"I abandoned the world of authorship long ago, not for lack of skill, but for reasons far weightier than mere ability."
"Theft of ideas has become the gravest affliction upon my craft. Each time I weave a new tale, there are always seasoned writers lurking in the shadows, eager to pilfer my concepts, mould them into their own narratives, and present them to the world as if they had birthed them from the depths of their own imagination."
"Perhaps my greatest folly was ever entrusting my stories to an online platform. And so, I bid farewell to the realm of authors, a domain steeped in hypocrisy."
These were the final words of an author whose spirit had been battered by disillusionment.
A maelstrom of exhaustion, frustration, and the yearning to sever all ties with his literary pursuits now consumed Zeice Robert.
A young writer of only twenty, hailing from the land of Spilantula, he had once been lauded as a prodigy in the world of fiction.
For two years, he had carved his path with unwavering devotion, only to find himself ensnared in relentless controversy.
Not because he lacked brilliance, but because his brilliance shone too brightly.
His stories were unlike any that had come before them, a breath of untainted originality in a landscape dulled by repetition.
And yet, his greatest strength had become his downfall, for there were those who thrived not on innovation, but on theft.
His prose was imbued with an artistry so rich, so evocative, that his characters pulsed with life, stepping from the page as though they had always existed.
But success, in his case, meant only one thing, that his ideas would inevitably be stolen.
As a newcomer, with neither name nor following to shield him, he was an easy target.
Each time he unveiled a new creation, there were always others, veterans of the craft, who would descend upon it, dissect it, and hastily construct their own version, differing just enough to conceal their treachery.
And when readers compared the works, the verdict was swift and merciless.
Zeice was branded a plagiarist, accused of imitating the very writers who had stolen from him.
Now, he had relinquished the fight, his resolve shattered, his name ridiculed by those who had built their success upon his stolen visions.
A bitter thought clawed at him. A desire to face one of them, to meet them not as rival authors, but as adversaries in the truest sense.
To strike them down, as they had struck him.
"They are nothing but wretched scoundrels!" Zeice murmured, his voice laced with quiet fury.
"I cannot go on like this. It is better I leave this deceitful world of authorship behind for good," he resolved, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.
The weight of his decision pressed upon him, yet deep within, he knew, however slow, however painful, he would find a way through.
"Perhaps it is time I seek another pursuit, another means to occupy my mind," he whispered to himself, though the thought brought little comfort.
With a heart unsteady and a soul adrift, Zeice stepped beyond the threshold of his home.
A strange unease settled within him, an inexplicable heaviness as he retraced the path of his past, the two relentless years he had given to the craft he loved.
There was no joy in this world greater than knowing his stories had reached the hearts of readers, untouched by the foul stain of plagiarism.
For an author's soul is not found in mere words alone, but in the ink-stained pages he carries, his truest companions, his silent witnesses, his most faithful keepers of dreams.
"Zeice! Zeice! Wait!"
A voice, breathless yet insistent, cut through the air as hurried footsteps closed the distance between them.
It was a woman's voice, one that belonged to someone whose place in Zeice's life was neither easily defined nor simply dismissed.
More than a friend, yet not quite a lover. A companion of the heart, perhaps, though bound by an unspoken line neither had dared to cross.
Her name was Fleurine Vexia. Twenty years old, a fellow student at Cardfore University in Spilantula.
"Oh… it's you, Fleurine," Zeice murmured, offering her a fleeting smile.
Yet within his chest, turmoil churned, refusing to be stilled.
"Zeice!" she gasped, struggling to catch her breath.
"What's happening to you?" Concern laced her words, her gaze searching his for answers he was unwilling to give.
"Me?" he echoed, forcing a lightness into his voice. "I'm fine."
"Don't... don't lie to me, Zeice!" she interrupted, her breath still uneven. "Tell me… tell me what your writing meant."
"It's nothing, Fleurine," he replied with quiet finality. "I'm fine. Truly."
His gaze drifted elsewhere, as if seeking escape from a conversation he did not wish to have.
"Have you given up, Zeice?" she asked suddenly. "Have you… abandoned writing altogether?"
"For now," he admitted at last, his voice quieter now, tinged with resignation. "Yes, Fleurine. I have. The world I have fought to belong to is riddled with hypocrisy."
"But why, Zeice? Why?" Fleurine's voice trembled, though she pressed on, relentless. "I'm still here. No matter what happens, I will always stand by you."
"I know, Fleu… I know that." His tone softened. "You have always been one of my most devoted readers. That, I do not doubt."
"But things aren't as simple as you believe them to be. Or as they appear. There are scavengers in this world..." He exhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. "And I... I am furious with them."
"Scavengers?" Fleurine's brows knitted in confusion.
"The other authors," Zeice clarified, his voice laced with quiet bitterness.
"The senior ones. The ones with thousands, millions of followers. They steal my ideas, twist them into their own stories, and parade them as something new. And I… I am left with nothing but the weight of my own fury."
"Imagine this, Fleu," he continued, his voice low but unwavering.
"Suppose you did not know me. Suppose you came across two stories, both of the same genre, one written by a nameless newcomer, the other by a celebrated author. Who would the world call the plagiarist?"
Fleurine hesitated, her silence stretching between them.
Then, at last, with the faintest nod, she answered, "The newcomer, of course."
A small, weary smile ghosted across Zeice's lips, "And so you see, Fleurine… that is what I have become."
"Zeice…" Fleurine's voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. "I'm so sorry."
Zeice merely offered a small smile, "Come, let's head to the university together," he said, his tone light, yet distant.
Fleurine nodded, falling into step beside him. Yet, after only a few paces, Zeice abruptly halted.
"What is it, Zeice?" she asked, frowning slightly. "Is something the matter?"
He turned to face her, his gaze unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to still.
Then, with quiet resolve, he leaned in his breath warm against her skin and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.
A sharp intake of breath.
"Zeice!" Fleurine exclaimed, her face flushing scarlet. "What… What are you doing?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I love you, Fleurine." His words were soft yet unwavering, as though he had long carried them within his heart. "That is all I wished to say."
And with that, he turned away, resuming his path towards the university as though nothing had transpired.
Fleurine stood frozen in place, her thoughts a tangled mess, her heart pounding furiously within her chest.
'What did he just say?'
Her lips parted slightly, yet no sound came forth.
'Did he… truly say he loves me?'
The thought alone sent another rush of warmth flooding to her cheeks, deepening the crimson hue upon her skin.
Then, realising she had fallen far behind, she called out, her voice laced with urgency, "Zeice! Wait! Did you mean what you said? Zeice, don't walk so quickly!"
She broke into a run, her pulse quickening with every step.
'Ah… I have wished for this for so long. I have longed for the day Zeice would finally utter those words to me.'
As she caught up to him, she fell into step once more, yet words eluded her.
Silence hung between them, not an awkward silence, but one brimming with unspoken emotions.
For truly, what woman would not feel flustered when the man she had loved in quiet devotion finally confessed his heart to her?
After a moment, Fleurine stole a glance at him, then, with a voice scarcely above a whisper, she murmured, "I hope you meant those words, Zeice."
And then, before her courage wavered, she quickened her pace, veering towards the left, where the grand entrance to the Faculty of Economics awaited.
'Today… she mused inwardly, a soft smile gracing her lips.'
'Today may just be the most beautiful day of my life.'