Dear Paper,
I can't bring myself to call you a diary or a journal; you're merely a crumpled sheet of paper. So, I'll stick with calling you Paper. I won't divulge my name—not because I'm famous or important, or because of my lineage or status. The truth is much simpler:
I'm dying.
As I jot these words, I'm sprawled beside a rock, fatally injured and utterly alone, stripped of any hope for medical aid or even a sliver of comfort. It turns out ambition has its price, and mine has been steep—crippling dreams devoid of common sense. Why reveal my name when I am bound to fade into oblivion? I doubt even my family will come looking for me.
You deserve a story though, Paper. It begins in the Kingdom of Antrophia, where I was born a commoner but boasted enough wit to serve the nobles during my teenage years. I became a part-time advisor, scholar, and merchant, earning just enough to support my struggling family.
Then came my eighteenth birthday, a fateful day that would shatter my life. Rumors spread like wildfire—the Chitauris were forging alliances with the powerful, and the youth needed to awaken their abilities to combat the impending threat of the Demaranians. The Neoterra kingdom and the goddess were set to summon heroes in two years to defend the realm, and I thought I could do my part. I craved to feel useful, to ascend beyond my humble beginnings, to be remembered. What an utterly foolish ambition that turned out to be; I detest myself for ever believing it would lead to greatness.
What shattered my dreams? Fate, bad luck, a cruel twist of reality—all of it conspired against me. The goddess presided over the Awakening ceremony, and whispers hinted at my potential for an S-rank ability, one that everyone expected of me. I believed them. But it was a mirage.
When I awakened, reality hit hard: I was branded with the dreaded F-rank. In that instant, my life spiraled into darkness. I was scorned, mocked, and led away in disgrace, forever marked as an abomination—a taboo embodied.
The next day brought my reckoning. I was exiled to the very place I had read about in hushed tones: Carragis—the dreaded dungeon where those with F-ranks were cast aside like refuse.
That was my new reality. I was discarded and left to rot, knowing full well I wouldn't survive. I had to try, though; I refused to let my story conclude in such despair. But my willpower faltered against the wretched pale creatures lurking within these walls. Food and water were nowhere to be found. Survival meant resorting to unspeakable measures—drinking my own urine. Humiliating, yes, but I had no choice.
And then, amid my desperate wanderings and narrow escapes, I stumbled upon something that turned my stomach. I found a chamber filled with horror—naked men and women languishing in cages, subjected to grotesque experiments. Some were in unnatural positions, others were trapped in wooden confines, and many had lost their sanity or resigned to their torment. The realization struck me hard: humans experimenting on humans, attempting to create twisted hybrids and monstrous abominations. It became chillingly clear—this couldn't be a rogue operation. Someone, someone powerful and otherworldly, was pulling the strings.
And they were all F-ranks, like me. Countless kingdoms had cast them aside, and this was their fate. I was equally unfortunate; I was spotted, hunted down, and savagely attacked. The pale creature inflicted a grievous wound, yet I escaped, bleeding and broken.
Now, as the darkness encroaches, I'm recording these thoughts so that perhaps someone may find this paper and uncover the truth, find a way to rescue those trapped here.
I think I've spilled enough of my soul onto you now, Paper. My life didn't unfold as I had envisioned. Fate and fortune have turned their backs on me. But there's a strange comfort in having penned these words.
I feel my strength waning, and death is near. So, Paper, my final plea to you is simple:
Please don't get wet.
With whatever remains of my spirit,
A dead man.Dear Paper,
I can't bring myself to call you a diary or a journal; you're merely a crumpled sheet of paper. So, I'll stick with calling you Paper. I won't divulge my name—not because I'm famous or important, or because of my lineage or status. The truth is much simpler:
I'm dying.
As I jot these words, I'm sprawled beside a rock, fatally injured and utterly alone, stripped of any hope for medical aid or even a sliver of comfort. It turns out ambition has its price, and mine has been steep—crippling dreams devoid of common sense. Why reveal my name when I am bound to fade into oblivion? I doubt even my family will come looking for me.
You deserve a story though, Paper. It begins in the Kingdom of Antrophia, where I was born a commoner but boasted enough wit to serve the nobles during my teenage years. I became a part-time advisor, scholar, and merchant, earning just enough to support my struggling family.
Then came my eighteenth birthday, a fateful day that would shatter my life. Rumors spread like wildfire—the Demaranians were forging alliances with the powerful, and the youth needed to awaken their abilities to combat the impending threat of the Demaranians. The Neoterra kingdom and the goddess were set to summon heroes in two years to defend the realm, and I thought I could do my part. I craved to feel useful, to ascend beyond my humble beginnings, to be remembered. What an utterly foolish ambition that turned out to be; I detest myself for ever believing it would lead to greatness.
What shattered my dreams? Fate, bad luck, a cruel twist of reality—all of it conspired against me. The goddess presided over the Awakening ceremony, and whispers hinted at my potential for an S-rank ability, one that everyone expected of me. I believed them. But it was a mirage.
When I awakened, reality hit hard: I was branded with the dreaded F-rank. In that instant, my life spiraled into darkness. I was scorned, mocked, and led away in disgrace, forever marked as an abomination—a taboo embodied.
The next day brought my reckoning. I was exiled to the very place I had read about in hushed tones: Carragis—the dreaded dungeon where those with F-ranks were cast aside like refuse.
That was my new reality. I was discarded and left to rot, knowing full well I wouldn't survive. I had to try, though; I refused to let my story conclude in such despair. But my willpower faltered against the wretched pale creatures lurking within these walls. Food and water were nowhere to be found. Survival meant resorting to unspeakable measures—drinking my own urine. Humiliating, yes, but I had no choice.
And then, amid my desperate wanderings and narrow escapes, I stumbled upon something that turned my stomach. I found a chamber filled with horror—naked men and women languishing in cages, subjected to grotesque experiments. Some were in unnatural positions, others were trapped in wooden confines, and many had lost their sanity or resigned to their torment. The realization struck me hard: Demaranians experimenting on humans, attempting to create twisted hybrids and monstrous abominations. It became chillingly clear—this couldn't be a rogue operation. Someone, someone powerful and otherworldly, was pulling the strings.
And they were all F-ranks, like me. Countless kingdoms had cast them aside, and this was their fate. I was equally unfortunate; I was spotted, hunted down, and savagely attacked. The pale creature inflicted a grievous wound, yet I escaped, bleeding and broken.
Now, as the darkness encroaches, I'm recording these thoughts so that perhaps someone may find this paper and uncover the truth, find a way to rescue those trapped here.
I think I've spilled enough of my soul onto you now, Paper. My life didn't unfold as I had envisioned. Fate and fortune have turned their backs on me. But there's a strange comfort in having penned these words.
I feel my strength waning, and death is near. So, Paper, my final plea to you is simple:
Please don't get wet.
With whatever remains of my spirit,
A dead man.