Chương 14: Chapter 12: Anger Management by the Cubic Meter

I sat on the bench outside the courtroom, elbows digging into my knees, head buried in my hands, waiting for our time slot. Thankfully, my in-laws hadn't arrived yet. A shuffling noise to my right made me turn my head; there they were. I drew a fortifying breath, bracing for what I knew was coming. My father-in-law's eyes locked onto mine, his jaw clenched, face flushing red as he stared at me like he wanted to kill me. I didn't even have the emotional strength to roll my eyes.

He marched toward me, his entire posture coiled for a fight. When Sophie was alive, they didn't like me, and they never tried to hide it, but at least they kept up a thin layer of politeness when she was sick. They politely pretended I didn't exist. Since her death, it had gotten worse. And honestly, I was grateful for that. They had given her hell in her last days, but at least they didn't make it worse for her by coming at me every chance they got.

"You gold-digging bastard!" he spat, jabbing a finger at me.

"You robbed us—stole what was rightfully ours. Sophie's money. Our money!" His voice echoed down the hallway.

"And look at you, all young." He swept a hand to encompass me.

"Did you use our money for plastic surgery? Answer me!" he shouted. A murmur rippled through the people waiting nearby. I stayed seated and refused to look away. Nothing I said would ever change his mind. It never did before. His lip curled in disgust.

"White trash," he sneered, shaking his head.

"An orphan nobody wanted then, and nobody wants now." My mother-in-law also shot daggers at me, scrunching her nose like she smelled something foul. I rubbed my face, closed my eyes, and ignored them until it was our turn. I could feel their eyes on me and the wave of hate coming off them, but at this point, I just didn't give a shit anymore. With Sophie gone, I had no reason to pretend to tolerate them or act polite.

As far as I was concerned, they could both jump off a cliff, preferably a high one with jagged rocks at the bottom. Their lawyer argued that the trust fund, a key part of my mother-in-law's family legacy, should remain within the family and be transferred to her. He also insisted that my wife's jewelry, which included heirlooms passed down for generations, rightfully belonged to them. My lawyer pushed back with Sophie's will and, to my surprise, a letter she had written after one of their visits.

I hadn't even known it existed.

"Can I see it, please?" I said, my voice tight. To Whom It May Concern, I write this with a heavy heart, but certain matters must be stated clearly and formally. I want to avoid any ambiguity regarding my wishes. Since I received my cancer diagnosis, my parents have repeatedly pressed me about the management of my life insurance policy, trust fund, and personal jewelry. They urged me to transfer ownership of these assets to them. I refused, and continued to refuse, regardless of how insistent they became.

Given their past behavior and temperament, I am confident they will attempt to contest my will. That is why I am writing this letter. Let me clarify. My decisions are not acts of rebellion. They were not made under coercion or manipulation by my husband. I was not subjected to undue influence, nor would I have regretted any of these choices if I had survived. I drafted my will well before my diagnosis, and I never intended to change it despite significant pressure.

My decisions are grounded in my personal experiences, judgment, and core values. I affirm them wholeheartedly. Throughout my life, my parents were not sources of emotional support or affection. Instead, they viewed my life as a series of transactions. My achievements were seen as proof of their superiority—"Of course she excels; that's due to my genes and effort," or "She draws well because of my talent, though she'll never match me."

Conversely, any mistakes or shortcomings were considered entirely my own—personal flaws or failures they regretted allowing into their lives. They controlled every aspect of my development, not for my well-being, but to serve their social and financial ambitions. My friendships were scrutinized for benefit.

I was discouraged from associating with children whose parents lacked influence and was expected to foster relationships with influential families, such as those with a father who owned a medical equipment company or a mother who headed a philanthropic board. I was seen not as a daughter but as a tool for ambition. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I informed them. In hindsight, I realize I might have done so hoping for empathy. However, none was offered.

My father's first question was, "Who is the beneficiary of your life insurance?" and my mother said, "Make sure you pass on your grandmother's jewelry to me before you die." Later, when I chose to stop chemotherapy, my father responded, "Good. The treatment is a waste of money." During my illness, they visited frequently. Their visits were not to check on my health or comfort me, but to pressure me to change my will.

