expin: the inciting incident, the thematic depth, the intricate web of retionships. Heck, you even spoil the twist.

  The crowd only chuckles.

  “Twist? Please. I saw it coming three tropes ago,” says a man with a beard so long it doubles as a timeline of abandoned drafts. The dozen books strapped to his back shout authority louder than his words ever could.

  Their ughter—some open, others veiled in polite dismissal—echoes as they drift away. One by one, they vanish into market stalls, peddling their own glittering stories to the gullible.

  You’re left standing there, clutching your trembling masterpiece.

  How could this happen? You mastered the Dao of Worldmaking! Your world was tight, your protagonist yered, your conflicts raw and real. Why couldn’t they see it?

  You leave the market behind, wandering the Webnovel Realm’s alleyways with no destination. The book in your hands grows heavier with every step. Around you, the air buzzes with narrative Qi—snippets of dialogue, unresolved tension, and promises of epic battles that may never happen. Every alley blurs together, lined with empty stalls where desperate writers beg for attention. Their cries rise in a cacophony of futility, a sound you despise almost as much as your own work.

  You recall the hours spent dissecting characters, weaving intricate worlds, and cracking jokes you thought were funny. Days, weeks, years—poured into the void. Your airtight plot, crafted with the Dao of Worldmaking, informed by video essays and writing guides, now feels like the world’s most eborate paperweight. Why had the immortals discarded it so easily?

  You don’t know how long you wander before stumbling upon a corner stall—small, unimpressive, barely there. Behind it sits a figure cloaked in robes stitched from faded book pages, his face hidden beneath a bck veil. He has no manuscript, no shimmering tome.

  “Lost, are you? You’ve strayed far from your roots, only to fall ft on your face.”

  Who is this guy? What’s he doing in a pce devoid of immortals?

  “I’m not lost. I’m… misunderstood.”

  The figure chuckles, the sound dry as old parchment.

  “Ah, the ment of the newly ascended. Let me guess: you mastered the Dao of Worldmaking and thought it would carry you. Tragic, really.”

  You blink.

  “How did you—”

  “Please.” He waves a hand, dismissive. “Everyone who ends up here starts the same way. You thought your genius would blind the masses with its brilliance. How na?ve.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  His smirk says otherwise.

  From under his stall, he produces a battered book. Its cover is dull, unimpressive—utterly forgettable compared to the glowing manuscripts and radiant tomes of the immortals.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something you need more than your opus.”

  The book slides toward you. Its title flickers and rearranges itself, finally settling into The Dao of Rhetoric.

  You open the book hesitantly, skimming the first few lines. Immediately, you are greeted with ideas that unsettle you:

  “Creation is not enough. A world, no matter how perfectly crafted, is meaningless if no one wishes to dwell within it. The act of worldmaking is divine, yes—but the act of persuasion is survival.”

  The figure speaks, his voice slicing through your thoughts like a razor-edged narrative hook. His face emerges from the veil—a paradox of youth and age, naivety and wisdom.

  “You think you’re a god," he begins, "but here, in the Webnovel Realm, you’re just another vendor in a crowded bazaar. Immortals don’t care about your perfect world. They care about how it makes them feel, if they see themselves in it, if they’re compelled to stay.”

  “But I—”

  “You shouted at the crowd but locked the door to your wonders, expecting them to break it down. They won’t.”

  Your grip on the book tightens. Anger? Desperation? Both.

  “So, what do I do? Beg?”

  “Not beg. Persuade. Pathos, ethos, logos—rhetoric.” He taps the book for emphasis. “Guide readers. Show them why your world matters to them. Writing is divine; persuasion is survival. Master that, and you might ascend. Fail, and you’ll stay here—shouting into the void.”

  He leans back, faintly smiling, every inch the oracle of your frustration.

  “The choice is yours. Shall I expin, or will you stay a god without followers?”

  You stare at the book, its pages taunting you with answers you didn’t know you needed. Around you, the bazaar hums—an endless cacophony of voices, each convinced their story deserves to be heard.

  And then, silently, you sit down.

  Part 0: Prelude to RhetoricAt the beginning—not of time itself, mind you, but close enough to sound impressive—there was Socrates: a wiry gadfly with a talent for irritating the powerful. Writing? Pfft, not his style. Why jot things down when you could relentlessly badger locals with unanswerable questions? “What is justice?” he’d pester, again and again, until someone either stormed off or spiraled into philosophical despair. He called it “dialectic”; everyone else likely called it “insufferable.”

  Eventually, the powers that be had their fill of this ambutory migraine. Accused of corrupting the youth, Socrates was sentenced to death by hemlock. True to form (and perhaps a fir for drama), he drank the poison, staying loyal to his principles—or just really committed to his bit. Imagine dying for being that guy who won’t stop questioning. Tragic? Sure. Inevitable? Definitely.

  Thus, the gadfly pnted the seed of Western philosophy, but seeds need tending. Enter Pto, Socrates’ golden boy and the guy who thought, You know what people want? More Socratic dialogues—on paper! Pto built on his mentor’s legacy, founding the Academy, the original philosophical think tank. There, big questions flourished: “What is the meaning of life?” and “Can we make Socrates posthumously tolerable?”

  One standout student was Aristotle, who took Pto’s theoretical noodling and turned it into practical frameworks. Abstract metaphors about ideal forms? Not for him. Aristotle wanted answers, not endless riddles. So, he became the godfather of rhetoric, formalizing the art of persuasion for anyone with an argument—or a grift.

  Aristotle broke rhetoric into three pilrs: ethos (credibility), pathos (emotion), and logos (logic)—because philosophy is nothing if not better in bullet points. Together, these tools became the foundation for winning debates, crafting persuasive speeches, or just selling snake oil with a bit more finesse.

  Socrates started the noise, Pto amplified it, and Aristotle made it marketable. The rest, as they say, is philosophy.

  And there you have it: the origin story of rhetoric. Why does it matter, you ask? Because it’s the ancient art of proving you’re not entirely full of nonsense. Every rousing speech, political campaign, bestseller pitch, or overly dramatic webnovel blurb owes its existence to this timeworn craft. And here’s the twist: there’s nothing new in the Dao of Rhetoric. Every storyteller who’s ever spun a tale, plotted a twist, or begged their audience to stick around past Chapter 3 has drawn from this same well—whether they realize it or not.

