Tom said, "The thing is, Emilia, I'm already writing a story."

Emilia's eyes lit up. "What is it about?"

"It's about transmigration," Tom replied. He told her the whole story—the world, the characters, the conflicts he'd been building.

Emilia exclaimed with joy, "It's a pretty good story! What are you going to write next?"

Tom smiled. "Actually, I was going to write it myself, but now we both have pens. Shouldn't we both try?"

"That's a good idea," Emilia said. But then Tom frowned.

"Wait. How are we going to collaborate together?"

"What do you mean?" Emilia asked.

"Isn't it a rule that in a dreamspace, only one pen is allowed? Then how are we supposed to collaborate?"

Emilia paused, thinking. "But if only one pen is allowed, then how was Mr. Ice able to summon us?"

"At that time, none of us had the pen," Tom replied.

"Can't we directly ask Mr. Ice?"

Tom shook his head. "We don't know how to contact him. How will we ask?"

"Isn't it a reality-bending pen?" Emilia suggested.

"Yes..."

"Then can't we use it to summon Mr. Ice?"

Tom's eyes widened. "That's a good idea!"

Emilia wrote on paper: Teleport us to Mr. Ice's dreamspace.

But then that same line appeared: You don't have enough mental power.

Tom sighed. "I think we can't even go to his dreamspace."

But then, suddenly, he had an idea. "Wait—if we can't go to Mr. Ice's dreamspace... but you can come to mine!"

They both decided to meet in the dreamspace at night, at 9 PM. Then Tom left Emilia's house.

After he was gone, Emilia smiled to herself. "Isn't he quite interesting?"

That voice echoed in her mind. "Yes. He was quite interesting."

Tom reached his house, still thinking about what had happened at Emilia's place. She confessed to me. But I'm not even sure now if I really like her or not.

He shrugged it off and said in a loud voice to himself, "It's enough! I've had enough lying to myself and fooling myself. I no longer care what other people think. Even if they call me a bastard—from now on, what I will do will be MY choice. Whatever someone else says won't stop me from doing it until it's finished. Even if it kills me!"

He checked the time. 6 PM. There was still time left.

He thought, Enough of the motivation. Am I really going to do this until the end? Is it too much?

"No," he said firmly. "I must do it."

But then, with a lazy expression, he deflated. "Why should I do it if I have to die in the end anyway?"

Then he fired up again. "No! I will do it because Grand Theft Manual- Six hasn't released yet! I will not die until I play it! That's the motivation!"

He deflated like a balloon. "But how should I do it? I have a power. I have to defeat a villain. It's all like the novels—I'm a hero. Even my heroine confessed to me. What else can I demand?"

He slumped. "But isn't it too much work? Just let that Mr. Who do whatever he wants."

Then he straightened. "But I shouldn't do this. Otherwise, my heroine will be upset."

He fired up again. "Let's do it, guys!"

Then he thought about the pen and started laughing like a six-year-old. "It was such good luck that I got the pen! Now I have a high-end gaming PC, and when Grand Theft Manual- Six releases, I can play it!"

But things don't always go as planned.

That night, at 9 PM, they both met in the dreamspace.

But they were immediately confused. How should they write a story with two writers?

Emilia wanted a peaceful story of princes and princesses—romance, gentle conflicts, happy endings.

Tom wanted to write about dragons, mages, demons fighting each other—a real war, battlefields soaked in blood, and epic confrontations.

And Emilia didn't want to kill any of her characters.

Tom stared at her. "So... how is this going to work?"