The Ugly Duckling Of The Tiger Tribe

Chapter 440: I met the Author

A cold fury replaced the hollow despair in my chest. I have no idea how this works but this hack’s written words were powerful enough to yank my soul across dimensions after they altered my original draft.

I don’t care if it’s witchcraft, I just want to get back. So, if we could change the ending now, the current ending just might change.

​I slammed the book shut and checked the back cover. There was no photo, just a block of text and a tacky pseudonym: Author Sky-Wolf. Below it, a small author’s note mentioned a local launch at a small indie creator studio right here in the city district—scheduled for this upcoming weekend.

​"Sky-Wolf," I hissed under my breath, adjusting the grips of my aluminum crutches. "You are going to fix this ending, or I will personally show you what a tiger’s fury feels like."

My despair was gone, replaced by deep seated hope. But you know what they say about hope. Hope begets deeper despair.

Right now, I’m overflowing with hope and that is because I want to go back, no matter what. I need to go back. So if that hope is dashed, I might not be able to continue living.

Even then, even knowing I might be disappointed, I do not want to lose sight of the slightest chance to return. My world was over there, and I cannot see myself living in this world anymore. I need... to go back.

I went back home and prepared for the day of the launch, acting like the invisible human being I always have, preparing my own meals, taking my baths myself, though it was difficult trying not to get my leg cast wet.

To be honest, I did miss the good old 21st century technology, but if the price was being away from my family, then I could kiss it goodbye.

In the meantime, I looked up some structural videos on construction and manufacturing and realized I had zero intellect on that aspect.

How did I manage to create a kingdom with zero science intelligence? Hm, I think this has to do with the novel. Hm, I may not understand these things now but when I get back, I’ll probably remember it well.

So I decided to force myself to sit through all of it.

By Saturday morning, the autumn weather had completely deteriorated into a dreary, freezing drizzle.

I dressed in a plain, oversized hoodie, strapped my cast into its protective boot, and adjusted my crutches.

My parents didn’t even look up from the television as the front door clicked shut. To them, I was just Stephanie, going out to waste time. Phew.

​The venue was a tiny, dim indie creator studio tucked into the basement of a brick building down in the city district.

I expected a bustling room, or at least a few artsy readers crowding the tables. Instead, the basement room was practically dead. There were exactly two other people flipping through zines near the entrance, completely ignoring a lone display table that held a small stack of pristine, glossy copies of The Ugly Duckling That Makes The World Better.

​But the chair behind the table was completely empty.

​I frowned, looking around the small basement. A beaded curtain at the back of the room led toward a private, dimly lit creator lounge—a small space meant for authors to rest between signings.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I dragged my crutches forward, the metallic clank echoing softly against the concrete floor. I pushed past the beaded curtain, the plastic strands clacking against my shoulders.

​The moment I stepped into the lounge, the air grew instantly thick, heavy, and freezing cold. The ambient noise of the basement vanished.

​Sitting on a low leather sofa in the center of the dim room was ’Author Sky-Wolf.’

​The fiery, confrontational speech I had rehearsed all morning completely evaporated. He didn’t look like a lazy plagiarist hiding behind a desk. He didn’t even look like he belonged to this century.

He was a tall, strikingly built man dressed in a sharp, charcoal-gray coat. He wore dark sunglasses despite the dim lighting of the lounge, but as I drew closer, my breath hitched.

Just above the rim of his glasses, I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They weren’t human. The pupils were sharp, vertical slits, gleaming with an ancient, gold-flecked iridescence.

​A suffocating pressure dropped onto my chest, making the room feel tight, like the moments right before a catastrophic lightning strike.

​He didn’t blink as I stopped before him, my hands trembling against the rubber grips of my crutches. Slowly, his lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. He tilted his head, his voice sliding through the quiet air like smooth silk.

​"I’ve been expecting you," he murmured, his tone carrying a strange, resonant echo that vibrated deep in my lungs. "My protagonist."

​I froze, completely baffled. The word sent a jolt of pure confusion through my chest. My Protagonist? Does he know something? How could he possibly look at me—a broken, limping girl on crutches—and say something like that with so much certainty?

​I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing as much of Arinya’s steady command into my cracked voice as I could.

"Why did you steal my draft?" I demanded, holding up the cheap paperback. "You took my story. You altered it, created your own ending, and wrote the protagonist out of her own life."

​"Steal?"

​He chuckled, a low rumble in his throat. He slowly reached up with a long, elegant hand and slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing those piercing, slit-pupil eyes completely.

"Stephanie." How does he know my name? "Do you truly have such a short memory? Or did the fall truly rattle that fragile human mind of yours?"

​The fall? How does he know that as well?

​The moment the words left his mouth, a sharp spike of pain shot through my temples. My vision swam, the dark leather sofa and the beige walls of the lounge blurring out into a haze of gray as a memory I didn’t know I had, came back to me.

​"Can you hear me, little bird?" A voice. A tiny, echoing presence.