  Even if Aristotle’s Rhetoric has never graced your bookshelf, you know its rules instinctively—or, as the Webnovel Realm might put it, it’s coded into your spiritual vein. It’s the primal force that propels your inner storyteller. But instinct alone doesn’t make a master. And you, dear creator, standing on the lowest rung of Narrative Immortality with nothing but your Dao of Worldmaking, are barely more than a fledgling.

  You’ve built your world, sharpened its edges, polished its lore until it sparkles like an overambitious gemstone. But here’s the rub: in the grand battle of ideas, you’re the weakest fighter, armed with a butter knife in a realm of rhetorical swordsmen. A perfect world is meaningless if no one wants to live in it—or worse, if no one bothers to notice. You’ve climbed this far only to discover the dder stretches infinitely higher.

  So what’s next? Will you brood in a dark corner, muttering about the unfairness of it all? Absolutely not. You’ll do what every protagonist worth their salt does when faced with impossible odds: find mentors.

  The Dao of Rhetoric has chosen your mentors already—lucky you. Three (well, technically four, because apparently consistency doesn’t matter here) figures sit upon their metaphorical thrones, ready to mold you into a master of narrative persuasion.

  First up: Wayne Booth, lord of ethos. Sturdy, no-nonsense, and about as charming as a tax audit, Booth perches on a polished mahogany throne. His domain? Credibility. He’s not here to dazzle or ftter—just to make you trustworthy enough that readers stick around. Because if they don’t buy you, your characters, or your world, they’ll bolt before your oh-so-clever plot twist.

  Next is Kenneth Burke, the wild-eyed bard of pathos, sprawled on a throne that’s less “chair” and more “botanical explosion.” Flowers, vines, and poetic vibes radiate from this guy. Burke gets it: storytelling isn’t just structure—it’s heart. Booth might y the foundation, but Burke makes it sing. Without pathos, your tale is a soulless husk, no matter how pretty the prose.

  Finally, sharing one throne (awkwardly) are Lloyd Bitzer and Richard Vatz, the squabbling twins of logos. Bitzer, draped in schorly robes, cims rhetoric is a response to reality. Vatz, the grinning gambler, insists rhetoric creates reality. Their throne is split down the middle because compromise is for suckers. Together, they’ll teach you logic, even if it comes with a side of existential bickering.

  These three paths—ethos, pathos, and logos—aren’t optional electives. To reach Narrative Immortality, you’ll need to master all of them. And no, they don’t py nice in isotion. Each mentor demands your attention, like a trio of prima donnas convinced the spotlight is theirs alone.

  Your journey begins with ethos—trust, the foundation of all storytelling. Without it, even the most gut-wrenching scene or brilliant argument colpses like a house of cards in a wind tunnel.

  A metaphysical crack opens behind the figure, and the figure moves out of the way. From it, a completely normal, albeit aged, man in a tweed suit comes out. The figure opens his mouth.

  "Ah, Booth! You're just in time! I've got a new recruit for your Booth-camp!"

  Booth ignores the figure, leans forward, his gaze like a drill aimed at your self-assurance. “Ready?” he asks, tone dripping with skepticism. “You’ve built a world, sure. But can you make people believe in it? More importantly, can you make them believe in you?”

  You nod—maybe too quickly, maybe too smugly. Booth’s expression doesn’t shift. “Then prove it,” he says.

  And so, your rhetorical boot camp begins.

  Part 1: Wayne C. Booth’s Ethos Booth-CampThe cloaked figure doesn’t guide you to Booth so much as shove you toward him with a casual, “Good luck surviving that.” Before you can protest, you’re dumped at the gates of what looks like a military training camp—but instead of weights and pull-up bars, the yard is a chaos of teetering book piles, reeking of coffee, ink, and existential dread.

  At the center stands a squat, wooden booth—yes, an actual diner-style booth, carved from wood so ancient it probably predates literacy. Behind it sits a man whose face screams lecturer who alphabetizes his fridge for fun. His shirt is razor-creased, his gsses spotless, and his stare pins you like a butterfly in a dispy case.

  “Ah, the new recruit.” Monotone authority full of unknown type of narrative Qi for you fills the air. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

  You hesitate, suddenly guilty for breathing too loudly in his presence.

  “I said sit.”

  That stare grows colder.

  The moment you slide in, a book appears: The Rhetoric of Fiction by Wayne C. Booth. It’s the kind of dense that makes you question your existence. Flipping through, you spot references to authors you’ve never heard of, arguments yered like a sagna of condescension, and sentences that double back to mock you for trying.

  “Let me save you the trouble.”

  One corner of his mouth softens, almost kindly.

  “It’s about manipution.”

  “Manipution?”

  Regret fres the second the word slips out. A knowing gnce over his spotless gsses.

  “Yes. Storytelling is manipution. And before you object, that’s the point. Without it, readers wouldn’t ugh, cry, or care. The trick is doing it well.”

  For now, you can’t argue. It makes an arming amount of sense.

  “First lesson.”

  A quick wave of his hand, and a bckboard materializes behind him, complete with chalk that starts writing on its own. It scrawls:

  Real Author ≠ Implied Author.

  He crosses his arms.

  “Tell me—do you know who the author of Harry Potter is?”

  “J.K. Rowling.”

  The caution in your voice is palpable. A nod.

  “Correct. That’s the real author. But when you read Harry Potter, do you imagine J.K. Rowling sitting beside you, narrating every word? Expining her choices? Apologizing for some of her ter tweets?”

  You blink.

  “No.”

  “Exactly.”

  A triumphant gleam lights his eyes.

  “You’re engaging with the implied author, the version of Rowling constructed by the text itself. The one who exists only within the world of Hogwarts, spells, and Quidditch.”

  He leans forward, tapping the table for emphasis.

  “The implied author is a rhetorical device, just like the narrator. It’s who the reader imagines the author to be based on the story. And here’s the kicker—it’s as fake as a Hollywood smile.”

  “So… even if I write a story that’s deeply personal, the reader doesn’t actually see me?”

  A smirk curves across his face.

