The Author's Memoir

If there's love, there's hate. But if there's hate, is there any love in it at all?

This is the philosophy that splintered a lonely young boy named Nickan's prideful existence and love into resentment for his grandfather's sky-high success.

Though it was not out of jealousy, it was mostly driven by depression for not being able to outdo his grandfather at his own game.

However, it all ended today as Nickan's grandfather died, setting the score once and for all of him, winning till the end against him.

With a heavy heart, Nickan was walking towards his grandfather's house on foot with seemingly little to no energy, for he couldn't sleep at all after hearing the death of his grandfather that immersed himself in the restlessness of losing for a lifetime with a zero win streak even after all this time of trying.

As the odour of death took over all the surrounding senses of smell, Nickan found himself disgusted for not being able to think about anything but losing every time he tried, which led him to being utterly broke, with his parents savings going to ruin without a comeback.

The only reason he was still up and running was thanks to his grandfather's portion of recurring royalty that further made him bite his lips out of helplessness.

Yet Nickan longed to see his grandfather one last time, for he didn't visit him most often out of sheer shame for not being able to live up to his grandfather's legacy for even once and make him proud, which made him further gnash his teeth out of hatred for himself.

The funeral home's air hung heavy with incense and grief as Nickan made his way through the crowd of mourners. Each step toward his grandfather's coffin felt like trudging through quicksand, his guilt weighing heavier than his formal black suit. The whispers around him grew quieter as he approached, creating an uncomfortable bubble of silence that followed in his wake.

A familiar voice, weathered by age and sharpened by contempt, cut through the somber atmosphere like a knife. "You came but after his death?" A man asked, his gray hair and stern expression a testament to years spent as his grandfather's closest friend and business partner.

Nickan's throat tightened, but he managed to reply, "You know mister Roger, I loved my grandfather. Why bring this up at such a time?" His voice cracked slightly on the word 'loved,' betraying the emotion he struggled to contain.

"You loved him!?" Roger replied, his face reddening with barely contained fury. His hands trembled as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Don't make me spit it out loud. You only knew him for money and came on the seventh day of each month to get a part of his royalty share to live your life that is by all means pathetic." Each word landed like a physical blow, forcing Nickan to take a step backward.

The gathered mourners pretended to be absorbed in their own conversations, but their sideways glances and hushed tones revealed their attention to the unfolding drama. Nickan looked downward, his shoes suddenly becoming the most interesting thing in the room. The polished black leather reflected the overhead lights, distorting them into abstract patterns that matched his jumbled thoughts.

Before leaving with his associates, Roger turned back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh good news—you'll now get the full royalty share starting from today, so show up at your convenience." The words twisted like a knife in Nickan's gut, transforming what should have been good fortune into another reminder of his failures.

As the other mourners filtered out one by one, their footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors, Nickan finally found himself alone with his grandfather's body. The man looked peaceful, almost as if he were sleeping, his features relaxed in a way Nickan had rarely seen in life. "Forgive me," he whispered as tears streamed down his face, the words feeling hollow and insufficient against the weight of years of neglect.

"Pathetic!" someone muttered from behind, the voice just loud enough to ensure Nickan would hear it. He didn't turn to see who it was—it didn't matter. They were right.

Wiping away his tears with his sleeve, Nickan's attention turned to his grandfather's desk, which sat in the corner of the funeral home like a silent sentinel. Various manuscripts were scattered across its surface, some neatly stacked, others spread out as if their author had just stepped away for a moment. These were his grandfather's unpublished works, a testament to a creative mind that never stopped working. Rather than seeing them as potential profit—publishing them under his own name as some might have suggested—Nickan decided to read them for inspiration, hoping to understand the man he'd kept at arm's length for so long.

Among the papers and bound manuscripts, one book particularly caught his eye—a volume that seemed to absorb the light around it. It was bound in pitch-black leather that appeared almost liquid in its darkness, like a pool of ink frozen in time. Silver filigree traced across its cover in patterns that reminded Nickan of ancient constellations, creating an illusion of movement when caught by the light. The spine was cracked and worn in a way that spoke of countless readings, with tiny fissures running through the leather like the lines on an old man's face. The edges of the pages were frayed and yellowed, each mark and imperfection telling its own story of late nights and creative passion. A faint scent of aged paper and something else—something almost mystical—emanated from its pages.

The title, embossed in worn silver lettering that seemed to shimmer with an inner light, read: "Sengoku The Dragon."

As Nickan began reading, the words drew him in like a whirlpool, each page more captivating than the last. His grandfather's prose painted vivid pictures of ancient battles, honor-bound warriors, and mystical creatures that seemed to leap from the page. He lost track of time, completely absorbed in the story—until he discovered the remaining pages were blank, as if the story had been cut off mid-breath. Cursing his grandfather's masterful storytelling that left him wanting more, he carefully placed the book in his messenger bag, determined to take it home.

The drive home passed in a blur of street lights and scattered thoughts. After arriving at his modest apartment, Nickan went through the motions of his evening routine. The hot shower helped wash away some of the day's tension, but couldn't cleanse his mind of the conflicting emotions that churned within. He changed into comfortable clothes and settled onto his worn couch, the air conditioning humming softly in the background like mechanical white noise.

Pen in hand, he attempted to channel his grandfather's creativity, to continue the story where it had left off. But the words wouldn't come. Each attempt felt clumsy and artificial compared to his grandfather's flowing prose. The blank pages seemed to mock him, highlighting the vast gulf between his abilities and those of the man he'd never truly known. Looking up at the ceiling, he sighed in defeat. "Hats off to you, grandfather," he muttered, acknowledging a mastery he could only dream of achieving.

He closed the book with a gentle thud and resigned himself to his usual solitary dinner of instant noodles. The familiar routine of boiling water and waiting three minutes felt comforting in its simplicity, even as he recognized the pathetic nature of his shut-in lifestyle. The noodles were bland and overcooked, but he barely noticed the taste.

With a yawn that seemed to come from his very soul, he pulled up his bedsheets and surrendered to exhaustion. Sleep came quickly, but it wasn't the peaceful rest he'd hoped for. Something felt off—a pressure on his chest that didn't belong in the realm of normal dreams.

His eyes snapped open, and the sight that greeted him sent his heart racing. A girl in an elaborate wedding dress sat perched above him, her unusually large hands pressed against his chest. The dress was a masterpiece of white silk and lace, but something about it seemed wrong—too perfect, too otherworldly. But what made his blood run cold was the sight below—something was rising and cloaking itself repeatedly in a rhythmic sync that defied explanation, a game of darkness that seemed to move with a life of its own.

"What the heck's going on!?" he screamed internally, his body frozen in shock as reality itself seemed to unravel around him. The mysterious figure's presence felt connected to the book somehow, as if his grandfather's unfinished story had found a way to finish itself—with Nickan as an unwitting participant.

The girl with vigorousness then all of a sudden began to articulate in a pleasureful voice, "Yeah, daddy! Yeah!!!"