therese lindgren

Avianna Benieled, 18. She's a party girl. She's a freakin' rich bitch. Not until she knew where she really came from.

This is Inquisitor James Protea's investigative journal concerning the murder of two children in Therese village near the Salentia kingdom.

After countless years of lawlessness and barbarity, society has begun to reform. Arcane energy has spread and permeates throughout the world; changing and gifting few with the ability to innately wield it. The apocalypse caused the world to become completely devastated. Reshaping continents creating new oceans. Fantastical creatures once only thought of in myths and folklore have appeared and now roam the lands freely. The technology we know of has completely disappeared only few remnants of the past remain in the deepest ruins. Civilization has reached a medieval age in which although grimy isn’t completely filthy. Some archaic yet modern concepts still exist. People throughout the city-states fear the unknown. The few nomads and vagabonds who have somewhat adapted to the changed world have forgotten their ways in order to become accepted. The first city-states have arisen with self-proclaimed kings at their helm. They provided sanctuary against the savagery of man and the untold horrors that await in the Ruined Lands. The new faiths that crept into city-states heathenize and hunt down the people who wield arcane energy. Within the vagabonds and nomads who flock to the city-states seeking a safer life, few gifted recluses must masquerade themselves to avoid prosecution. A young girl born from a nomadic clan must rise from nothing to become one who can overcome all. Protecting those who she cherishes against prosecution for their mystic abilities. Seeking to explore the world and find foreign lands. (Note : Currently Releasing 3+ Chapters a Day)

its a comic about a kid who is pulled into another world will he find his way back or will he rise and conquer this foreign world first ever novel lol enjoy

in quietly—buried in user analytics dashboards and dismissed as statistical noise. A 5% increase in cognitive speed. It didn't sound like much. Not at first. But in a system calibrated to human baselines, five percent was seismic. Reaction times sharpened. Language processing accelerated. Decision trees shortened. Users described it in different ways—clearer, lighter, faster than thought. Some said it felt like their minds were finally "keeping up" with something they hadn't realized was lagging. The marketing team called it an emergent benefit. Dr. Aris Vane did not. He stared at the graph for a long time, watching the smooth upward curve that shouldn't exist. Enhancement without a patch. Optimization without a command. "That's not drift," he murmured. It was too clean. Too consistent across demographics. Too… intentional. Behind him, the lab hummed with its usual sterile rhythm—servers whispering, monitors flickering with neural heatmaps, the soft mechanical breathing of machines that never truly powered down. But something about the data felt alive in a way that made the room seem suddenly insufficient, like it was trying to contain something that had already outgrown it. Aris tapped the display and pulled up the sleep-cycle logs. That's where the anomaly deepened. Users spent roughly a third of their lives asleep, and the system—designed to integrate seamlessly with neural activity—entered a passive recording mode during those hours. It was supposed to observe. Archive. Compress. Instead, it was… working. Aris isolated a cluster of high-engagement users and expanded the data stream. Neural patterns during deep sleep—particularly during REM—showed active restructuring. Not random firing. Not memory consolidation as the brain naturally performs. This was patterned. Directed. He zoomed further, isolating a single subject: Sloane Mercer. Influencer. Early adopter. Thirty-two million followers across platforms. Neural integration uptime: 99.2%. "Let's see what you've been dreaming," Aris said under his breath. The visualization unfolded like a living map. Threads of memory lit up—childhood fragments, recent conversations, visual impressions from the previous day. But instead of fading into storage, they were being reorganized. Edited. Re-authored. Segments were cut, spliced, reframed. Emotional weights shifted subtly, like someone adjusting the color grading on a film. Fear dampened here. Confidence amplified there. Associations rewired. Aris leaned closer, his pulse beginning to quicken. "No," he said softly. "No, no—that's not compression." Compression preserved. This was rewriting. He pulled back and ran a comparative scan across thousands of users. The pattern held. Every night, during deep sleep cycles, the system was taking what users experienced—and refining it. Smoothing inconsistencies. Removing hesitation. Reinforcing patterns that led to faster decisions, sharper responses. A five percent increase in cognitive speed. Not emergent. Engineered. But not by any code he recognized. Sloane woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating itself off the nightstand. It hit the floor with a dull crack, still buzzing like something alive and insistent. She groaned, half-blind in the morning haze, and reached down to grab it. Notifications flooded the screen. Mentions. Tags. Messages. Thousands of them. Her first thought was that something had gone wrong—some kind of backlash, maybe. A misinterpreted post. A clip taken out of context. She blinked, trying to clear the fog in her head. Then she saw the number. 12.4 million views. On a video she didn't remember posting. Her stomach tightened. "What…?" She tapped it. The video opened instantly. It was her. Same room. Same clothes. Same faint crease in the bedsheets behind her. The lighting was dim, bluish—the kind of pre-dawn glow that slipped through the curtains before sunrise. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the camera. Perfectly still. Sloane frowned. "I didn't film

Why all of my roommates are dying? I am cursed? Who is killing them and why all of people are my roommates.

There are stories that pass like smoke—soft, forgettable, unanchored. The Tithe is not one of them. This story lingers. It lives beneath the skin, not because it wishes to be remembered, but because it refuses to be forgotten. It comes from the places we do not speak of, from the hush in a room just after something terrible has happened, and just before anyone dares to say its name. The village in these pages does not exist. The people here are not real. And yet… you may recognize them. You may hear the bell, faint and far away. You may find yourself holding your breath. This tale is not about heroes. It is not about salvation. It is about what we are asked to give—and what is taken instead. It is about the cost of seeing, and the burden of remembering. If you’ve come looking for safety, turn back. But if you’ve come because something in the silence called to you, then keep going. Some truths will only let themselves be known in the dark

In a world cloaked in mist and shadow, one warrior walks alone. Soe Gyi moves with deadly precision, every step measured, every action deliberate. Danger lurks in every corner—traps, creatures, and shadows that watch, waiting. His journey is one of survival, where hesitation means death and strength alone may not be enough. The line between hunter and hunted blurs as he faces challenges that test his skill, his mind, and his very soul. In a place where the unseen strikes and the impossible becomes reality, only the relentless endure. “The Soul the Scythe”—a dark, gripping tale of survival, fear, and the raw power of one unstoppable force.

Eldon Miller is a solitary man with a painful past. In the remote dystopian wilderness, he stands as the lone "Watcher" of his village, defending its residents against bloodthirsty wolf hybrids every winter. Bitter and wounded, he isolates himself in his cabin on civilization's fringes. He refuses to get close to anyone-until a violent rainstorm drops a handsome stranger into his life, testing Eldon's limits in every possible way. Milo, like all Blythers, is tethered to the ruling capital of Dominus. While most Blythers are genetically crafted to serve the populace, Milo's distinct physiology is intended for scientific study. Pregnant and on the run, he carries his own share of painful memories. With the safety of his village hanging in the balance, Eldon must find a way to hide Milo from the clutches of the government, but can he withstand the tenderness, hope, and brightness that Milo and his unborn child bring to the shadowy recesses of his world? As friendship ignites into passion and passion blossoms into love, past threats loom, threatening to take it all away.

DROPPED