  “Not unless you’re foolish enough to make yourself a character. What the reader sees is a carefully crafted version of you. A construct. Which means, my dear recruit, that you’re free to manipute them without guilt. Use it wisely.”

  You’re still pondering this revetion when the bckboard wipes itself clean and scribbles something new:

  Reliable vs. Unreliable Narrators.

  Booth folds his arms.

  “Not all narrators are created equal. Some tell the truth; some lie. Some mean well but get things wrong. And as the author, you decide which they are—and why.”

  He gestures, and a scene from a novel materializes in the air. It’s a dimly lit parlor, where a dapper gentleman is telling a harrowing tale of betrayal and murder. As he speaks, ghostly subtitles appear: He’s lying.

  “An unreliable narrator, is a tool of manipution. They make the reader question everything, including themselves. Why is he lying? What’s he hiding? The reader becomes an active participant, piecing together the truth.”

  The scene shifts. Now it’s a cozy living room, where a grandmotherly figure recounts a family history. The subtitles read: Every word is true.

  “Reliable narrators, on the other hand, build trust. They guide the reader gently, ensuring they feel safe. Both types have their uses, but remember—neither is accidental. Every choice you make as a writer serves a purpose.”

  Booth snaps his fingers. “Speaking of choices…”

  The bckboard instantly fills with a new phrase:

  Show vs. Tell.

  You groan. “Not this again.”

  A sharp edge creeps into his voice. “Yes, this again. Writers love to debate whether it’s better to show or tell, as if one is inherently superior. It’s not. Both are rhetorical strategies.”

  He waves a hand, and two scenes shimmer into view. In one, a character sits alone in a dark room, staring at a photo of their family while tears roll down their cheeks. In the other, a narrator ftly states, He was sad.

  “Both convey sadness,” he points out. “The first is showing, the second telling. The difference lies in the effect. Showing invites the reader to experience the emotion firsthand. Telling delivers it directly, without pretense. Neither is wrong. The question is, what effect do you want?”

  You nod slowly. “So… showing isn’t always better?”

  “Correct. Sometimes, you want to immerse the reader. Other times, you need to move the story along. The key is knowing when to use which.”

  You’re starting to feel like you’re getting the hang of this when he reveals his final—and most surprising—lesson.

  “Ethics.” His tone turns grave.

  “Ethics?” You blink. “In storytelling?”

  “Of course.” A quick shrug follows, as though the answer should be obvious. “Every story carries values, whether you intend it to or not. When a reader engages with your work, they’re also engaging with your moral universe. And let me tell you, they notice.”

  He conjures another scene: a tense courtroom drama where the protagonist, a wyer, defends an obviously guilty client.

  “The story may be engaging, but it also raises ethical questions. Are we meant to root for the wyer? Sympathize with the client? What does this say about justice? As a writer, you’re not just telling a story—you’re making a statement, whether you mean to or not.”

  You sit back, overwhelmed. “So… every story has a moral dimension?”

  A single nod. “Yes. And ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. It just makes you a careless writer.”

  Booth gives you a moment to let that sink in before delivering his final revetion.

  “Ah, the ideal reader.”

  A thoughtful pause stretches between you.

  “The mythical creature every author writes for. The reader who catches every reference, ughs at every joke, and understands every nuance. They don’t exist, of course.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because striving for the ideal forces you to write better.”

  A steady gaze of Booth holds your attention.

  “To craft stories that speak not just to one reader, but to many. To create something that resonates across perspectives, even if it’s never fully understood.”

  He leans back, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the true art of rhetoric. It’s not about tricking the reader. It’s about inviting them to dance with you, even if they don’t know all the steps.”

  Booth leans forward, gaze sharp enough to slice through the tangled mess of your creative insecurities.

  “And finally, let's talk ethos. Isn't this what you've come here for?”

  The word nds like a dare.

  “It’s the bedrock of persuasion. Without it, you’re screaming into the void—and trust me, the void doesn’t care.”

  You nod, unsure whether to feel enlightened or mildly roasted.

  “Ethos is trust—not the basic ‘this narrator isn’t lying’ kind, but the trust that ties everything together. Your characters, your world, you as the author—it all hinges on whether readers believe in you. Lose that, and your dazzling prose won’t save you.”

  He gestures to the bckboard, where three words appear as if summoned by the gods of narrative judgment:

  Credibility. Authenticity. Consistency.

  Fingertips tap each word. “These are the pilrs of ethos. Credibility is simple: does your story make sense within its own rules? Space wizards or time-traveling cats—it doesn’t matter, as long as your world feels deliberate, not a chaotic mess.”

  Another nod, this time with a little less doubt.

  “Authenticity is trickier. It’s not just about content; it’s about tone. Does your voice fit the world? Does it hit readers where it counts? Fake sincerity reeks, and readers have a nose for it.”

  A smirk flickers across his lips. “Also, if your writing feels like it’s auditioning for a literary prize, you’ve already lost. Authenticity doesn’t preen.”

  “And consistency?” You venture the question, eager to keep up.

  “Consistency is your unspoken pact with the reader. Stick to your tone. A lighthearted romp doesn’t morph into grimdark without warning. Your bumbling hero doesn’t suddenly outsmart everyone without a reason. Consistency keeps readers grounded and invested, even when the destination isn’t clear.”

  He leans back, final look brimming with unspoken authority. “Get ethos right, and readers won’t just trust your story—they’ll trust you. That’s what turns a fleeting read into an obsession.”

  The booth dissolves, giving way to a garden teeming with vines and riotous blooms. At the edge, Kenneth Burke stands grinning, eyes gleaming with untamed mischief. Before you can take a step, Booth’s voice lingers in the air like a ghost with unfinished business.

  "Remember, you’re a maniputor. Own it. But do it with intent, and do it well. Now go—your next mentor awaits."

  With that, you step into the verdant chaos, bracing yourself for the next chapter in the Dao of Rhetoric.

  Part 2: Kenneth Burke's Pathos Drama GardenThe garden is unlike anything you’ve seen—which is saying a lot, considering you’ve just ascended to the Webnovel Realm, where gods hawk plot twists like greasy street food. The pce feels alive, but not in a comforting way.

