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Naj Palette

Ethereal Blue

What if your best friend were a ghost-and your soulmate? Buchi never imagined his scholarship to a prestigious Korean school would come with invisible princes, ancient curses, and dangerous rivals. As the only one who can see Min Soo, a Korean prince cursed to walk the earth unseen, Buchi becomes his lifeline to hope. Jealous students, power-hungry sponsors, and dark supernatural forces threaten to tear their connection apart. Will Buchi rise above the odds to break the curse, or will love be lost in the shadows of time? Buchi-egeun joheun hakgyo-e iss-eo-neun scholarship-eul jwahae, geu-eun gil-eseo an-bo-in-eun wang-ja-reul mann-a-seo, gil-eseo an-bo-in-eun ma-eum-eul mann-a-seo, Buchi-eun geu-ui ma-eum-eul bich-eo-neun sa-gwa-reul jwahae. , , , . Buchi-wa Min Soo-eun geu-deul-ui ma-eum-eul kkae-wo-jwoya hal su iss-eoyo. Geu-deul-eun eotteoke hae, Min Soo-eui jo-geum-eul kkae-wo-jwoya ha-geoyo? ########### "Guy why you dey look me like that?" His voice was steady, but the flicker of confusion and heat in his eyes made my chest tighten. At first he didn't say anything until l asked again but in korean (Neo-neun wae naege ireol geoseul hae-yo?) - "Why are you looking at me like that?" (Jeoneun aniya)"I’m not," I lied, though my gaze refused to move from the water sliding down his neck, tracing the hard lines of his chest before disappearing beneath the towel. (Eotteoke geurae?) " Huh! Really?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. ("Neo-neun naege gyeoljeong-gwaui gwaje-cheoreom bolleo issna-yo) "Because you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of forbidden fruit." I swallowed hard, cursing the way my breath hitched. He wasn’t wrong. Something about him—his presence, his confidence, the way he stood there dripping wet like he didn’t have a care in the world—had me unraveling. ("Neo-neun ban-naj-eo iss-eoyo.") "You’re the one standing half-naked," I shot back, though the words lacked bite. ("Mwo neo-neun mweo-rae ganeun-ga?") "What do you expect?" He laughed, the sound deep and rich, like the rumble of a storm. "I didn’t expect you to be so easy to distract." ("Neo-neun joheun geol al-a-isseo.") ("Joheun geol an-iya.") "Distract? I’m not distracted." My words came out too quick, too defensive. He stepped closer, his damp hair falling across his forehead, and for a moment, the space between us felt electric. "Then wati dey make you dey blush?" I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because he was right—I was blushing, my pulse racing, my thoughts a mess. And then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, leaving nothing but the memory of his smirk and the ache in my chest that told me this wasn’t over. --- Can you survive the pull of gravity when it’s not just the black hole that’s consuming you—but him? Dive into ETHEREAL BLUE, a tale of cursed ghosts, forbidden connections, and the kind of chemistry that stops time itself.
delyonworld · 2.9K Views

egg and I .... winning the heart

1946, Betty McDonald’s whimsical autobiography was as popular as baked beans; now it’s almost completely forgotten, but, tellingly, still in print. Alas, after an hour or two with The Egg & I, it was excruciatingly obvious that Betty McDonald’s book is not a classic. On some weeks, there might be as many as five competing challenges for each nonfiction slot, but rarely as straightforward as this. Literary classics cluster on the north face of Parnassus. For this vertiginous terrain there are different sherpas. Italo Calvino says that a classic is “a book that has never finished what it wants to say”. Ezra Pound identifies “a certain eternal and irresponsible freshness”; TS Eliot, much more astringent, observed in The Sacred Wood that “no modern language can hope to produce a classic, in the sense I have called Virgil a classic”. Alan Bennett wryly notes: “Definition of a classic: a book everyone is assumed to have read and often thinks they have.” Among nonfiction classics, the most treacherous category is that creature beloved of publishers – “the contemporary classic”. A second cousin to that notorious impostor is the “instant classic”. Such books will have been judged by slippery criteria: popular and literary critical fashion, a changing marketplace and new technology, bestseller lists and hype. In the past 100 years, a familiar palette of blurbish adjectives has given shape and colour to a moving target: provocative, outrageous, prophetic, groundbreaking, funny, disturbing, revolutionary, moving, inspiring, life-changing, subversive… a portrait of sir walter raleigh wearing a brocaded and beaded doublet The 100 best nonfiction books: No 99 – The History of the World by Walter Raleigh (1614) Read more This list raises another troubling question: is nonfiction “the new fiction”? There are some good writers who will argue that this is so, but I believe that nonfiction (which can sometimes successfully bring together many genres) is not, strictly speaking, a genre of its own. Creatively – yes – using narrative techniques borrowed from fiction, it’s possible to give certain kinds of nonfiction the aura of a distinct new genre. Yet, at the end of the day, “nonfiction” fractures into time-hallowed categories such as philosophy, memoir, history, reportage and poetry (see below), etc. This is particularly true of “nonfiction classics” from the 18th and 19th centuries, titles such as A Treatise of Human Nature by David Hume or On Liberty by JS Mill. By that yardstick, a recent classic will be quite distinct, chiefly because its literary and cultural milieu is so different
Zabi_Khan_1535 · 2K Views

