Chapter 19
Each swing of her sword produced pink sparks from the friction of the air, striking not with the blade itself but with pressure powerful enough to shatter galaxies upon galaxies.
But Erietta was no less formidable.
She stomped her right foot and dashed forward using Slent Byu—a technique that concealed her steps and made her attacks appear from every direction, from every angle.
Wuuusssh!
"If this continues, the storyline will collapse. Not only will this game world fall apart, but the structure of the story itself will drift far from the original plan."
Tsuuuufh!
"Bleeding potion, stamina potion, and—hah—a focus-binding potion."
Doooor!
"Enough. You've crossed a line that should never have been crossed. Now I will—"
Tsiiiing!
"Wake her up."
Of course, as the two girls clashed, shattering the air at a speed even sound couldn't chase, Theo Vkytor didn't simply stand frozen like a lost spectator.
He knew that being a witness here was no different from becoming part of the destruction itself.
With a breath that almost broke apart, he straightened his posture, reached into his robe, and pulled out a small bottle filled with dark red liquid.
Without hesitation, he drank it all down. The taste was bitter, burning his throat, yet the effect came instantly—the wild pulse of his blood calmed, the ache in his bones eased.
Then, the tremor within his body reversed into a flow of thickening energy, tightening his muscles and strengthening the internal core that Human Change called the Inti Lu.
The air around Theo quivered faintly, as if responding to something awakening within him.
His heartbeat raced—not out of panic, but from the synchronization forming between body and the long-slumbering energy.
He knew time was short, for ahead, Erietta and Aldraya had begun clashing with full strength—their swords danced through the air, slicing shadow and light into shimmering dust like scattered stars.
With a single step, Theo closed the distance between himself and the center of the arena, as though the gravitational pull of the battle could no longer hold him back.
Without warning, something within Theo moved.
From his left chest emerged a thin silver light, pulsing gently like a newborn vein.
Then, from within that glow, a sword took shape—its carving sleek, its slightly curved blade reflecting a brilliance unlike any ordinary metal.
Its form resembled a katana, yet there was something softer about it, as if it had not been forged by a blacksmith but born from Theo's own will and memory.
With a single motion, Theo caught the sword in his left hand.
The grip felt warm, as though the blade was breathing with him.
In the brief silence before the next storm, his eyes fixed forward—at the two figures still dancing within the swirling maelstrom of energy.
He knew his role wasn't over.
In this chaos-ridden world, perhaps the only thing he could do was ensure the story continued in the right direction—even if it meant becoming part of a battle that should never have happened.
"The world calls him lecherous, a bastard, a woman-chaser, a predator of wealth. But does anyone truly understand the reason behind it all?"
Tsuuuuf!
"They've only seen the surface, never touched the scars that carved him.
Eshura Birtash, the Samurai Within the Chest.
They thought the title came from bedding countless women.
In truth, it was born because he dared to endure every agony within his chest—and turned it into a blade."
Huuuuh!
"I know he's no knight.
He sacrificed too much, tainted his hands for things the world deems disgraceful.
Yet from another perspective, Eshura understood the meaning of every decree.
He knew not all that shines is pure, and not all that is filthy is wrong.
There exists a universe between black and white—and there he stands, alone, defying anyone who dares to pass judgment."
Ussshh!
"And now, I wear his mask.
Eshura Birtash—or whatever my name is now—this world has forced me to merge with him.
But I don't regret it.
Because if I must choose a vessel capable of rewriting fate, I'd rather take the soul of a scoundrel with purpose than the body of an angel who's lost his compass."
Though to other players Eshura Birtash was known as a lewd creature—a bastard obsessed with lust, a worshipper of wealth and women without limits—Theo Vkytor, now inhabiting his body, knew Eshura wasn't that simple.
The title Samurai Within the Chest didn't emerge from base habits, but from something far deeper and darker.
"Mastery of the sword that pierces both body and soul—a craft born from one's own destruction."
The title was born because Eshura could channel his will through the core of his body, turning his chest into more than a vessel for a beating heart—it became a gate for a weapon that never dulled, a weapon that bowed only to one thing: the will to survive in a world that refused to acknowledge him.
Theo understood that perfectly.
In silence, he realized that Eshura was not just a degenerate, but a being forged by a broken system—a world that measured strength by prestige, wealth, and fear.
Beneath all the filth of rumor, Eshura carried traces of an ancient discipline few understood.
He was a pioneer, the founder of the Birtash family sword art—a lineage that honored destruction as others honored birth.
That sword art did not merely cut—it absorbed, transforming pain into strength, turning suffering into weaponry.
In Flo Viva Mythology, Eshura was a symbol of paradox—a misunderstood genius, and ironically, the only one who truly grasped the meaning of war.
And though Theo Vkytor in his original world had never held a katana or swung a real sword, his hands now moved as if they had done so thousands of times.
Here, his writing talent had become a fighting instinct; every line he once wrote had turned into muscle memory, every description in his novels had become a battle technique.
He had once written of system laws, powers born of balance, and humans who shaped imagination into reality.
Now, without needing to write anymore, he had become proof of his own creation.
So, amid the blazing chaos of the arena, Theo Vkytor—or rather, Eshura Birtash—stood between two worlds devouring each other.
He was no longer merely a writer or a player, but the result of a mad fusion wrought by the greed of Flo Viva Mythology.
The real world had erased ninety-nine percent of him, replaced by the laws and logic of a fictional realm once crafted by others on paper.
He knew all of this was wrong, even vile—but there was no turning back.
Now all that remained was to survive, and to make sure that the story they once created would not become his own grave.
"This is the end of it all—'One Point, Nine Acupunctures Concluded.'"
And yes, with the insight of a writer who had penned the impossible into being a thousand times before, Theo Vkytor—now fused within the body of Eshura Birtash—moved his fingers slowly.
The sword's hilt throbbed with life, pulsing in rhythm with his breath.
The world around still trembled from the duel of the two Star Academy girls, yet his consciousness seemed detached, floating above the frozen stream of reality.
He knew the technique he was about to use was no ordinary one.
To be continued…