  Vines slither up ancient trellises, whispering secrets. Flowers sway in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Trees groan as if their branches bear thoughts heavier than leaves. The greenery isn’t just lifelike—it’s disturbingly alive.

  A willow weeps, its drooping branches oozing something you hope isn’t tears. Violets huddle, murmuring conspiratorially. Nearby, a cluster of roses quivers like lovers mid-argument, their petals trembling with indignation.

  You inch closer, trying to piece together this unsettling scene. A voice booms from behind a curtain of ivy:

  “Ah, another wanderer! Or shall I say, another character in the great drama of existence?”

  Kenneth Burke steps forward, or at least some version of him conjured by this mad realm. He’s cd in a battered tweed jacket older than your ancestors, hair a chaotic nest that might host a family of sparrows, eyes gleaming with sleepless wisdom.

  “Welcome to my garden.” His arms spread wide, as though embracing not you, but the cosmos itself. “Here, we cultivate drama. And drama, dear mortal, is all that matters.”

  You blink, unsure if you’re inspired or armed. Before you can decide, he sweeps a hand toward the bizarre pnts.

  “See them? Lovers, schemers, fools—all symbols, each pying their part in the eternal performance. Wherever there’s persuasion, there’s rhetoric. Wherever there’s rhetoric, there’s meaning. And meaning is the lifeblood of storytelling.”

  The roses, as if on cue, escate their argument, petals fring like tempers. Your mouth opens, a question forming—but Burke’s words rush on, unstoppable.

  “Meaning! The eternal enigma! Poor humans think they communicate, but all they do is trade symbols, endlessly misinterpreted. What did they mean? What do they want? What are they hiding? It’s no different with stories! Your readers don’t care about your intricate maps or economic systems—no, no, no!”

  He paces, like a deranged professor lecturing a roomful of undergrads who skipped the reading.

  “They’re here for the drama—conflict, tension, the why behind the what. Life, dear worldmaker, is drama. And storytelling? Just life with better lighting and fewer bathroom breaks.”

  A slow nod is all you can manage, sensing that arguing with him would be like debating a hurricane.

  “The Dao of Worldmaking.” The words slip out with a scornful edge, like a gardener ripping out weeds. “It fails because it’s written for yourself, not others. A self-indulgent exercise. A gilded cage of ideas. What you need is messy, visceral, human connection. Your world is a stage, sure, but without actors, who cares about the props? Readers want blood, sweat, tears—and a good dose of catharsis!”

  The garden shivers in agreement. Vines twist theatrically; violets gasp. The whole scene holds its breath—and then breaks.

  Pnts shift. At first subtle, then unmistakable. The willow straightens, weeping branches lifting like question marks. Violets untangle and line up in neat rows. Even the roses, mid-squabble, assume disciplined formations.

  Burke’s grin spreads wide. “Ah, time for a bit of dialectic, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A single gesture directs attention to the morphing garden. The surroundings crystallize into a stage with five ambiguous figures, their forms like paintings reworked by an indecisive artist.

  “The Dramatistic Pentad!” The decration arrives as if unveiling a grand solution. “My magnum opus! The lens through which all human action is legible. Watch.”

  A hand sweeps toward the first figure, a commanding presence. “Act. What happened? The plot, the deed, the event. Readers crave action—not why your world is round or its moons glow purple, but what your protagonist does.”

  That figure bows and drifts aside, making way for the second.

  “Scene.” An earnest note enters Burke’s tone. “Where and when did it happen? Context! The backdrop. But don’t drown your act in scenery. Too much, and your readers suffocate. Too little, and they’ll drift in a void.”

  A brief nod—less agreement, more reluctant acceptance.

  “Agent!” The third figure strides forward, posture full of swagger. “Who did it? The protagonist, the antihero, the messy ensemble. Forget perfect heroes. Give me someone fwed, someone who bleeds!”

  A fourth presence steps up, brandishing tools.

  “Agency. How did they do it? What means? Here’s where your clever worldbuilding earns its keep—but only if it serves the act and agent. No one cares about your magic system unless it drives the plot.”

  One final figure appears, shrouded in mystery.

  “Purpose.” A hush falls over the moment. “Why did they do it? Revenge, love, ambition—this is your story’s heart.”

  All five figures pause, as if waiting for a verdict.

  An almost smug glint lights up Burke’s expression. “Here’s the secret: these elements don’t live in isotion. They csh, overp, and shift emphasis. Focus on the act? Your story’s about deeds and consequences. Scene? It’s about fate. Agent? A character study. Infinite variation, infinite drama!”

  The garden hums as the figures fade back into leaves and branches. He remains, wearing that triumphant look like a well-fitted crown—and you’re suddenly aware you’re both alone again.

  “So.” His voice sinks to a conspiratorial hush. “What’s your drama? Will you craft a story alive with tension or squander your breath on lifeless worlds?”

  A smirk flickers across his face, then he slips into the greenery before any reply can form. One thought lingers in the air:

  Drama isn’t just the heart of storytelling—it’s the soul. And you, dear writer, must wield it.

  The earth heaves beneath you, less a tremor than a toddler’s tantrum made tectonic. Lush foliage quivers, vine-den walls groaning before—snap!—you’re yanked downward.

  Every frantic grasp at writhing vines slips away; the Narrative Qi radiates malice, dragging you deeper. Above, Burke’s ughter reverberates, theatrical and ominous.

  “Ah, the drama thickens! Fear not—descent is just another form of progress!”

  Dirt clogs your mouth too quickly for any witty retort.

  You nd with a graceless thud in a dark, humid cave. All around, walls convulse, vines slithering in a serpentine reconfiguration of the space. The air presses in, thick and alive, as though the cave itself inhales alongside you.

  A single beam of light—because of course there’s one—illuminates Kenneth Burke at its center.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived.” A dismissive wave acknowledges your disheveled state. “Just in time for Act Two.”

  You scramble upright, brushing dirt off your clothes. “What was that?” An accusatory finger stabs upward toward the distant ceiling.

  He offers no direct answer, unching into a sermon that echoes against the twisting cave walls like a prophet certain you can’t escape.

  “Humans,” he begins, eyes glinting in the dim glow, “are cursed by symbols. Ingenious little tools for inventing problems where none exist.”