Awaken Demon Lord Valerian

"I am Valerian Erebus Jata and I am the progenitor of all Demons. The First vampire or Origin, if that suits more to your taste. But, believe it or not, in another life I was a human. Yes, human. Sometimes that life feels like a distant dream now. In numerous eons that have made up my life, you are only one of the two beings that I have told this. You should feel honoured. There are very few things that I have not seen. No joy I have not felt. Very few pains I have not experienced or inflicted and even fewer atrocities that I have not committed. I have ruled over a few empires that spanned continents and destroyed many more than you can imagine. Why? The answer is unfairly simple. After so much time, one's sense of ethics and morality slowly gets eroded and a sense of arrogance and self importance begins to seep into your very soul. Yet after a lot more time, you begin to have regrets. See different paths but by then, you have already created oceans of steaming blood and mountains of fresh corpses. I fear no one's vengeance. Most who dared go against me have already met their Maker and their Maker dares not step up to harass me. I need pay no penance. What I did was for my survival and the survival of those I care for. All I want is a peaceful immortal life but there are pests like you that come out of the wood work and cause me to fall back on old habits. I really enjoyed this chat but I have a dinner with my children and they hate it when their Father is late. You, swine, thankfully, are not on the menu. My palette is quite sensitive so you must die now, like the little pig you are." ***** Daily updates but one chapter a day. For three chapter comments = Shoutout in author's thoughts For three power stones = One extra chapter [Daily limit] For a review or feedback = a shoutout and two extra chapters ENJOY!
Black_Sage · 138.7K Views

The Solomon's Legacy in DxD

n the foreground, Alex Carter stands resolute, a determined expression on his face. He wears a typical high school uniform, but his hands are adorned with the ornate, glowing rings of Solomon. His stance is confident, with one hand raised, emanating a golden light that hints at his newfound magical abilities. Behind him, the world is divided into two contrasting halves. On one side, the tranquil, modern setting of Kuoh Academy is visible, with its familiar school buildings and peaceful surroundings. On the other side, an ethereal landscape unfolds, filled with swirling magical energies, ancient runes, and shadowy figures representing the demonic forces he will face. Hovering above Alex, the spectral image of Solomon can be seen, his regal robes flowing and eyes glowing with wisdom. Solomon's presence is both protective and foreboding, symbolizing the immense legacy and power that Alex has inherited. In the background, key characters from both the DxD and Fate universes are subtly integrated into the design, hinting at the epic crossover. Rias Gremory and Issei Hyoudou from DxD stand ready, their expressions fierce and determined, while hints of the Fate series' magical elements are woven into the mystical half of the background. The title, "The Solomon's Legacy in DxD," is prominently displayed at the top, with a subtitle below: "The Inheritor's Journey Begins." The overall color palette combines the mystical golds and deep blues, creating a sense of both magic and impending conflict.
The_Trailer_Master · 12.9K Views

The Color of Unrequited Love

The air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and blooming lilacs, a symphony of smells that always heralded spring in Eldridge. But for Julian, the season brought a different kind of bloom – a painful one that bloomed within his heart, a love unrequited and achingly beautiful. He stood at his easel, brush poised above the canvas, but the vibrant hues of his palette seemed to pale in comparison to the vibrant, impossible love he held for Clara. Her laughter, like the tinkling of wind chimes, echoed in his mind, a melody that haunted his every waking moment. He had watched her, from afar, as she blossomed under the warmth of David's affection, their laughter intertwining like the branches of the ancient oak that stood sentinel over the town square. He had seen the way David's eyes held her captive, the way he made her smile with a tenderness that Julian could only dream of. The wedding was approaching, a whirlwind of white lace and twinkling lights, a celebration that felt like a cruel mockery of his own silent love. He had tried to paint his feelings, to capture the bittersweet ache in his soul, but the colors seemed to blur, to bleed into each other, mirroring the turmoil within. One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the town, Julian found himself standing beneath the very cherry tree where he had first confessed his love to Clara. The petals, like delicate snowflakes, drifted down around him, a silent reminder of the fleeting nature of his dreams. He could almost hear her voice, soft and sweet, whispering, "Julian, you are my friend, my anchor. But David... he is my future." The words echoed in his heart, a chilling reminder of the chasm that separated them. He closed his eyes, the scent of cherry blossoms heavy in the air, a bittersweet fragrance that mirrored his own love – beautiful, yet ultimately destined to fade.
Rain_Althea · 2.7K Views

Reality Apocalyptic "Revenge"