Specifically, to make my father the beneficiary of my life insurance policy, to give the jewelry to my mother, and to transfer the trust fund into their control. When I refused, as I always did, they told me again that I was a mistake and their greatest disappointment. I do not write this for pity. I write to ensure clarity. Under no circumstances do I wish for my parents to inherit anything from me. I know them well enough to be certain they will challenge my will.

Therefore, I state unequivocally that they are to receive nothing. Their lives have always centered on wealth, and that is the one thing they will not gain from me. I leave everything I own to my husband, John Rue. From the moment we met, he brought light, laughter, and genuine warmth into my life. He gave me a sense of home and belonging I had never known. My only regret is that I cannot give him more in return for his love and care. Thank you for honoring my last wishes. With sincere appreciation, Dr.

Sophia Annalina Langford-Rue Her handwriting was so weak and shaky, written in her last days. My chest tightened while reading it, and I had trouble drawing in breath. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since her death, and my recent experiences jolted me out of my grief. I thought I was getting better. I was wrong. This letter unleashed a flood of pain I thought I had overcome, drowning me all over again. The room closed in on me. The walls pressed inward.

I sat there, numb, my hands shaking as I gripped the letter. Swallowing did nothing. The lump in my throat only grew, a boulder lodged in my windpipe. The judge's voice warped, distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a well, and I couldn't understand what he was saying and didn't care. For a moment, the courtroom faded, replaced by the hospital room. Her frail hand in mine. The light in her eyes dimming with every passing second until it went out.

An invisible fist constricted around my heart, and I rubbed my chest. The place had healed, but I suspected it might grow sore again. My mind was a whirlwind of memories, each one a dagger stabbing me again and again. I saw her face, her stubborn expression, and heard her voice pleading with me to keep my promise to live in the present and someday love again. Her weak, shaky handwriting danced before my eyes. Despite the harsh truths she wrote, it was a reminder of the love she had for me.

My body betrayed me, and I slumped forward. My shoulders hunched, and my hands shook uncontrollably. I bit my tongue, trying to stop the sobs that threatened to break free, as the judge's words echoed in the room. He struck the gavel, and the booming sound made me jump and look up, but he was blurred through the tears I kept from spilling.

"The court rules in favor of the defendant," the judge declared. He kept talking for a few more minutes, but it all sounded like buzzing in my ears. I didn't catch the words. My lawyer exhaled sharply.

"It's over," he said, leaning toward me.

"They don't have a case. The judge even advised against an appeal." I nodded, but the words didn't really sink in until later. Across the courtroom, my father-in-law's face twisted into an ugly expression. My mother-in-law looked like she had eaten a lemon. They lost. I thought it would make me happy—a small piece of revenge—but it didn't. I just felt sad and broken, thinking about everything they put Sophie through. After the hearing, I drove to the cemetery, barely registering the trip.

It was a miracle I didn't get into an accident. My feet carried me to her grave on muscle memory. I dropped to the grass beside her and leaned my forehead against the headstone. The air smelled of damp soil and wilted flowers, a scent that had become permanently ingrained in my mind as the scent of a cemetery from all my visits. This time, the familiarity was comforting, like returning to something known. I didn't speak; I just sat there and spent time with her, my head resting against the stone.

I never thought much about life after death, but if it exists, I hoped she was somewhere beautiful, full of warmth, light, and laughter, surrounded by all the love she deserves. The next day, I got angry. No, not angry. Pissed. How could they? How could they see her as nothing more than a possession when she was young, and a payday when she was dying? The sheer heartlessness made my blood boil. Sophie was amazing. She was full of life and optimism.

She loved people and truly listened to them, not just waited for her turn to speak. It always amazed me how she remembered every patient's name and every parent's face. She cried for the sick and celebrated every child who recovered. Her sense of humor was sharp and wicked in the best way. And she fought until the very end. Yet these monsters, these so-called parents, had the gall to see her as nothing more than an asset, a tool for their own gain.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. My fists clenched, knuckles white, veins bulging. My teeth ground together, jaw aching from the pressure. Violent images flashed through my mind. I wanted to tear them apart, squeeze their heads until they popped, and watch their smug, greedy faces twist in fear and pain. I wanted to burn their house to the ground, let the flames consume every last thing they cared about. It wouldn't bring her back.

