Inheriting a dilapidated ancestral manor, the protagonist discovers it to be an inn exclusively for "lost yokai." Each chapter unveils the tale of a unique spirit – a forgotten river deity, a land god whose incense has faded – while the main narrative interweaves the burgeoning conflicts between humanity and the non-human realm.

[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]

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.

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

Some muses demand more than devotion...

After the tragic death of her lover and the ruin of her once-celebrated artistic legacy, Elysia retreats to an ancient, decaying manor hidden deep within the woods—seeking solitude, healing, and perhaps, inspiration. But when she discovers a forgotten mirror sealed behind a false wall, her grief-torn world begins to twist.

The mirror watches her. Whispers to her. And inside it, a shadowed figure begins to take form—beautiful, sorrowful, and hauntingly familiar.

As her obsession with painting him grows, so does his power. The manor warps. Time falters. Reality slips. And soon, Elysia must confront a terrifying truth: this muse is not a gift… he is a hunger.

A gothic descent into madness and art, The Mirror That Devoursis a chilling exploration of grief, obsession, and the cost of creation.

What if lovefound you before you were ready to understand it?What if the right timenever comes unless you make it?

What ifsilencewas safer — but saying nothing meant losing everything?Is lovestill beautiful to you, even when it doesn’t stay?A story of almost,eventually.

**Game tester Lu Fengyi** accidentally binds to a **"Deduction Simulator"** and is transported to the **void between two realms**. There, he establishes **Twilight Fortress**, bridging the **cultivation world** and the **lord-dominated world**. Leveraging the simulator's time-acceleration capabilities to merge the rules of both realms, he breeds **spirit beasts** and assembles a **hybrid task force**. Starting with the **Moonlit Lake Annihilation Campaign**, he gradually unlocks cross-dimensional systems like **interdimensional caravans** and **Beast Soul Armor**.

During his journey, he teams up with **Elven Princess Aelia** to thwart the **Blood Fiend Sect's conspiracy**, awakening the **primordial chaos beast Xiangliu** . The story culminates in a climactic battle at the **Space-Time Rift** against the **Blood Fiend Patriarch** and the **Abyssal Lord**. Though victorious, Lu discovers a cryptic clue about the **Third Domain**, propelling him into an even grander odyssey.

"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 gods are gone, but their blood still courses through royal veins, shaping empires long after their abandonment. Darrow Ghaldre, the feared Kingslayer King, seeks to annihilate every other monarch and their kin to break the divine grip on mankind.

Now, twenty cycles later, peace decays as crops rot, beasts prowl, and whispers stir of god-blood that survived. Johanus Dhulos, once Ghaldre’s blade, now tends his fields in peace with his son Quintin. Until a shadow from the past comes hunting.

The end of kings was only the beginning.

A new adventure begins! Alissia and the Supreme Primordials depart from Earth, guided by a mysterious escort, while those left behind face their own challenges. Embark on an exhilarating journey with the Primordials as their universe unfolds in an epic new saga!

If a stranger told you to jump off a cliff would you? What if that stranger wasn't a stranger... but someone who says he knows you... How can you tell if a cat is lying... does the lie have no evidence or are you just scared of what will happen if its the truth?

You are at work and when you get home, you realize that something is wrong, but you aren't sure what.

"I'm A Reminder of what could have been."

-Shannon Mortel

Being one of the last people alive on earth is an already existing nightmare. But it could get worse if you were never able to remove yourself from the earth. If you were immortal.

"One of the worst things I have ever experienced in my life is trying to save my life."

-Shannon Mortel

Imagine, if you will, a world of zombies, but it is no virus, no outbreak, just a fast growing bacteria that reached to everyone in the world in three days, however only  few people even lived for all three. only people already wearing protective gear were left, and this fast growing, adaptive bacteria figured out how to reach inside the suits within three days. However, only one person successfully lived longer than these three days. And this, is the tale I am here to tell.