Like a man teetering on the razor's edge, his body a palette for excruciating self-inflicted torment, he danced with a desperate and unwavering determination. Bound by the thinnest thread of life, his very existence hung in precarious balance, entwined with the pages of a macabre tale of blood-soaked horror. Every step he took sent waves of searing agony through his being, yet he pressed on, propelled by a raw and volatile concoction of fear and indomitable resilience. His heart, burdened by the weight of an unfathomable destiny, throbbed in anguished symphony, its rhythm mirroring a haunting melody that echoed his unwavering resolve. In this cruel performance, his emotions weaved a tapestry of unrelenting anguish and unwavering determination, painting a vivid portrait of a man left with no choice but to forge ahead. For his life and fate were inextricably intertwined, suspended by that single fragile string, and he would not yield to the forces that conspired against him. With each agonizing step, he faced the tempestuous tempos of pain, his spirit shattering and mending itself repeatedly, like a delicate stained-glass window caught in the eye of a raging storm. His soul bled with the intensity of his struggle, etching scars upon scars, each telling a story of his endurance, of his defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Tears welled in his eyes, not solely from the physical torment, but from the emotional depths that threatened to consume him. The tendrils of despair clawed at his resolve, whispering doubts and tempting surrender. Yet, like a flame flickering amidst darkness, he clung to that fragile strand of hope, fanning it into an inferno that fueled his determination to survive. In his tortured existence, he became a testament to the indomitability of the human spirit, a warrior who battled not only the demons within but the relentless tides of fate. Through the ebb and flow of excruciating agony, he transcended his mortal limits, reaching a realm where pain and purpose intertwined, birthing a strength he never knew he possessed. And so, he danced, his body trembling with every step, his face a mask of both suffering and defiance. In the depths of his anguish, he found solace in the knowledge that his struggle was not in vain. For within his tormented soul, he held the power to redefine his destiny, to reshape the very fabric of his existence. With each torturous movement, he dared to believe that the symphony of pain that played within him would one day yield to a symphony of triumph. And as he continued to dance on that perilous edge, his heart bleeding with the weight of his journey, he became an embodiment of the human spirit, an inspiration to all who witnessed his relentless battle against the odds. For in his relentless pursuit of life, he defied the darkness that threatened to consume him, and in his unwavering determination, he etched an indelible mark upon the annals of human resilience.
CoffeMan · 779 Views

The death of a flower

Railcrossing. The cars on either side are waiting for the train. High speed train will come at any moment. Linemen have lowered obstacles on both sides of the level crossing. But no one frowned at that. At the risk of his life, he is crossing like that. This scene is always seen in almost all the rail crossings of the capital. Mr. Anis is sitting in the car. It is very hot. This summer he is wearing a cute suit again. The driver stopped the car and lit a cigarette. The smell of cigarettes is taking his breath away. Mr. Anis wants to get the driver out of the car by the collar and slap him hard Maybe even a little peace could be found. But the problem is, drivers can't say a word now. He left the job as soon as he was told. Those who can't go, they say for two days in a row, sir, the car is broken, it's broken. It may take at least tens of thousands to survive. Unbearably hot! Nah, not being tolerated anymore. Due to the low vegetation, the level of scorching heat is higher in urban areas. Mr. Anis sometimes thinks that if he ever becomes a minister of the country, he will fill the city with trees. Two consecutive trees 7 People in the shade of trees will stand and wait for the bus. What a beautiful sight! It's good to think about all this. It started raining. It started to rain. It's ten minutes. There is no news of the train coming. A girl is walking. Basket of roses in hand. Raindrops are falling on rose petals. The flowers are smiling. Slowly becoming alive. The girl is standing in front of the car window saying something. No one is buying her flowers. The girl is coming forward with the shadow of Maya's twilight on her sad face. Walking randomly. If one foot touches the other, it may fall to the ground. The speed at which the girl was walking did not change. He is trying hard to survive with the drizzle on his head. It has become very wet. 'Sir took a flower. Only ten teha. ' 'What's your name?' 'Flowers.' 'Your name is also a flower?' 'Yes, sir. Giya Moshammat Phulphulia is a good name. Tay Amma caresses and burns flowers. ' 'How many flowers have you sold all day?' 'Eyes are not good. Rainy days. There is no trade. Theika Mela fever-cold last night. It seems a little less, so I went out with flowers. ' 'Won't the wet fever increase in this rain?' 'Even if the fever increases, it is good. Stay at home I don't want to eat anything. It feels so comfortable, so hunger is pressing. This is a palette of flowers. There was no need to feed the lost days. ' 'How many flowers are in your basket?' '12 flowers. 120 teha. If you take it all, give it to Duida for free. ' 'Keep this 500, how?' Fulphulia is staring. Blind fish sight. He has never seen such an incident. This is the first time he saw a 500 rupees note. 'Where do you live?' 'Sir, isn't there a big slum near Malibagh railway gate? That's where Thahi is. ' No rain. Wet wet air is coming from far away. Fulphulia's face has become brighter. What a sweet look of the girl! Long eyelids, shady eyes. Those eyes are smiling all the time. Her curly hair is also flying in the wind. The train is coming forward with a long whistle. Fulphulia is looking at the 500 rupees note upside down. Seeing the train crossing the line. The melody of the lineman's flute, the terrible whistle of the train he can't hear. Maybe you will never hear again. * Author: saidul Robin
Saidul_Robin_8408 · 2.2K Views
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