"Cough, cough cough..." A coughing sound came from beside him.

Su Ming'an turned his head and saw a white-haired girl sitting next to him, her face pale, a handkerchief stained with a bit of blood from coughing.

Noticing his gaze, the girl took out a small booklet, somewhat reserved yet eager: "Olivius. I wrote a new poem... do you want to hear it?"

"Mm." He heard himself reply with a sound.

It seems this experience is a shared moment between Sique and a friend.

The white-haired girl opened the booklet and softly recited:

"[Daisies sway gently in the spring breeze,]"

"[In the green field, independent and unrestrained,]"

"[Not envying the birds flying high, just wishing to enjoy time quietly.]"

"[In the embrace of Mother Earth, daisies bloom, year after year, remembering...]"

Sique listened quietly. On the dark green field, only the girl's clear voice, mingled with a hint of trembling, perhaps from the nervousness of sharing.

A red butterfly landed on the swaying daisies, the recitation of poetry flowing like a stream.

After reading, the girl held the booklet to her chest, her bright eyes blinking: "...How is it?"

Her eyes were full of expectation, clear and pure like a mirror.

"I can feel your spirit for nature." Sique said.

"Is that good or bad?" the girl asked.

"Literature has no good or bad, no hierarchy among words." Sique said, "I like the imagery in your poetry, and that's enough."

The girl was stunned for a moment but said, "But people say your works are good and compare them, belittling others' works. Isn't that the difference between good and bad?"

"I don't think so," Sique said, "Literature has no good or bad, only what suits one's taste. There's no need for value judgments, only whether I like it or not. They think my works are good because they conform to and adhere to popular opinions, but in reality, I don't think my words are that outstanding compared to others, it's just that they 'like' them. This doesn't mean that works that are not liked should be denounced as rubbish."

The white-haired girl lowered her head slightly, seeming to understand a bit.

"Read me more of your poems," Sique said.

"...Okay."

A joyful expression appeared on the girl's face. She opened the pages, revealing delicate handwriting, and recited her own youthful and raw poems:

"[Hovering in the azure sky, the wingless bird, body light and free.]"

"[Unbound, unshackled. Pages as feathers, words as songs.]"

"[Flying over mountains, crossing oceans. Roaming freely in poems, splashing ink, poetic gallery.]"

"[Oh, wingless bird, oh bird, what do you use as wings, and where do you fly in paradise...?]"

She recited, and Sique listened quietly.

She paused, and Sique waited quietly.

Su Ming'an didn't expect this part of Sique's experiences to be so warm, compared to the divided and conquered part, this made even the livor mortis fade away. It turns out Sique also had such good friends, with nothing but pure poetry sharing and chatting between them, without any interest or impurities.

Until the sunset slowly sank to the edge of the field and the stars fell, as if a fairy tale had finally ended, moonlight flowed over them.

The girl suddenly woke up, closed the book, and stood up abruptly: "I have to go back, or else my family will be worried."

Sique still lay on the grass: "Those family members who hit and scold you?"

The girl brushed her hair lightly and said softly: "It's normal for them to be wary of me, after all... I am the child left by the demon. But as long as I am well-behaved and obedient enough, they will surely accept me."

"Say hello to Miss Lin Wang'an for me," Sique said.

"Okay, I will pass it on to my mother. But, I can't let them know that I made friends with the famous Creator, or else they would definitely cling onto you." The girl smiled: "Alright, I'm going home, next time I'll write more poems for you to hear."

"..."

Sique still lay on the grass.

His fingers repeatedly curled and uncurled, seemingly hesitating about something.

"—Wait a minute." He spoke.

The girl's silhouette was cast in the distance, she turned her head, a warm smile on her face, white hair swaying in the gradually sinking sunset.

Sique gazed at the distant sunset for a moment, seemed to want to keep the girl, but his lips trembled for a moment, and finally, he just opened his mouth: "...Take care on the way."

The white-haired girl arched her eyebrows and smiled, responding lightly:

"Thank you, Olivius."

