There is time for books in this world. Therefore, there is time for books underground, too. When there are no pressing matters to attend to, bedtime is far off, and your stomach is satisfied, that's the time to read. There's no wind knocking on the window to disturb you, and a fireplace burning comfortably.
The uneducated among the monsters would consider this a time for leisure, but the owner of this house was educated enough to realize that this was a time for books.
He sat down on a plush white couch and looked at a book he had been putting off for days, a book that his busy life had left him with only a few hours to read, a book that he knew he must read when he had time. He admired the picture on the cover, turned it over to read the praise, scanned the title on the spine, and only then did he pick it up and flip through the first few pages - he was one of those old-fashioned people who never read the table of contents. Unless the author was using a lot of metaphor, he felt that the subheadings in the table of contents were enough to infer the flow of the story, diminishing the pleasure of reading it.-When he had finished reading the opening paragraphs, he rose from his seat, set the book on the table beside the couch, dragged on his thick slippers, and went to the kitchen to make a pot of cocoa.
A few minutes for a beverage to accompany a book is always worth setting aside. Soon, the rich aroma of cocoa filled the kitchen, and he pressed his nose to the white steam rising from the mug and inhaled deeply. It's smooth, warm, sweet, and blissful to smell-except for the steam that hangs cloudy on the glass of his glasses.
He walked back over to the couch, set a hot mug on the table, loaded the fireplace with plenty of wood in case it went out in the middle of his reading, spread a cozy blanket over his lap, and opened the book. My eyes followed the words, moving from left to right and back again. As I slowly immersed myself in the world of the book, the sound of crackling and burning firewood naturally faded away.
Unusually, the novel is set above ground, not underground.
Here, in the underground, books from the surface were occasionally brought in through the river, and the monsters of the underground imagined the surface through books that were not made there, and they often fantasized about the humans who were no longer around. The book in the landlord's hand was written by an underground author, inspired by a book from above. <The Cabin in the Valley of the Earth
<"Aboveground" is a favorite genre for monsters who dream of being aboveground. The only problem is that each monster has a different idea of what the surface looks like, so it can be quite a challenge to find an author that suits your taste.
The main character of the book has been dead since the beginning of the novel. The first discoverer was a close friend of the protagonist, who had borrowed the book from him a few days earlier, and when he finished it and came to return it, he knocked on the door, but it wouldn't open, and when he tried the phone, he couldn't get through, so he opened the door, but it wasn't locked, and when he entered the house, he found the protagonist dead in the living room.
Fortunately, this writer thinks humans don't leave dust like monsters, thirty more points. The landlord turned the page, thinking to himself.
How did this human die?
Wouldn't it have been more natural to call him human here? Ten points deducted. The landlord was a picky reader with his own scoring system.
Other than this corpse, there's nothing out of the ordinary about this house. No signs of fire, no signs of misfired magic. It's locked up from the inside, so perhaps it's at the end of its life. It was perfectly fine when I found it! It was eighty years old! You know, life spans vary, don't they? ...I'm the father of this child. Well, I'm sorry to hear that. I don't think it was a natural death.... So why did this otherwise healthy human die? I don't know....
