Although Elo and Vian had exchanged what felt like over ten minutes of conversation, only two seconds had passed in reality. That was the power of soul-level communication through the System's chat function—far swifter than spoken words, more direct than fleeting thoughts.
In those fleeting seconds, Elo's second game character, the brown-haired boy, teetered on the edge of waking, not yet fully conscious—a faint quiver in his fingers, a barely noticeable softening in his breathing. To any onlooker, the boy seemed still wrapped in the gentle haze of sleep, every detail perfectly natural, yet on the verge of waking.
Thanks to [Transcendent Acting Lv1], thanks to the system's help, these subtle details could be perfectly showcased. Otherwise, how could Elo possibly possess such superb acting skills?
And with the system's aid, even if someone tried to scan Elo's memories at that moment, they would see nothing amiss. What they'd witness was a flawless performance—one surpassing any award, any audience, any reality.
And once everything with Vian was settled, Elo's mind drifted back into his body. His eyes opened slowly—reluctant, unfocused, like someone dragged out of a dream before they were ready to leave.
The gray clouds hung overhead, heavy and suffocating. He only stared at them with empty eyes, his face slack and dazed, as if his thoughts were still lingering somewhere between dream and waking.
Then the wind arrived. Cold and sharp, brushing against his skin. But what snapped him out of his daze wasn't the wind, but the scent that followed—heavy, wrong, overwhelming in a way no words could explain.
It wasn't rot. It wasn't death in the usual sense. It was something deeper—like a giant, invisible hand pressing against the soul, not the body. That feeling was like being thrown into a bathtub filled with glass shards—not just painful, but fundamentally wrong.
The kind of wrong that didn't hurt the skin, but made every part of the soul scream: You shouldn't be here. It was rejection—pure and absolute. The entire world, with that scent alone, whispered in unison: Leave.
That pressure didn't just linger—it cut through dream and fog, and forced Elo into full clarity. And as he came fully awake, the world around him sharpened.
The first thing he noticed was the damp. His clothes were soaked, sticking to his skin as if he had just come out of water. His body was covered in sweat—thick, sticky, and burning like a fever.
His breathing was shallow and uneven, the way it feels when the air is too thin, like at high altitude. Every breath felt strained, like the air itself wasn't enough to fill his lungs.
Then came the warmth—the flicker of firelight against his face, the sound of wood crackling in the flames. And above it all, a girl's voice. Calm. Distant. Steady.
"Welcome back, you who returned from death."
When Elo heard the voice, it felt as if something was pulling him. His body, which had been lying down, sat up on its own. His eyes turned toward the source of the sound, and there he saw a girl. A girl, half-transparent, suspended just above the sand.
Her features were breathtaking—sharp yet delicate, as if sculpted from still water. Her figure was slender, perfectly balanced between elegance and youth, every line refined into quiet harmony. Long, black hair fell straight past her waist, so smooth and fine it looked like it had been painted in one unbroken stroke—but it shimmered faintly, like strands of shadow laced with starlight.
She wasn't naked, but neither did she wear anything that could be called clothing. Instead, layers of soul-light drifted around her body—thin, slow-moving veils of translucent glow. They clung without touching, traced her shape without revealing, and shifted gently with every motion she didn't make. It wasn't fabric. It wasn't illusion. It was something else entirely—something that didn't belong to the world of the living.
She floated there, perfectly still—close enough to seem real, yet distant enough to remain untouchable. The sight held Elo so completely that he forgot to breathe. The moment he saw her, something stirred inside him.
His expression shifted—just enough to look natural. Elo's game character showed exactly what was expected in that moment: surprise, awe. The acting held—flawless as always.
But Elo himself was reacting in a different way. A feeling rose up inside him, sharp and immediate. He couldn't place it at first, only that he had seen her somewhere before. And then it hit him—he had. In a dream. Not fragments, not vague impressions, but a complete memory flooding back all at once.
He remembered the dream in full. In it, she had pressed against him, warm and real in his arms. Her hands moved across his chest, hesitant at first and then deliberate, her lips finding his again and again as if trying to fix the memory into herself. Her breath fell hot against his ear, her weight pressing close, her arms locked around his back as though she would never let him go.
And then it had gone further. Their bodies had come together completely—the unmistakable intimacy of sex, raw and vivid, impossible to mistake for a simple dream. Every movement, every touch carried the certainty of what they were doing.
