“This time,” I looked down at the yellowed handwritten book, my fingers brushing over the familiar script, “why don’t I tell the story?”

  Nox paused briefly, then smiled gently. “Alright. I’ll listen carefully.”

  I looked at the book, lightly wiping the corner of my eye and forcing a relaxed smile. “So, what’s the theme this time?”

  “The Ordinary King.” He remained his calm and gentle self.

  “Same old style,” I teased him for a bit but said no more. I opened the book—one that I had spent over decades learning to read, written in the unique language co-created by Nox and Luma, a language found nowhere else in the world.

  I began to read.

  “His name was Oris.”

  A child born in an authoritarian state. Every day, people around him disappeared—neighbors, relatives, friends... taken away, never to return.

  No one asked. No one dared.

  Until one day, Oris was surrounded by soldiers. His thin, delicate appearance made their eyes gleam with greed. Tearing, humiliation, violence... he struggled, but only received blows from rifle butts and was thrown into the dust.

  At that very moment—

  The soldiers froze.

  As if invisible hands had gripped their throats, their bodies stiffened, eyes vacant. Oris recognized that look—it was fear of death. Every person who had been taken had worn that expression.

  He followed their gaze—to the end of the alley, where a man and a woman stood silently.

  I paused and looked at Nox. He simply watched me gently, without a word. I smiled slightly and continued reading.

  The man walked to Oris’s ear and asked softly, “Do you want them dead?”

  Having just survived hell, Oris didn’t hesitate. He nodded.

  In an instant, all the soldiers collapsed, a red dot appearing on each of their foreheads, bleeding slowly. No pain. No screams. Not even a sound.

  The woman tossed something to Oris, and he caught it instinctively. It was a pale blue handgun.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  I glanced at Nox. “That gun—same material as Ekwe’s hammer?”

  Nox nodded but said nothing more.

  “The man said: ‘What are you capable of? Will you overthrow fate, or die in an unknown corner?’ Then they turned and left.”

  Without waiting for Oris’s answer, they disappeared from the alley.

  All that was left—bodies and a weapon.

  I chuckled at Nox. “Pretty twisted sense of humor, huh?”

  Nox didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth carried a trace of helpless amusement.

  From then on, Oris began a revolution. He met many like-minded companions and united the scattered “grains of sand” into a true army. At thirty-five, he personally killed the tyrant. Before the blood of many companions had dried, he was pushed onto the throne by those who remained.

  That night, the man and woman reappeared. As the crowd knelt, they stood silently behind him.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” the man replied. They stood there like shadows, like guardians of the king.

  Ten years passed. Under his rule, the country stagnated. Indecisive and exhausted, he finally understood: overthrowing fate takes only a gun; ruling a nation requires countless weapons.

  Eventually, one of his former comrades raised a gun at him:

  “You are not fit to be king.”

  Oris did not argue. He simply lowered his head. In that moment, he gave up.

  But the man, silent for ten years, finally spoke: “Can you do better?” The new “revolutionary” hesitated.

  He turned to Oris again: “Is that the extent of your robsession?” At some point, the pale blue handgun had returned to Oris’s hand.

  Seeing those familiar words, Nox and I exchanged a smile.

  Oris gripped the gun tightly and repeated the question back to his comrade: “Can you do better?”

  The new revolutionary hesitated again. And the king didn't, he pulled the trigger.

  His comrade fell into a pool of blood.

  After that, he changed.

  No more hesitation. No more mercy. He ruled the country with iron and blood. The people were afraid, but also grateful. The nation grew stronger.

  He sat on his throne and looked back at the man and woman. “A king’s sight allows no threat.” He fired without hesitation.

  The bullets hit precisely, yet they did not fall.

  “Finally found the courage to shoot?” the man asked.

  “Who exactly are you?”

  The man did not answer directly, but countered: “How are you now any different from the one you overthrew?”

  He chuckled, “Of course I’m different. From the moment I set out on this path, my wish has never changed. Whether I’m a revolutionary, a weakling, or a ruthless king, all I’ve ever wanted was to make this country better.”

  The man lowered his head and bowed. “O honored king, the revolutionary is destined to die. But how long can the will of the king last?”

  Oris replied, “I don’t know. But I do know this country will continue to improve.”

  At that moment, the man softly said, “O honored king, your eyes—they’re beautiful now.”

  They bowed and quietly left.

  I gently closed the book and looked up at Nox. “This story... feels like it’s missing a lot.”

  “Yes, it’s the version I transcribed myself,” Nox smiled. “The one Luma and I wrote together is more complete. But I like this one more—because I left parts in it... to be savored.”

  I lowered my head, lost in thought. “So... it’s about the tear between ideals and reality?”

  “It is, and it isn’t,” Nox replied. “Did you see how he dealt with that rift?”

  I fell silent again.

  He said no more, just gently patted my head and walked out. “Good night, Vera.”

  The book lay quietly on the table, untouched.