"She severed her raven locks, concealed her feminine form—yet could not hide her dazzling brilliance. A forged eunuch's decree hurled her into the palace's bone-devouring depths. When the Crown Prince's all-seeing gaze pinned her in place, she knew: in this lethal game of gender and power, to lose was death... but to win might be far worse."

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

This work is an original literary creation, officially under contract and registered for copyright protection. It is protected by the following laws and international treaties:

The following actions are strictly prohibited and constitute serious infringement:

Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

This work is under active monitoring by international digital tracking firms as part of the Infringement Control Program (ICP). All suspicious IP addresses and user activities are permanently logged and preserved as legal evidence, unaffected by account deletion, platform removal, or VPN masking.

This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

Mr. Lin Haoyue — Black Lotus Legal Affairs (Taipei)

Ms. Chan Yingshan — Obsidian Law Group (Hong Kong)

Ms. Noor Aisha — Malaya IP Legal Consultancy (Kuala Lumpur)

Contact: [email protected]

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

_______________________________________________________________________

sanaz seyed esfahani

Masashi Kishimoto's manga series "Naruto" follows Naruto Uzumaki's journey to become a respected ninja. The manga was adapted into an anime series (2002-2007) and dubbed in English (2005-2009). This book analyzes each episode of the anime series, from Season 1 to Season 5, going beyond a simple summary.

©2023 by Sarah Mkorongo. All rights reserved, and all characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Mkorongo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the author.

Congrats! You have stumbled across the blog where I, geeky_greeky_nerd, get to dump all of my life problems on you all! (sorry in advance)

Heroes and Villains.

Everyone knows the hero Lucky.

Everyone knows the villain Vosk.

No one truly knows what happened when another hero took Lucky's place.

But everyone will know who took in the betrayed and broken boy.

!TW abuse and death!

雪村拓斗（Yukimura Takuto)

這個故事的主人公

是個平平凡凡的15歲國中二年級生

自小有一個算是頗為特殊的能力

這個能力讓他轉學之後人際關係有了大大的提升

看看他和新認識的同學會擦出什麼火花呢

敬請閱讀以下的故事！

By洛卡

這個故事我會在「小説家になろう」這個網站平台上發佈日文版本

連結：https://syosetu.com/usernovelmanage/top/ncode/2710766/

（使用語言當然是日語)

有興趣的可以去看看

Author FangTing, Editor LuoYeh, hope you like our story. I didn’t write this. I dreamed it. Every night, I close my eyes, and the story keeps going— chapters I don’t remember writing, characters I’ve never met… but somehow, they know me. Sometimes I wake up with lines already in my head. Sometimes I open the file and there’s a new paragraph, like the story wrote itself while I wasn’t looking. I stopped questioning it around Chapter 12. I think this might be someone else’s memory.Or maybe it’s mine… just from the wrong version of Earth. Anyway. If you're into time loops, lost identities, parallel timelines, or just mildly haunted content: welcome to the weird side. Updates daily, unless the dream skips. ​​​​​​​Not explained, Not entirely conscious

"Supreme bone dug out? Then I shall devour all the spiritual bones under heaven, and let the flames of the Holy Land's wrath burn away this false heavenly law!"

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

This work is an original literary creation, officially under contract and registered for copyright protection. It is protected by the following laws and international treaties:

The following actions are strictly prohibited and constitute serious infringement:

Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

This work is under active monitoring by international digital tracking firms as part of the Infringement Control Program (ICP). All suspicious IP addresses and user activities are permanently logged and preserved as legal evidence, unaffected by account deletion, platform removal, or VPN masking.

This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

Mr. Lin Haoyue — Black Lotus Legal Affairs (Taipei)

Ms. Chan Yingshan — Obsidian Law Group (Hong Kong)

Ms. Noor Aisha — Malaya IP Legal Consultancy (Kuala Lumpur)

Contact: [email protected]

THE WALL OF CARDSis a coming-of-age tale set in the heart of Kisumu, where the weathered stone wall separating Kisumu Girls’ and Kisumu Boys’ High Schools becomes both a literal and symbolic barrier. Through secret notes, hidden messages, and quiet acts of rebellion, students on both sides navigate friendship, longing, and the mysteries that bridge their divided worlds.This story was born from the author’s own memories as a former student of Kisumu Boys’ High School, a place where invisible and visible walls shaped daily life and friendships. Eddie Edwin Otieno found himself reliving these stories in a new light during the Gen Z uprising of June 25, 2024, when Kenyan youths rose up across the nation to protest poor governance, ultimately forcing President Ruto to withdraw the controversial Finance Bill 2024.​​​​​​​Inspired by the courage, unity, and hope of a new generation, Eddie weaves together personal nostalgia and the spirit of youthful resistance, creating a narrative that speaks to anyone who has ever searched for connection and meaning in the spaces between us.

This is going to suck I’m not good at poetry 😁.

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE

NOTE: Note: Roe Jekyll and Ezekiel Hyde are original characters. While inspired by the classic, they are not connected to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson and will not reflect those characters.

Nyxus alternatively known as 'The Technician' is a officialized hero within the city limits of Shuridenia. When the appearance of a child-like vigilante shows up naming himself 'E.Hyde' it is only natural he commits himself to the case. Roe Jekyll is a twelve year old trying to recover from his father's suicide. However he begins blacking out and these episodes only get more frequent with him coming too in the weirdest of ways with notes from a 'Ezekiel Hyde' that seem harmless he is worried about his future if he has one at all. Roe and Nyxus meet from a wrong number occurrence when Roe, in a desperate bid to contact his mother after snapping out of an episode. However instead of messaging her he messages Nyxus. Then things get more complicated when mysterious begin appear across the city to boot.

In the beginning, there was only the Creator—a being of boundless light, whose very thoughts birthed dimensions, gods, and time itself. From His essence came the Twelve Dimensions, the cosmic realms where His children shaped life, warred for power, and dreamed of purpose. He was the source. He was existence.

But even the eternal can grow weary.

The Creator, infinite and omnipotent, longed for an end. Not out of despair—but out of completion. Yet He could not undo Himself, for to do so would unravel all that is. So He created Azrael, a being forged to bring about His end… and watched as even that divine purpose failed.

Eras passed. Civilizations rose and fell. Reapers harvested souls. The balance was maintained. But the Creator’s desire remained unchanged: to cease existing, to free all from the cycle of His will.

And so, He cast His gaze beyond gods and reapers… to a boy not yet born into legend. A boy named Aristo.

Unaware of his cosmic importance, Aristo would rise from the ashes of obscurity. He would not wield divine blades or command armies—at first. But he would carry within him something no being ever had: the power to end existence without unmaking it.

This is not merely the tale of gods or demons.

This is the story of Aristo—the boy destined to fulfill the Creator's finally