The True Purpose of the Black Book

A late-stage first-rank martial artist. The title gave Ewan absolutely zero sense of security. As he had learned so painfully when facing the assassin, besides allowing him to run just fast enough to become a human shield for Celicia, it was completely and utterly useless.

“The protagonist, Ariel, is probably only at the late stage of the first rank in martial arts right now, too,” he mused. “But she has magic! She has a divine blessing! And a whole damn arsenal of powerful items! In her current state, she could probably take on a pure mage or a pure warrior two whole ranks above her and not even break a sweat!”

The more he thought about it, the more the vast, insurmountable, Grand Canyon-sized gap between himself and Ariel yawned before him. In the original novel, the only reason Ewan Campbell had been able to act like a big shot around the protagonist for those first twenty chapters was because of his noble status. That was it.

…

After a moment of grim contemplation, Ewan added another line after his third goal, Get Stronger.

→ Be able to protect myself from the protagonist, Ariel.

“For now,” he sighed, “this is my ultimate goal.”

Ewan had no delusions about ever surpassing Ariel. So he settled for the next best thing. Since the animosity between them seemed to be a fixed point in the universe, he had to at least become strong enough to survive her inevitable, righteous retaliation.

But even that felt like an incredibly tall order.

Having read the original novel, he knew exactly what a walking, talking cheat code Ariel was. She was the protagonist of a Mary Sue novel, after all. If she wasn’t ridiculously overpowered, how could she be so damn… ‘Mary Sue’?

“Conventional methods won’t cut it,” he determined, his eyes hardening. “I need another way!”

…

Ewan took out the black book again.

After racking his brain, he had to admit that the only thing in his possession that could possibly serve as his “cheat item” was this mysterious book, which, up until now, had done nothing but automatically chronicle his life and plunged him into some terrifyingly unreliable prophetic nightmare.

And yet, he had noticed something else, something unusual.

“That unholy flame the assassin got from her ritual… even if my suit was a powerful defensive artifact, there’s no way it could have just snuffed it out! You must have done something!” Ewan muttered, stroking the smooth, dark cover of the book. “And I definitely felt you move at that moment. I felt something.”

“If you have any other functions, now would be a really, really good time to show them!”

Ewan opened the black book again. It was no longer the blank, unwritten tome he had first seen. Now, it was filled with a dense, detailed record of his experiences since he had acquired it. Every single thing, down to the last, excruciating detail. Even that incident with Celicia was recorded with a clinical, almost pornographic clarity.

“Damn it, why does this feel like I’m reading smut? A smut starring myself, no less.”

Ewan cursed under his breath and quickly flipped past that particular, mortifying section.

And then he finally found it. Something different.

“These words… they’re red.”

The text in the entire book was written in a stark, black ink, except for one entry. The two words for “assassin,” where it recorded the attack on Celicia, were written in a vivid, visceral, blood-red ink.

“Why? What makes this so special?”

As he pondered this, his fingers subconsciously drifted toward the two crimson words.

Suddenly, the red text exerted a powerful, irresistible pull, as if it were a vortex trying to tear his very soul from his body. Before he could even let out a scream, his vision went black, and he lost consciousness.

…

“What the…? Where am I?”

Ewan pushed himself up from the floor, his expression one of utter, disoriented confusion. A moment ago, he had been in his room. Now, he was in a strange, unfamiliar, and deeply unsettling place.

It was completely dark. An absolute void.

“No, wait. It’s not dark.”

He looked down at his hands. He could see himself perfectly, which meant there had to be light. The illusion of darkness was because the entire space was a uniform, featureless black. Black walls, a black floor, a black ceiling, all blending into one another with no discernible boundaries, like standing in a thick, black fog.

“Could this be… the space inside the black book?”

“But what’s the point of this? Is it some kind of pocket dimension for storage?”

Just as he was puzzling over this, he heard a strange, familiar sound.

Clack.

It was the crisp, distinct sound of a woman’s leather shoes on a marble floor, just like the maids back at the estate.

Ewan looked up.

His eyes widened in pure, undiluted horror.

Because not far from him, a person was walking toward him.

A person in a maid’s uniform. It was clearly the uniform of the ducal household, which was why even the sound of her footsteps was identical.

The problem was, this maid’s face…

It was the assassin.

“How can this be? Aren’t you dead?” he stammered. “And why are you here?”

The assassin didn’t answer. She simply lifted her face, her eyes holding the same cold, mechanical, lifeless gaze as before.

A bone-deep chill ran down Ewan’s spine. But before he could even think to react, his vision blurred.

The assassin vanished. And then reappeared.

Just like when she had attacked Celicia, she had crossed the distance between them in a literal instant.

And then… a flash of cold, merciless light.

Ewan felt a sudden, sharp chill on his neck.

The world tilted, spun, and went dark.

The last thing he saw was the assassin’s bloody dagger… and a headless corpse that was disturbingly familiar.

…

“WHAT THE HELL!”

Ewan jolted awake at his desk with a strangled cry. He had moved so violently that he’d knocked over his chair, sending him tumbling to the floor in a heap. But he paid no mind to the minor pain, his hands frantically scrambling, patting, and groping all around his neck.

“It’s still there. Thank God, my head is still attached.”

Ewan let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. He’d almost thought he had really, truly died again.

“So that was… another dream?”

No. That wasn’t a dream. The phantom sensation of death, the cold kiss of the blade, still lingered on the skin of his neck. No dream could ever be that real.

Ewan got up and looked at the black book again. It was still there on the desk, the crimson words for “assassin” practically glowing, drawing his eye with a strange, magnetic pull.

“Could it be…”

A wild, insane, and absolutely brilliant theory began to form in his mind. But to confirm it, he needed to test it.

He reached out again, his hand trembling uncontrollably. Even though it had been quick and painless, the taste of death was not something one easily forgot.

“Damn it all,” he growled, forcing his hand steady. “I’ve already died more than once. What’s there to be afraid of?”

With a sudden burst of desperate resolve, he slammed his trembling hand down onto the page.

…

The black space. Just like before, the assassin in the maid’s uniform was standing there, waiting. Her appearance, her movements, her expression, even her terrifying strength—it was all identical to his memory, with no discernible difference. But her expression was cold and lifeless, a perfect puppet.

“I knew it,” he breathed, a slow, wide grin spreading across his face. “She isn’t the real assassin. She’s a record created by the black book, just like the records of my own experiences.”

“But this record… it’s more detailed, more real. You could even say… it’s a perfect, living simulation!”

Looking at the deadly replica of the assassin, Ewan felt as if he understood everything. A strange, almost manic excitement, the thrill of discovery, began to bubble up inside him.

“I think,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of his revelation, “I finally understand the true purpose of this black book.”