“Why are you trying to manipulate my existence?” The words came low, almost as if spoken to herself, yet there was an edge in them, a recognition that the question was not meant for her alone.

  The truth was, since the moment she had entered this trance, she had felt it: the faint tug of an unseen will pressing against her being, probing at her existence. She had ignored it, knowing that without her consent, without her will, it could not touch her. But now, with the egg before her, the pressure had changed, sharper, more insistent.

  It wasn’t the false egg that concerned her; she had intended to study the nest itself, its fibers, its construction, so that when she reached Xin Region, she could ask the people there about it. But the presence behind the trance… whoever had brought her here… they were no longer just showing her something.

  They were trying to change her.

  “I’ll ask again… why are you trying to forcefully manipulate my existence when I didn’t allow it?” Emma’s voice carried no tremor, no edge of fear, only quiet certainty, like ripples spreading across still water.

  Vrooom!

  A sudden, violent wind tore through the space, a heavy, swirling gush that clawed at her dress and tossed her hair upward in restless streams of silver-white. The air pressed against her skin, sharp and cold, yet she didn’t flinch.

  Emma turned her head slowly, no rush, no hesitation. Her movement was so measured it almost seemed casual, as though she were simply glancing behind her in a silent room.

  And then she saw it.

  From the heart of the storm, a shape began to take form... no, not merely form, but condensation, as if reality itself was sketching on a blank page. At first, it was only faint lines of shadow etched into the violent wind… then texture… then color… until the figure stood complete.

  It was colossal. A giant wooden puppet, or perhaps a doll, its body carved from grainy planks, the surface worn yet ancient, like a creation born from both artistry and cruelty. Its hands stretched forward, fingers splayed wide, each digit tipped with glinting threads that shimmered into existence as if spun from thought itself. Threads that promised control, not just of limbs, but of destinies… of absolute existences.

  The puppet loomed so large that, when one’s gaze rose to meet it, it felt as though it swallowed the entire horizon of this trance. It filled the space of the white canvas sky, bending its very boundaries, a monolith gazing downward at all below as if they were nothing more than words in a book to be rearranged at will.

  Emma’s silver-white eyes followed the puppet’s vast silhouette, tracing the threads, the cracks in its wooden joints, the slow, calm rise and fall of its fingers. She stood unshaken, her bare feet firm against the dark grass, even before what seemed like the ultimate authority of this realm.

  Her lips parted slightly, her voice threading through the stillness.

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  “You know… it isn’t very nice to try and forcefully manipulate someone’s existence when they didn’t allow it.”

  She paused. Not because she hesitated, but as though she was giving the puppet space to answer, a courtesy in a place where courtesy had no place.

  Then the puppet’s face, carved and stiff, shifted. Its wooden mouth curled upward into a smile.

  Vroom!!

  In the blink of an eye, like a mirage collapsing, the entire world folded in on itself. The dark grassy plain… the dark blue egg… all of it dissolved into nothing. No remnants. No fading outlines. They simply ceased to be, erased as if the memory itself had been cut out from reality’s page.

  What remained was only Emma… and the puppet.

  Around them, an endless white stretched in all directions.. pure, flawless, unbroken. The world was now a blank canvas in truth, and the puppet stood like an ink stroke across its emptiness.

  And just when it seemed that this silence would remain unbroken,

  A deep chuckle rumbled from the puppet’s wooden frame.

  It rolled through the empty white like distant thunder, reverberating until the very canvas itself seemed to quiver.

  Then a voice broke the stillness.

  “A child with a strong will… Hmmm, I see. Very… nice.”

  Emma’s white lashes lowered slightly, her expression faintly tight. There was something in the tone, distant, almost appraising, that left her mildly displeased. She didn’t show it much, only letting her gaze drift away for a moment before shrugging the thought from her mind. She stayed quiet, waiting to hear what else the wooden puppet might say.

  The pause didn’t last long.

  “Not only that,” the voice went on, the words carried through the wooden form with an odd, resonant timbre, “you are also embodying something at such a young age…”

  The puppet’s head dipped faintly, a deep sigh escaping from nowhere visible.

  “What a pity.”

  Emma’s brows knit together. Her earlier irritation remained, but she chose to set it aside for now. Straightening her posture and folding her hands loosely before her, she asked in a softer tone,

  “Sorry, but… if I may ask… what do you mean by a pity?”

  The puppet tilted slightly, as though weighing the question.

  “You have a highly knowledgeable loved one… You’ll understand when you get back to your fruit.”

  Its wooden limbs shifted faintly, joints creaking as it leaned closer. The carved eyes, empty and without depth seemed, somehow, to look straight through her.

  “Child… it seems you’ve encountered an Avatar of Gramam.”

  Emma blinked, tilting her head slightly. “An avatar?” she murmured under her breath, confused by what she just heard.

  Was that book-head an avatar, not the real one? She thought as just then, she heard the voice from the puppet speak,

  “Each avatar,” the puppet said, as though plucking the thought directly from her mind, “is an absolute existence of itself. They are not bound to the real one. That vile Orc Lord, Gramam, has never once used his true body in any of the Endless Personal Cosmologies he or his avatars have made and scattered across different fruits. As a means of… amusement, for him.”

  Emma’s lips pressed into a thin line. Inwardly, she sighed. It would have been better if that book-head never existed.

  The puppet chuckled lightly, the sound like dry wood rubbing together.

  “Child, you still have much to learn.”

  Even as it spoke, the white canvas surrounding them began to dim. The blank canvas of the world softened, shadows creeping in at the edges.

  “I think it’s time I let you return,” the voice said.

  Emma gave a small nod, holding her words this time. But as the pale world darkened further, a sudden realization struck her.

  I forgot to ask about the transmutation tower!

  Her eyes widened slightly and she leaned forward, speaking quickly, “Sir, how can I meet you? I have”

  “You’ll ask your questions when you see me.”

  The last of the light faded, the whiteness turning to absence. Then, as if some delayed thought had dawned on the voice, it spoke one final time, tone almost amused.

  “Oh… and I’m not a ‘Sir’…”

  A pause.

  “…but a ‘Miss.’”

  And silence reigned supreme.

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