CHAPTER 48: SHE WROTE WHAT?!

Finn blinked.

"The what now...?" he muttered, like it had just insulted his GPA.

Majestria raised a brow. "What did it say?"

Finn stood there like a medieval loading screen, gears turning slowly, brain buffering.

’The Rearranger...?’ he thought. Sounds cool. Kinda mysterious. Rearranger of what, though? Molecules? History? Boobs?

Then, the voice spoke again.

[The Rearranger: User is able to move furniture with their mind. Limit capacity: Can only move a few objects before brain becomes too exhausted to function.]

Finn’s soul deflated.

His eye twitched. Veins pulsed in his temple. Somewhere in the cosmos, a violin string snapped out of sheer disappointment.

"What the HELL am I supposed to do with that?!"

’Rearrange the furniture’? What am I—an Ikeaers Ghostbuster?! He grit his teeth. "Oh no, there’s a demon lord in the castle, better scoot his ottoman slightly to the left!"

But then...

"...Wait."

His anger paused.

A thought.

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A beautifully evil thought.

What if I sneak into a blind guy’s house and move everything around so he trips over the coffee table like a drunk beetle?

Or better yet...

Rearrange the living room just enough to make a married couple slowly go insane trying to figure out what changed.

A grin crept across his face.

"Majestria," he whispered, "I think I just unlocked the power of psychological warfare."

She stared at him. "You were mad five seconds ago. Why are you smiling like that? It’s creepy."

But Finn’s eyes widened again. A new realization struck him—this time, with the force of divine judgment.

He slowly turned his head toward the wizard who gave him the scroll. Then toward the other wizards. His hand rose, trembling, pointing at them like he’d just solved a murder case on a late-night true crime podcast.

"You all wanted this power..." His voice dropped to a suspicious hush. "...So you could move the furniture...

...In the Fun Room."

The moment the words left his mouth, the entire group of wizards gasped in unison and huddled together like they’d just been caught mid-cult ritual.

Arsenio’s jaw dropped. "Finn, I know you’ve done a lot for us, but you can’t just—"

Finn’s head snapped toward him.

"No. Don’t you dare." His voice sharpened. "Then explain it. Explain the existence of the Fun Room. And why they all reacted like I just found their magical sock drawer."

Arsenio froze.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Then he just stared at the floor like it might save him.

Even Majestria gave the wizards a suspicious side-eye now, lips curling in disgust. "Okay what the hell is going on here?"

Silence.

Until...

Giggle.

A soft, rhythmic giggle behind Finn.

He froze.

No. No no no no no.

He knew that giggle.

It was that giggle. The one that made his spine itch. The one that haunted his dreams. The one that usually came right before something perverted, unholy, and potentially illegal.

He turned slowly, and there she was.

Lickthorn.

And there she was.

On the floor.

Writing.

But not like a normal person writing. No. Lickthorn was on her knees, panting heavily, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth like she’d just seen a sexy bookshelf.

Finn stared in abject horror.

This was new. Even for her.

And that was saying something.

"What the hell is she writing?" he whispered. "It’s gotta be weird. No one drools over a book they are writing in..."

So, Finn did what any responsible adult would do.

He walked over and said:

"Hey, whatcha writing?"

Lickthorn’s head snapped up like a middle-aged man caught sniffing panties in a thrift store. She clutched the little leather book to her chest with both hands like it contained national secrets.

"S-Stay away!" she barked. "It’s for my eyes only!"

Majestria stepped beside Finn, narrowing her eyes at the elf like she’d just caught her sniffing chairs again.

Lickthorn’s breath caught. Her pupils dilated like a cat seeing a red dot.

"...Just like I wrote..." she whispered.

Finn blinked. "What the hell does that mean—?"

Then he noticed her grip loosening.

Snatch.

He had the book.

"NOOOO!" Lickthorn screamed. "Don’t read it! Please! I’m not mentally strong enough for that level of rejection!!"

Finn opened it.

And instantly regretted every choice that led him to this moment.

His face dropped like a man who just Googled his symptoms and saw the word "terminal."

Majestria leaned in, curious. "What is it?"

Finn slammed the book shut with the reflexes of a man who just caught a virus mid-download.

It was fanfiction.

About them.

Horrible fanfiction.

Smut.

Highly detailed, sweat-dripping, thigh-slapping, back-arching smut where Finn railed Majestria six different ways over a crystal altar while Lickthorn watched from a dungeon cage with popcorn.

There were footnotes. And a diagram.

Finn’s soul cracked. He liked the idea of getting with Majestria—of course he did, she was stupidly hot—but this?

This was a crime against the gods.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Reevaluated his life.

Then, slowly, without a word, he handed the book back to her.

She took it with trembling hands, face redder than a fresh slap, hiding behind the cover like a sinful raccoon.

Majestria looked disturbed. "What the hell was in that?"

Finn didn’t answer.

He just stared forward, as if processing spiritual trauma.

But in his heart?

In the dark, perverted basement of his soul?

He respected it.

Not the content. Good god, no. That was blasphemous even by his standards.

But the grind?

The dedication?

The absolute horny craftsmanship?

That deserved respect.

You don’t slap the dreams out of another pervert’s hand.

That’s against the code.

Finn put a hand on her shoulder as she quivered in embarrassment. "You’re gross. Deeply, horrifyingly gross. But you’ve got passion. I can’t hate that."

Lickthorn melted like a grilled cheese left on a furnace. Her knees buckled from validation.

Then Finn looked around.

Wait a minute...

Something was wrong.

Too quiet.

No hot monster girl clinging onto him and offering weird crazy sexual things to him.

"...Where the hell is Chestelle now?"