They hadn't spoken, and they hadn't needed to. The connection ran deeper than words. Their souls had drawn together as surely as their bodies had, closer and deeper until the line between them was gone. It wasn't only sensation, and it wasn't only emotion. It was as if their very souls had melted into each other, layer by layer.
And it had felt real. Not imagined, not fleeting like a dream, but something that left a mark—too vivid, too deep to ever forget.
Elo recognized her at once—not the role she was acting out in the game, but the player behind that role. [Her]. The same woman who had always existed in his mind as a fantasy, the perfect girlfriend imagined by a chūnibyō boy, the one destined to become his wife.
Why was he so certain? Because of that dream.
It wasn't the first time either. In his thirty years of life, Elo had often had such dreams—erotic dreams, burning hot in the moment, fading quickly, and meaningless once he woke. Maybe some of them had been [her] work, secret visits to him in sleep. Or maybe they had been nothing more than a lonely bachelor's body seeking its own release. He could never know for sure.
But this dream was nothing like that. It wasn't vague, and it wasn't broken. It was complete, vivid, and so real it was impossible to dismiss. Too real. Not the kind of dream you wake from wondering if it meant anything, but something else entirely—something that felt like part of reality itself.
So Elo was certain this wasn't a dream in the usual sense, but something that had really happened. Someone had entered his dream and done those things with him. But breaking into Elo's dreams was supposed to be extremely difficult.
Ever since the system had activated, his dreams had been protected—sealed away, guarded from intrusion. If it had been an enemy, the system would have raised the alarm, even inside the dream. Yet this time, the system said nothing. Not a single warning. Not even a hint.
That left only one explanation: whoever entered his dream had the right to enter. Like a mistress of the house returning home, the system—the guard—had simply let her through, even opening the doors for her itself.
So yes—he knew. The woman standing before him was [Her]. Not just because she had entered his dream, but because of what they had done there—things only someone called [Wife] would ever be allowed to do.
So at that moment, Elo's game character looked perfectly normal—just what a sixteen-year-old fisherman should show: surprise, awe. But all of that was only an act, crafted through [Transcendent Acting Lv1]. Player Elo's real reaction was much closer to this:
♥(๑> ₃ <)♥
An overwhelming urge rose straight from his soul. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, lift her off the ground and never let go. It hit him so hard that, for a moment, he resolved to act on it.
And just as he was about to move, a system window popped up. It was from Vian. [Bro, calm down! You're about to break the script again!]
Elo saw the message—but he didn't reply. He never cared about the so-called "script." That part had never mattered to him. And yet, he hesitated. Because he knew one thing: [She] couldn't have been uninvolved in creating this game's script. If this journey existed at all, it was because [She] wanted him to follow it.
If [She] had rejected the script, if [She] had rejected Elo's journey, then the ghost girl standing before him would never have appeared. This ghost girl was a game character, built by the player on the foundation of the "script." If the player herself had opposed it, then this character wouldn't exist in the first place.
So even though [She] hadn't said a word, the fact that the ghost girl stood here already explained everything: [She] didn't want to break the script, didn't want to break the rules—at least, not yet.
And the same was true for the dream. [She] hadn't said anything there either, but the dream itself carried several clear messages.
First, just like any other woman, [She] had needs. She longed for her husband's care and affection on the emotional level, she longed to enjoy intimacy with him on the physical level, and most of all she longed for their souls to merge as one on the deepest level. Those desires were why she had appeared here now—because she could no longer endure the ache of missing him.
Second, her message was simple: You want to hold me? I want to be held. You want to kiss me? I want to kiss you too. But I don't want to do that in the real world. Here, we have to follow the script—play our roles, keep the journey on track. In the dream, we were free to do anything we wanted.
So what now? Elo had already pieced everything together—but how was he supposed to respond? He was downright unhappy about it.
(;′⌒`)
—You're asking what I'm gonna do? She doesn't want it. What, am I supposed to force her? Forget it. No point making her angry over something like this.
—She wants to play this game? Fine. I'll play dumb and go along with it. As for all that kissing, cuddling, and lifting her into the sky? We'll do it in the "dream." No big deal.
—Besides—that way, a certain someone (yes, looking at you, dear author) won't get to peek at my private life.
The author exploded on the spot: "Why can't I watch?! I want to see it too!"
(╬ﾟдﾟ)
Elo slowly raised his sword, eyes cold, voice sharp as a blade: "Sounds like you've got a death wish."
( •̀ ω •́ )✧