  A resigned sigh escapes you. “I—”

  “Symbols,” he cuts in, a dramatic flourish slicing through your attempt at expnation, “are our salvation and our undoing. They let us build worlds, yet burden them with guilt, misunderstanding, and false hopes.” A triumphant gleam sparks in his gaze. “Ah, guilt! The lifeblood of drama!”

  He gestures, and Alice steps from the shadows. But this isn’t the botanical puppet you’d expect from the garden’s theatrics. No, this Alice is unnervingly real—her stick gnarled, her posture heavy with exhaustion. You recognize her instantly: the living embodiment of the Dao of Worldmaking’s symbolic archetype. Only now, she’s alive and staring at you.

  “Behold!” Burke points at her like a ringmaster unveiling his star act. “The ultimate protagonist burdened by guilt! She’s scapegoat and redeemer, sinner and saint. Her existence is a self-perpetuating cycle—a narrative engine driven by guilt and pathos!”

  Alice gnces at you, her face a cocktail of resignation and bewilderment, as if she’s as confused by her presence in this cave as you are. Before you can voice the obvious questions, he sweeps a hand through the air.

  “This cycle is the beating heart of storytelling. It starts with Order: the world is stable, or at least convincingly so. Then comes Pollution—guilt. A sin disrupts the bance, plunging the protagonist into chaos and unching the quest for Purification.”

  Alice slumps onto a rock, clutching her stick like it’s the only thing tethering her to this reality. You’re scrambling to keep up.“And purification means…?”

  A fsh of excitement lights up his face. “Ah, purification! It manifests in two forms: Mortification and Scapegoating. Mortification is inward—self-inflicted suffering to atone for the sin. Scapegoating, on the other hand, is external—projecting guilt onto another, be it an antagonist, a system, or, say, a sacrificial mb.”

  Alice shifts, clearly over this sacrificial mb business.

  “And after that?” The question hangs in the air, despite your better judgment.

  “Redemption!” His arms shoot wide. “The restoration of Order. The catharsis! The emotional payoff that justifies all the suffering.”

  Something clicks in your brain, and you narrow your eyes.“Hold on. That’s just… Western plot structure. The hero’s journey, but drowning in guilt.”

  A snap of his fingers, then a broad grin. “Exactly! And why does it resonate so deeply? Because it mirrors the human condition. Guilt is universal—it binds us, it makes us care. Readers love guilt, even if it’s not theirs. It’s the thread tying their lives to the story, their feelings to the characters.”

  He leans in, gaze sharp.“Guilt won’t cut it. To hook someone, you must master Identification.”

  You brace for yet another rabbit hole.“Identification?”

  “Exactly. To make readers care, give them a character who reflects themselves. It’s not about logic—it’s about vibes. Identification is the bridge between your story and their soul. It turns strangers into allies, skeptics into believers.”

  He steps closer, his presence suffocating in the cramped space.“But beware. Identification is how people manipute each other. Symbols are never neutral. Every word you choose highlights some things and hides others. Language isn’t a tool—it’s a weapon, and pathos is its sharpest edge.”

  Alice stands abruptly, clearly done with being both an example and a metaphor. Her voice cuts through the tension, edged with defiance.“So what does that mean for me?”

  Burke chuckles, apparently pleased by her spark.“It means you’re the symbol, Alice. The vessel of guilt. The bridge between the implied author and the ideal reader.”

  The corners of your mouth twist into a bitter ugh.“The ideal reader... that mythical creature who catches every nuance and loves every twist?”

  Burke’s expression grows solemn.“Exactly. The ideal reader doesn’t exist. But striving to reach them shapes your pathos. Every reader sees your story differently, interprets your symbols uniquely. That’s the beauty—and the tragedy—of rhetoric.”

  The cave falls silent. Even the shifting vines seem to pause, as though processing his words.

  A slow exhale escapes your lips.“So… what you’re saying is… I’ll never get it right for everyone.”

  A small smile appears on Burke’s face, equal parts pity and encouragement.“Of course not. But perfection isn’t the goal. Connection is. Strive for that, and you’ll wield pathos well.”

  Before you can respond, the vines shift again, pulling apart to form a tunnel. A faint light gleams at the end.

  Burke’s voice drops to a softer register.“Go. Your next mentors await. But remember: drama is storytelling’s heart, and pathos is its soul. Use it wisely.”

  You nod, stepping toward the light, Alice trailing behind. As you leave the cave, his voice echoes once more.

  “Dear writer, remember: a story without connection is no story at all.”

  Part 3: Bitzer-Vatz Logos BattlefieldThe tunnel yawns ahead, alive with darkness. You tread cautiously, one hand trailing the jagged wall, the other clutching Alice’s stick—not for practicality but as a lifeline to this bizarre reality. Behind you, the cave’s entrance shrinks to a pinprick of light, Burke’s ughter fading into echoes. Ahead, the faint hum of Narrative Qi pulses like a faltering heartbeat.

  The air thickens, heavy with unspoken tension—anticipation or dread, you can’t tell. Booth’s ruthless critique and Burke’s melodrama are behind you, but how much worse could logos be? Isn’t logic meant to be calm? Orderly? The sanctuary you’ve craved after ethos’s chaos and pathos’s theatrics?

  The ground shudders, mocking your fragile hope. At first, it’s a mild tremor, easily dismissed as the cave settling. But it intensifies, jerking you sideways. Your hand scrapes against the rough wall as a fissure splits the floor. Before you can react, the ground colpses, swallowing you whole.

  You plummet, the stick slipping from your grasp. Rocks and dust engulf you in a choking cascade. Then—darkness.

  You wake to a different world. The oppressive cave is gone, repced by a wastend of jagged craters and skeletal structures cwing at the sky. The air reeks of burnt stone, and the horizon teems with half-built towers leaning precariously, dreams abandoned mid-creation.

  Groaning, you stagger upright, brushing debris from your clothes. The stick lies nearby, miraculously intact. As you grab it, a deafening explosion rips the air. Light blinds you; a shockwave knocks you ft. The earth trembles, and your ears buzz with the aftermath.

  When the dust clears, two figures emerge.

  The first strides through the smoke like a general inspecting carnage. Tall, austere, cd in scorched academic robes, his face bears the lines of someone exhausted by answering life’s unasked questions. He doesn’t walk—he commands the ground beneath him.