"I never thought that the insignificant me would be valued by the renowned Great Creator of Luowasha and even become friends. You often come to listen to my poems... even if they're just some trivial poems, with no one liking them when put out there, but you always encourage me each time."

"Meeting you is truly the most fortunate thing in my unfortunate life..."

"You are really a good man. Although I know that I'm not your only friend... but in my heart, you are the best."

The white-haired girl waved to him, turned around, her steps light, the long skirt fluttering, like a white daisy swaying under the sunset, her smile extremely joyous.

"By the way." She suddenly stopped.

She didn't turn back, her voice slightly timid, floated with the wind:

"Next time... could you bring a stringed instrument to play music for my poetry? I heard... you're very good at it."

This was an invitation she had prepared for a long time, her tone brimming with nervousness.

"Okay."

Sique agreed.

She did not turn back, but a smile appeared on her face, then she stepped forth, slowly, disappearing at the edge of the horizon.

Sique lay on the grass. After a moment, he got up and saw a white flower placed on the grass next to him. It was the carefully nurtured little flower she gifted him.

"...Good man." He repeated these words, suddenly laughed self-deprecatingly, not knowing what he was laughing about: "She said I am a good man, ha, hahaha..."

He covered his face, accompanied by a wave of his right hand, a white space door appeared in front of him, he stepped through the door.

With a flash of white light, he returned to his room, where the flames crackled in the fireplace, the floor strewn with paper airplanes, and the kerosene lamp cast a dim light.

He sat in front of the mahogany desk, a half-written draft paper laid open.

He looked at the draft paper, silent for a long time.

...

[Number: Character Profile-002]

[Identity: Child left by the Demonizer]

[Synopsis: After being adopted by a pair of pianist parents, she entered the most famous academy as a top student, but she didn't want to become a great Creator, she only wanted to write free poetry.

She suffered campus bullying and domestic violence due to her background. At this time, "Olivius" reached out to her, saving her from despair. The two often sat together on the grasslands reading poetry, in peace and happiness, she gradually started to believe... life would surely get better, as long as she was well-behaved and obedient, those who humiliated her would gradually realize she wasn't that evil.

At this point in time, insert the key plot point—after a recitation, she gifted "Olivius" a white flower, which she secretly tended to every night. She invited him to bring a stringed instrument for her next poem recitation. "Olivius" agreed to her.

She fantasized that her life would only get better in the future, people would surely understand her goodwill, and no longer view her with prejudice.

However, upon returning home, her parents, believing that a demonization crisis was imminent, and because she was the child left by the Demonizer, personally severed her legs to prevent her from harming people in the future.

The free bird could never go out again, she would never have the risk of attacking others—everyone felt at ease, the Demonizer's child was studying hard for the future of humanity without any danger, that was truly something to rejoice.

No one pays attention to whether she, who lost her legs, is willing to lose her freedom. Everyone only sees her as a top student, always excelling academically, believing she will produce high-yield writing in the future, benefiting her family, and younger siblings.

She once thought the future was promising, but she realized the road was too far.

She once fantasized about an eaglet spreading its wings, but she discovered the wall was too high.

On the lawn, the white-haired girl running freely will never appear again; the flowers she planted withered, her poetry collection was thrown into the fire.

Her friend came to the grasslands with a stringed instrument, yet never awaited the next recitation of poetry. The sound of freedom drifts in the air, under the warm sun her silhouette is no more.

White daisies sway, the passing birds seem to hear the distant echo,

Thus, they leisurely start to sing, as if remembering the girl poet never to be seen again:

—"Floating in the blue sky, wingless bird, body light, flying freely."

—"Unrestricted, unshackled. Pages as feathers, words as song..."]

...

"—Bird, oh, with what do you make your wings, and to which paradise do you fly..."

The young man's voice floats through the room, reciting her verses.

Yes.

The white-haired girl is a character he "created" with his pen.

Yet he did not expect, that while he only wanted to observe her character development, her vitality and smile moved him.

