"I…"
"Shall I truly persist in this world of writing? After all that has transpired? After the relentless voices of readers, branding me a plagiarist with such ease, as though truth were but a plaything?"
"And yet… I am a student of literature. Not merely a casual devotee, but one who studies the very art of words their essence, their structure, their infinite possibilities. I am a scholar of Creative Writing and Linguistics."
"What reason would I have to tarnish my own craft with deceit? To sully my name with the theft of another's work? If ever I had stooped to such disgrace, then my years of study, my very purpose, would be rendered naught but ashes."
Zeice sat motionless, adrift in a tempest of thought, lost within a labyrinth of unanswered questions.
Whether they held meaning or were mere phantoms of his own despair, he alone could determine.
Yet, here and now, in the solemn hush of the lecture hall, his mind had long since departed.
His fellow students sat in quiet attentiveness, their gazes fixed upon the lecturer, absorbing each carefully spoken word.
But Zeice? He was elsewhere.
His focus wandered beyond the walls that enclosed him, beyond the rigid boundaries of academia, beyond even the moment itself.
How long would this torment endure? How long before he found clarity?
Again and again, the same relentless thoughts wove their tangled web, ensnaring him in doubt and resignation.
Were they musings of consequence? Or merely the echoes of a battle already lost?
Professor Zardon Klauss, a man of quiet intellect and measured words, had always regarded Zeice as one of his most promising students. Yet today, something was undeniably amiss.
There was a vacancy in the young man's gaze, a hollowness in his expression that did not belong.
He was present in body, but his mind wandered elsewhere, far from the lecture hall, far from the ink-stained pages that had once ignited his passion.
As the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, marking the end of the lecture, Zardon approached him with the same quiet authority that made his presence impossible to ignore.
"Zeice," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Walk with me. We need to talk."
Zeice hesitated only for a moment, then nodded.
He knew Zardon well, his mentor was not merely a scholar but a man of wisdom, one who did not waste words nor extend invitations without purpose.
"Drost Café," Zardon added, his tone final, before turning towards the door, his gait measured, expectant.
For a moment, Zeice lingered, watching his professor's retreating figure. Then, without another word, he followed.
(A Few Moments Later)
At Drost Café, just across from Cardfore University, the place where they had agreed to meet, a conversation of rare significance was about to unfold.
A conversation in which words carried weight beyond their mere utterance, where wisdom intertwined with prose, and where a mentor would pass down something greater than mere knowledge, a conviction.
Zardon spoke first, his voice steady, measured, carrying the cadence of a man who had seen and endured more than he cared to recount.
"I see it, Zeice," he said, his gaze unwavering. "That look of doubt in your eyes. I recognise it well, for once upon a time, I wore it myself."
Zeice lowered his gaze, his fingers idly tracing the rim of a cup he had yet to touch.
"Professor… if an unknown writer pens a story, and then a renowned author writes within the same genre… who is the one accused of plagiarism?" His voice held neither expectation nor hope, only the bitter acceptance of an answer he already knew.
Zardon allowed himself a knowing smile, one that bore neither amusement nor mirth but rather the quiet resignation of someone who had spent years pondering the same question.
"People will always believe those with a name," he replied. "That is the reality you must learn to accept. But if you allow them to dictate your path, then you will have already lost."
Zeice slowly lifted his head, uncertainty still clouding his features.
"But how does one fight against something so vast?"
Zardon leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the evening sky, where hues of amber and lilac bled together in an ethereal embrace.
"You do not fight them, Zeice," he said, his voice quiet yet resolute. "You write. As much as you can, as honestly as you can. Time is the only judge that truly matters."
Silence fell between them. The simplicity of those words carried a weight Zeice could scarcely comprehend.
"You are a writer, Zeice," Zardon continued, "and a writer's duty is not to seek recognition. It is to tell the truth, even when the world refuses to believe it."
Lifting his cup with deliberate grace, he inhaled the lingering scent of coffee that had begun to cool, his eyes finding Zeice's with the quiet patience of a man who had weathered countless storms.
"You see, Zeice," he murmured, "words are like rivers."
"Some flow swiftly, carving their path through stone. Some are caught upon jagged rocks, while others vanish beneath the currents of time."
"But the river does not cease its course simply because some doubt its clarity."
"And so it is with your writing, let it flow, even when the world seeks to dam its course."
Something stirred within Zeice, something long dormant yet not entirely extinguished.
The ember of a fire that had once burned fiercely within him, now flickering to life once more.
Zardon pressed on, "A true writer does not write for recognition, nor for the world's approval."
"A writer writes because it is his calling. To stop now would be to betray the very voice within you."
Zeice bit his lip, struggling to quell the emotions that surged within him.
The golden glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the café's windowpanes, illuminating the quiet war within his soul.
Zardon exhaled, his expression unreadable, "So, Zeice," he said at last.
"If the world turns a blind eye to the truth you write, then let time be the one to open its eyes. But never let silence be the conclusion to your story."
Zeice's fingers curled into a fist upon the table.
His breath trembled, not with doubt, but with something far greater. A quiet, unspoken resolve.
Slowly, he nodded, his voice no more than a whisper, "I understand, Professor…"
Zardon studied him for a moment, then set his cup down with careful precision, as though every action carried meaning beyond its surface.
And then, in a voice so soft it could have been the wind carrying poetry from ages past, he said, "Zeice, writing is not merely the art of arranging words, nor the pursuit of beauty in language, nor even the crafting of grand stories."
"Writing is the bridge between the soul and the world. Every word you pen is not just ink upon a page, but the heartbeat of your existence."
A pause. A breath. The weight of unspoken truths filling the space between them.
"Know this..." Zardon's voice was quieter now, yet somehow heavier.
"The world will always doubt the voices that dare to speak truth. People will close their ears to words they are not yet ready to hear."
"But you, Zeice, are not merely a writer. You are a keeper of light in the darkness, an echo of voices that were never given the chance to be heard."
Zeice bowed his head, his lips parting slightly, though no words came forth.
"They may steal your work, scorn your craft, hurl baseless accusations against you. But there is one thing they can never take, and that is the fire within you."
"That fire, Zeice, is what makes you a writer. That fire is what keeps you alive."
Zeice lifted his gaze once more, but this time, his eyes shimmered, not with hesitation, but with something deeper. Something unyielding.
Zardon's voice, now a mere whisper of its former strength, found its final words.
"Do not let the world bury your voice, Zeice. Do not let them strip you of your right to tell your story."
"For if you abandon your words simply because the world refuses to listen, then you will have allowed it to win."
"But if you keep writing, even when the world turns away, then one day, your words will be the ones to change it."
The first tear fell.
Zeice made no move to wipe it away. He let it roll down his cheek, unrestrained, unhidden, just as a writer's truth should be.
The depth of those words had struck something profound within him, something he had forgotten was still there.
Slowly, with a trembling hand, he wiped his face and steadied his breathing.
The light of dusk bathed him in its golden glow, as though the universe itself bore silent witness to his rebirth.
Zardon rose, adjusting his coat with practised ease.
"It is time you write again, Zeice," he said simply, his certainty unshaken.
Zeice's fingers tightened around the warmth of his cup, not from the coffee within, but from the rekindled resolve now coursing through his veins.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he met his professor's gaze with clarity.
"Thank you, Professor," he whispered, the words heavier than mere gratitude.
Zardon's hand found Zeice's shoulder, his touch both light and firm.
"Do not thank me," he said. "Thank yourself for choosing not to surrender."