  Opposite him, his opponent swaggers into view, a gambler’s grin pstered on his face. Decked out in gaudy Wild West finery, he looks like he lost a bet with a costume designer. His eyes gleam with mischief, his smile equal parts charming and infuriating.

  “You reckless fool,” the robed man barks, his voice cutting through the haze. “Must you always distort rhetoric’s purpose with your frivolities?”

  The gambler ughs, a jarring sound in the desotion. “And you, Bitzer, must you always kill the fun? Rhetoric isn’t some dull tool—it’s the art of creating meaning! Or have you forgotten?”

  They gre at each other, titans locked in a battle of wills, irritation ced with reluctant respect. You, caught in their crossfire, do the only sensible thing—make yourself as small as possible.

  Bitzer—because who else would wear that robe—gestures sharply at the wastend around you. “This destruction, Vatz, is why rhetoric must serve reality. It addresses exigence—problems that demand solutions. Not this circus you insist on making it.”

  Vatz smirks, unbothered. “Ah, ‘exigence, audience, constraints.’ Your sacred trinity. Tell me, Bitzer, how’s that doctrine helping the people sprawled in craters?”

  Bitzer’s jaw clenches, but he presses on. “Rhetoric responds to reality. Necessity drives it—problems demand solutions. The audience must be convinced, and constraints define what can and can’t be said.”

  Vatz scoffs, pacing like a lion. “Bravo. Exigence! Constraints! So profound. But who defines the problem, Bitzer? Who decides what matters? The rhetor. Reality doesn’t hand us meaning; we create it.”

  He spins to face you, grin sharp as a bde. “You, hapless bystander, dragged into our spat. Did this explosion demand your involvement, or did we pull you in for our purposes?”

  You blink, caught off-guard. “I… I don’t—”

  “Exactly!” Vatz cuts you off, triumphant. “Meaning isn’t inherent; it’s assigned. You’re here because I said you matter. And isn’t that storytelling? Assigning importance, shaping perception, making the audience see what we want?”

  Bitzer snorts. “Arrogant nonsense. Rhetoric works within reality’s constraints. A story that ignores the audience’s expectations colpses into incoherence. It’s not about inventing problems; it’s about addressing real ones.”

  Vatz leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “And there’s where you’re wrong. The audience doesn’t know what they need until we show them. It’s not solving problems—it’s framing them.”

  Their words csh around you like a storm, charged and dizzying. Frustrated, you step forward. “What does this have to do with Narrative Immortality? With storytelling?”

  Both turn to you, their gazes searing spotlights.

  “Silence,” Bitzer commands. “You’re here to learn, not disrupt.”

  Vatz waves a dismissive hand. “Let the novice babble. It’s entertaining.”

  Before you can decide whether to flee or fight, the air crackles. The wastend quakes as Bitzer and Vatz raise their hands, Qi twisting together despite their loathing. Shattered ruins rise, reassembling into a towering debate hall. Pilrs cw at the sky, tapestries unfurl from nowhere, and empty seats appear—all but one: yours.

  Bitzer takes the left dais, robes immacute amid the dust. Vatz cims the right, a coin dancing in his fingers. They face each other, the air bristling with tension.

  “This,” Bitzer says, his voice steely, “is where you’ll witness rhetoric’s true power.”

  Vatz smirks. “And maybe learn a thing or two about stories.”

  You sink into your seat, their words hanging heavy in the charged silence. The debate begins.

  You sit, an audience of one, watching two figures poised like rival cultivators about to unleash devastating narrative arts. The debate hall hums with energy, its walls stitched from fragments of stories—some half-formed, others disturbingly vivid. Each breath feels heavy with centuries of unresolved arguments.

  Bitzer clears his throat, the sound weighty as ancient w. “Every story begins with an exigence—a raw, undeniable need demanding attention. A storyteller shapes their tale around it. Without exigence, a story is chaos—a mess of Qi.”

  Vatz smirks, spinning a coin through his fingers. “Ah, the almighty exigence. As if problems present themselves gift-wrapped and ready. No, Bitzer, stories don’t emerge fully formed. They’re framed, shaped, and given meaning by the storyteller. We decide what matters.”

  Bitzer steps forward, robes billowing with unspoken authority. “And without the exigence, what is there to frame? A storyteller cannot impose meaning on nothing. Take the death of a king—a tragedy, a betrayal, a plunge into chaos. That’s the exigence. The storyteller merely responds.”

  Vatz scoffs, tossing his coin skyward. It vanishes before hitting the ground. “A story doesn’t respond, dear Bitzer. It interprets, decides. You call the king’s death a tragedy? I call it an opportunity. Betrayal, freedom, monarchy’s fall—it’s all in the storyteller’s lens. Exigence without interpretation is meaningless.”

  You lean forward, heart racing. “Isn’t that just the Dao of Worldmaking? Assigning meaning to a created reality?”

  Both figures turn, their looks dripping with offended ancestry.

  “Worldmaking is a foundation,” Bitzer says, frosty. “It crafts coherent universes, yes. But storytelling is communication, persuasion. Without intent, you’re just pying with symbols.”

  Vatz grins, folding his arms. “Exactly. Worldmaking provides ingredients; rhetoric is the chef. And let’s admit it—most worldmakers serve raw potatoes and expect appuse.”

  Bitzer shoots a gre. “Storytelling responds to reality. Exigence gives us the ‘why,’ the spark of the narrative.”

  Vatz smirks. “But the storyteller decides the ‘how.’ Context, tone, theme—they don’t come prepackaged with reality. They’re crafted. You’re not recounting; you’re reshaping.”

  Bitzer frowns. “A story must stay tethered to its exigence. Drift too far, and coherence dies. The audience isn’t passive; they interpret. They act.”

  “And we, Bitzer, shape that interpretation,” Vatz counters, his tone sharp. “Through pacing, tone, detail. Do we pity the prince who murders the king or despise him? Is the kingdom’s colpse tragic or liberating? The storyteller controls perception.”

  You venture cautiously, “Isn’t that just plot—deciding events and their emotional beats?”

  Two gres sear into you, your narrative hubris id bare.