He began to feel reluctant about the tragic fate he wrote for her, even though her life originated at the tip of his pen.

His feather pen remains on this draft paper, hesitating to write the ending.

"...She called me a good man."

"She doesn't know her tragedy stems from my writing."

His pen lands on [Her parents believe a demonization crisis is imminent, so they personally severed her legs], the pen tip slightly flat, seemingly wanting to cross this out, but pauses for a moment, he closes his eyes.

His fingers press against his temples, massaging once, again, his heart in intense struggle.

"Cannot delete the tragedy." He murmurs: "If deleted, the story will be dim and dull, she will lose her point of brilliance, exit Luowasha's future historical stage, and she will never become a remarkable character, just an ordinary person on the roadside."

He frowns, the feather pen trembling, seemingly caught in a struggle.

—If a person is to become [a standout role in the story], they are destined to experience pain, tragedy, and struggle, endure school bullying, legs severed, and being exploited by relatives. If one does not experience these, they will lose value, become dim and dull. So, should he erase this person's suffering, making this person happy and mediocre?

Sique closes his eyes, sighing softly.

"..."

He remembers her happy smile and the trust in her eyes, a complex feeling spreading in his heart.

—Is this the fantasy of a nihilist? Or is it the bitterness destined for a creator?

—Is the creator a villain? Creating tragedy for a perfect story and witnessing the fate of his pen's character with his own eyes... should it be called cruel?

Truly laughable...

If her future wasn't so poignant and cruel, would he still like her so much?

If her tragedy wasn't so profound, would he still yearn to witness her humanity's beauty?

If that poignant beauty, rooted and grew only in death, were lost, would one still linger in such memory?

To admire the extreme brilliance someone displays on her—doesn't it stem from the inevitable tragedy?

For a moment, he suddenly understood that the most formidable [creator] should not invest emotions in anyone.

"Good man..."

He repeats this term, recalling the girl's smile, her final happy glance back... and the stringed instrument she mentioned.

As if a white daisy blooms on her body, and she grows upwards, sprouting countless flowers and leaves. The slender white petals and overlapping golden stamens gently collide, like living beings whispering, or echoes of laughter. She looks back at him; the entire white daisy blooms toward him, the dead buds below it growing, drawing the last bit of air from the pen tip.

—Then she blooms, withers, and dies.

At this moment, Su Ming'an speaks: "...But if it brings pain, then change her fate."

Sique hears this "murmur to himself," puzzled about why he would say such a thing, but he still does not write.

Once changed... she will become a mediocre passerby.

Or, perhaps, there is an absolute reason not to change it. He needs... the existence of this girl, for a grander goal.

He puts down the feather pen, looking at the pervasive tragedy, seemingly self-mocking.

Thus, Su Ming'an hears Luowasha's most powerful creator, pick up a stringed instrument, and sing under the flickering light of the kerosene lamp.

Paper airplanes and paper flowers scatter all over, like a ground full of blooming white daisies.

...

"[The daisy sways gently in the spring breeze,]" the young man's voice is deep, the stringed instrument crisp:

"[In the green wilderness, alone but free,]"

"[Floating in the blue sky, wingless bird, body light, flying freely.]"

"[Unrestrained, unshackled. Pages as feathers, words as song.]"

"[Flying over mountains, crossing oceans. Roaming freely in the psalms, splattering ink, poetic gallery.]"

"[Wingless bird, oh bird, with what do you make your wings, and to which paradise do you fly...]"

...

Wingless bird, oh bird,

with what do you make your wings.

And to which paradise do you fly.

What is that paradise made of?

Suffering, tragedy—or brilliantly radiant death?

I chant tragedies and death, personally writing down the sorrow,

Awaiting the brilliance of destiny, or that moment of folly.

Only to create, without the need to focus on the characters,

Only to give them soul, without needing to empathize with their demise,

Only to wait for the ultimate brilliance to manifest, without pitying the disappearance of life,

Wingless bird, oh bird,

with what do you make your wings.

And to which paradise do you fly.

And whether that paradise would look like,

the library...

...

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