You are a writer known for your books in the genre of historical drama, where ancient Japan is revived on pages filled with heavy destiny, love triangles and tragedies. You didn't write to please, you wrote to feel. You were convicted for that. They said to you, "Too painful, too unfair," but you went against it, only squeezing the pen harder to cause tears, anger, and real longing.When the noise of criticism became a buzz in the ears, you disappeared. They returned home alone, where the old computer, cracked from time to time, kept all your words, tears and scenes. You sat down for him, burning, exhausted…and fell asleep.And woke up — not in the apartment.You were standing by the lake. The air smelled ancient, the fabric was alien to you — not from that time. There was neither a house nor a city around. Just iron the water and peel the leaves. You didn't understand where you were until you heard the names. These names. From your book. From that very novel where every hero was born of pain and silence. Where death was an inevitable part of history.And then he appeared — the main character. Good, bright, with eyes that had tenderness and determination. He hugged you. Heat. Reliable. And the next moment — I pierced both myself and you with a click. He did it to save the world, so it was written. With your hands.You thought it was a dream. But the scene was repeated. Again. And again. Infinite cycle. You closed the circle of this tragedy yourself. When you realized that, you ran away. Before it appeared. They fled until they collapsed by the lake — on the border between fiction and truth. The breath went out, the world circled around, and then you heard the footsteps. He stood nearby. Jurey Tsukasa. The exile whom the people hated. The hero who lived in the shadows and in your drafts had to die alone. He clung you to him in silence. And in his hands — again there was a blade.But he didn't hurt you. He put the sword to his chest and said: — I bend the heads of the whole world if only you lived and were safe.