  “Plot is sequence,” Bitzer snaps. “Rhetoric is intent. To persuade, you must know your audience. Their values. Their lens. Without that, your plot is hollow.”

  Vatz dismisses you with a wave. “You’re thinking like a writer, not a rhetor. Plot is ‘what happens.’ Rhetoric is ‘what it means.’ Until you grasp that, you’re just spinning wheels.”

  Silenced, you slouch. Clearly, you’re pying checkers while these two are waging rhetorical chess.

  Bitzer’s voice dips, sensing your frustration. “Consider constraints,” he says. “Every storyteller faces them. Artistic ones—your skill, style, choices. Inartistic ones—genre conventions, cultural norms, audience demands. These define your narrative’s boundaries.”

  “And its opportunities,” Vatz cuts in, almost gentle. “A fantasy epic needs a hero? Sure. But is it a prince, a peasant, a vilin cwing toward redemption? Constraints force creativity. You don’t just follow them—you twist them, break them, own them.”

  Bitzer grunts, a rare nod of agreement. “Rhetoric demands bance. A story rooted in reality but shaped by vision. Logos: the interpy of exigence and framing. What is versus what could be.”

  Vatz leans closer, grin fading into something dangerously sincere. “It’s yin and yang, kid. The world you answer to and the one you craft. Nail that dance, and you might just outlive your story.”

  You sit back, head spinning. Their words nd like stones in a still pond. Logos isn’t just logic or plot—it’s the negotiation between truth and the story you make of it.

  As if sensing your epiphany, the debate hall begins to shimmer, its walls of stitched stories blurring like ink in water. Bitzer and Vatz flicker, unraveling into the very fabric of narrative Qi—but they don’t vanish entirely. Their voices linger, a harmony of stern wisdom and pyful irreverence.

  “Logos,” Bitzer intones, steady and grounding, “is the foundation. It anchors the story to reality, gives it purpose, ensures integrity. But it’s not enough.”

  “Pathos,” Burke’s voice echoes faintly, distant yet resonant, “is the soul. Without it, your story is a lifeless corpse. Drama, tension, catharsis—they’re what make a tale unforgettable.”

  “And ethos,” Booth’s calm tone steadies the chaos, “is the trust. It tethers your audience, binds logos and pathos into a persuasive whole.”

  The three spiral around you like dragons, their Qi radiating heat and light. You feel it now—not as separate forces, but as one, surging through you like a cultivation manual etched into your core.

  Memories rise: impassioned arguments with friends, jokes crafted to lighten moments, the stories you’ve told—details chosen, emotions evoked, truths revealed. You’ve been practicing this all along, not as a master, but an unknowing apprentice, tapping into a deeper well.

  The weight of understanding grounds and elevates you in equal measure. You exhale—a single breath, heavy with potential, as if it could rewrite worlds.

  The hall dissolves, leaving only a soft, familiar voice in the void.

  “Finally got it, huh?”

  Exhaustion cims you, but you don’t fall into darkness. You fall into light, carrying the knowledge that storytelling isn’t just a skill—it’s your Dao.

  Part 4: Snap Back to RealityThe world shifts—or doesn’t. Hard to tell with your eyes still shut and your brain feeling like it’s been tumble-dried on “existential crisis.” One moment, you were freefalling into light, the Dao’s overcaffeinated Narrative Qi coursing through you. The next? Silence.

  When you open your eyes, nothing’s changed. You’re cross-legged near the stall, locked in a faux-meditative lotus pose, like you’ve been contempting the universe for hours. Around you, the chaos of the Webnovel Realm hums on, as noisy and soul-crushing as ever. Somewhere, an immortal hawks a system novel with the enthusiasm of a snake-oil salesman. Nearby, a grimdark-versus-progression-fantasy debate rages, voices cnging like poorly-written fight scenes.

  In front of you, the book lies closed. Its title no longer shifts: The Dao of Rhetoric.

  You stare at its battered cover, as unassuming as a paperback in a second-hand shop, yet heavy with the weight of whatever knowledge just wrung you out. Why does everything feel different when nothing around you has changed?

  You pick up the book, flipping through its pages. Bnk. Like the cosmos just hit CTRL-Z on its contents. No answers, no cheat codes, just you and a mounting restlessness.

  Then it hits you: the urge to write. No reason, no expnation—just an undeniable pull. Stories cw at your brain, characters form in the fog, ideas demand a pce in the narrative bazaar. Before you know it, your hands are scavenging for parchment, quills—anything to get the chaos out of your head and onto something tangible.

  Finally, you find a crumpled sheet buried under abandoned outlines and scribbled plot twists. A quill, frayed but functional, lies nearby. You press the tip to the parchment, ready to unleash brilliance.

  And nothing happens.

  Your hand freezes. The story, the words—they’re there, but unreachable, like trying to fish with a broken net. The urge burns, but it collides with a wall, invisible and infuriating.

  Why?

  The question explodes in your mind, dragging others with it. Abstract forces csh within your thoughts like dueling narrative spirits.

  On one side: the Dao of Worldmaking, vast and intoxicating. It demands creativity, coherence, immersion. Build the world. Shape its rules, histories, and lives. Birth something whole and alive.

  On the other: the Dao of Rhetoric, sharp and demanding. It whispers of connection, purpose, persuasion. Why will they care? What will keep them hooked? Shape your creation for them, not just yourself.

  These two Daos war in your narrative dantian, neither yielding. How do you create freely when every step feels shackled by the need to persuade? How do you persuade when your creation demands autonomy?

  The bnk parchment mocks you in its emptiness.

  “You’re overthinking it.”

  The dry, smug voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. You gnce up, scowling. There he is: the mysterious figure cloaked in book-page robes, his face still obscured by that ridiculous veil. His smirk is audible, even if his face isn’t visible.

  “You again,” you grumble. “What do you want?”

  He steps closer, movements quieter than an ellipsis. “The better question is, what do you want? You’ve been stewing in your own abstractions for an hour. Honestly, it’s a miracle your head hasn’t popped.”

  “I want to write,” you snap. “I just…” You gesture at the parchment, helpless. “I can’t.”

  He chuckles, the kind of ugh designed to make you want to throw something. “Ah, the cssic writer’s dilemma. Two Daos, one mind. Creation and persuasion pulling you apart like a badly-written love triangle.”

  You gre, but he’s unbothered. Of course he is.

  “We build these Daos to understand storytelling,” he says, his tone shifting from smug to almost gentle. “They’re tools, frameworks—nothing more. Full mastery? That’s the carrot on the stick. You’ll never ‘get it all.’ That’s not the point.”

  He crouches beside you, oddly grounding now. “The point is to let the Dao guide your hand, not chain it down.”

  Your grip on the quill tightens, his words threading through you like ink seeping into parchment. The storm inside quiets—not resolved, but banced. The Dao of Worldmaking and the Dao of Rhetoric weren’t adversaries after all. They were partners, their tension the spark that gives creation its meaning.

  “What do you want to write?” he asks again, his tone softer now, almost... patient.

  You hesitate, the answer bubbling up unbidden. “Something they’ll want to read.”

  He nods, approval in his silence. “Good. But not just that. Write something only you can write. Take their tropes, their themes, and twist them into your own shape. Don’t write to appease—write to connect. They don’t need your world. They need you.”

  You gnce at the parchment. This time, your hand is steady. The urge to write feels... different. Not a compulsion, but a purpose. The tension between creation and persuasion isn’t a problem to solve; it’s a current to ride.

  The quill meets the page, and the words come. Imperfect. Raw. Alive. They pour out, not as a grand pronouncement or airtight argument, but as an invitation to step into your world.

  The figure straightens, that maddening smirk back in his voice. “There you go. Now, don’t stop.”

  You barely register him disappearing into the bazaar’s chaos, the din fading to white noise as your focus sharpens on the page. For the first time since you ascended, the Webnovel Realm vanishes, leaving only you, the parchment, and the story that demands to be told.

  EpilogueIn the Webnovel Realm, days blur together, time a chaotic rhythm of ideas: bursts of inspiration, long silences, and the maddening waltz of hope and despair. You’ve lost track of when you st spoke with the mysterious figure. Long enough, at least, for the chaos in your mind to settle, for the warring Daos of Worldmaking and Rhetoric to call an uneasy truce.

  The story that emerges isn’t grand or revolutionary. It doesn’t scream its brilliance or pretend to redefine genres. It’s just a story—quiet, unassuming—about a wanderer lost in infinite tales, searching for meaning.

  It’s no magnum opus, no dazzling decration of literary dominance like the one you once funted at the bazaar. This story is softer, humbler. It unfolds like a conversation, a gentle dialogue with whoever might stumble across it. As the final words take shape, an unfamiliar feeling stirs—peace.

  You bind the story into a pin book. The cover is modest, though you can’t resist a touch of fir: the title shimmers faintly, catching the eye without screaming for attention. Compared to the garish, glowing manuscripts cluttering market stalls, it feels… right.

  For the first time since you entered the Webnovel Realm, you feel ready.

  The marketpce hums with narrative Qi, alive with the relentless energy of creation. Immortals bellow their pitches, stalls overflowing with books that gleam, shimmer, or vibrate with untold promises.

  You set up your humble stall at the chaotic bazaar’s center. The book rests on dispy, its quiet elegance a stark contrast to the gaudy spectacles around it.

  This time, there’s no bellowing, no procmations of brilliance. You simply stand, patient, letting the book speak for itself.

  At first, no one stops. Immortals breeze past, their gazes skimming your stall without a flicker of interest. Still, you hold your ground. Persuasion, you’ve learned, isn’t forceful; it’s an invitation.

  Eventually, someone pauses—a woman with emerald hair shimmering like sunlight through leaves. She picks up the book, studies it, and begins to read.

  Your heart pounds, each moment taut with anticipation. Will she sneer? Toss it aside? Deliver the biting critiques you’ve heard before?

  She doesn’t. She reads.

  When she finishes, she sets the book down with a small, sincere smile. “Not bad,” she says, her tone light but genuine.

  Relief washes over you. Not bad. It’s not glowing praise, but it’s honest—and that’s more than enough.

  More immortals gather, drawn by either curiosity or the quiet confidence of your stall. They leaf through the book. Some linger, others skim.

  They ugh—not at you, but at your jokes.They sneer—not at you, but at your vilins.

  Most leave with a look of quiet satisfaction, as if they’ve stumbled upon something they didn’t know they needed.

  Then, one immortal steps forward—a young man, oddly earnest in this world of jaded souls. His pin robes and eager energy stand out like fresh ink on an ancient page. He reads the book cover to cover, his eyes alight as he finishes.

  “This is… great. Simple, but it speaks to something. Thank you.”

  His words, pin as they are, feel heavier than gilded praise. You nod, humbled, and murmur, “Thank you.”

  As he walks away, clutching the book like a treasure, a strange realization settles over you: satisfaction. Real, unadulterated satisfaction. For the first time since ascending to the Webnovel Realm, you don’t feel the need to prove yourself. The story has connected. It’s enough.

  You lean back, a quiet smile pulling at your lips as the market churns on, indifferent to your small triumph. And that’s fine. You’ve found your pce in it—small, fleeting, but yours.

  Unseen, a shadowed figure watches, his veiled face unreadable. A breeze stirs the edge of his robe, the fabric rustling like old parchment.

  “Another one becomes their own person,” he murmurs, his voice as faint as a closing chapter.

  He eyes the book on your stall, head tilting, contemptive. “What can be shown cannot be said. And yet, we try. Always, we try.”

  His words drift, unnoticed, his presence slipping through the cracks of awareness like sand through a sieve. He is ephemeral, a character who knows his role is ending.

  “That fool believes in Narrative Immortality,” he mutters, almost wistful. “But what is it, if not writing in defiance of the void? A nothing that serves as well as a something about which nothing can be said.”

  He raises a hand, watching it dissolve into the breeze. “The meaning of a word is its use in nguage. The limits of my nguage mean the limits of my world.”

  His form scatters like dust, leaving no trace.

  You don’t notice. You’re too focused on the moment—the immortals, the stories, the quiet satisfaction filling the gaps where ambition used to gnaw.

  The Webnovel Realm hums around you, vast and indifferent, its infinite stories spinning endlessly. Yours is just one among countless others.

  But for now, it’s enough. Isn’t that why you’re here?