It wouldn't undo what they did. But God, I wanted to hurt them so badly. I was so angry I couldn't sit still and kept pacing back and forth between the four walls like a caged animal. I wanted to kick the walls, smash something, and just rage. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew my reaction was excessive, but I couldn't stop it. It exploded out of me, demanding release. It took me a whole day to cool down and get my head straight. The rage settled into cold, hard fury, and I vowed to punish them.

Maybe in the past I would have let it go, but reading her letter made me realize I couldn't. It wouldn't be right. She deserved peace in the afterlife, but revenge in this one. Some things were unforgivable. When I felt back in control and able to function in polite society, I resumed preparing for my trip. Now I was more determined than ever to travel through the Gate. I had nothing left here and desperately needed a change. Good or bad, it didn't matter. As long as it was different, I would take it.

I put my house on the market and met with the trust fund lawyer. Instead of monthly installments, I found out I could receive the full amount at once. Without a second thought, I signed the papers right then and there. Letting go of our shared belongings was a heart-wrenching process. I kept my clothes, personal items, photos, and souvenirs from our life together. I donated the rest in her memory. She always loved helping people.

Each time I felt myself wavering, tempted to hold on to something, I repeated aloud the promise I made to her: to live in the present and be happy. Saying the last part of the promise—to love again—was more than I could manage at that point. While I waited for my house to sell, I flew all over the US, Canada, and South America to visit the Gates and raise the Class level. I had a big surprise in Georgia. The Gate was on an army base. Yeah, not going there. Illinois. Another army base. Both Gates in Texas?

Same story. Frowning, I tapped my pen against the notebook: Georgia, Illinois, Texas… all under military control. One might be a coincidence. Two could be bad luck. But four? That was no accident. My heart raced, and a light sheen of sweat covered my body. The US knew about the Gates. And if they ever found out about me, I wouldn't be a Traveler, but a lab rat. I went through the rest of the US locations. Eight were on army bases, two were on Native American reserves, and only one—way up in Alaska—was accessible.

Travelers Gate #468217241 Destination: Lumis Status: Integrated Mana level: 32 Threat level: Moderate A magical world. Except for the higher threat level, it sounded good, but I wanted Shimoor. I wanted boooriiing. Both Gates in Canada were accessible, but the first one was only accessible by a floatplane. It also led to Lumis, and its number was consecutive. Curious.

Level Up +1 to all Traits, +5 Free Points, +1 Ability Point Class: Gate Traveler Level 2 Free Points: 5 Ability Points: 1 Gates to next level: 5 I added the free points to Constitution. It was my lowest stat, and I wanted to be sturdier. The next Gate in Canada also led to Lumis. It was starting to look like a pattern. Two Gates in Germany led to the same world, and now three Gates, relatively close to each other, led to another. I wondered whether the pattern would continue. I flew to South America.

Three of the ten Gates marked on the map were inaccessible. One in an area controlled by a drug cartel that the hotel clerk and two taxi drivers warned me was too dangerous, one in a large industrial park with people around at all hours, and one on private property. Another Gate lay broken. A boulder and a heap of gravel blocked the way. When I approached, I got a strong sense of danger. It felt like a repelling force. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I tried to cross, I would be torn to shreds.

The other six were accessible and led to two different places. Both sounded technological, with no mana levels, and technology rated Medium and Medium-low. But the other side of the Gate felt wrong. The moment I crossed, I had a sensation like something was being pulled out of me. It felt wrong, wrong, wrong. That was enough to make me jump back to Earth immediately.

After four Gates: Level Up +1 to all Traits, +5 Free Points, +1 Ability Point Class: Gate Traveler Level 3 Free Points: 5 Ability Points: 2 Gates to next level: 8 To better handle shocks, I dumped my free points into Strength. I was sick of hyperventilating every time something caught me off guard. The effect was immediate. I grabbed the door handle, twisted like usual, and it snapped clean off in my hand. Dumbfounded, I stared at the broken piece.

I'd felt a difference when I first boosted my Perception, but not much since. Maybe the Intelligence, Wisdom, and Vitality traits that the Healer Class raises are less noticeable? Well, Vitality was noticeable on my face, but nothing else. I had no idea, and the Archive didn't yield any answers on the subject. Truth be told, I didn't search for long. I ended up getting sidetracked to gather more information about traveling.

For the next few days, I treated everything as if it were a raw egg, careful not to crush it, until I finally adjusted. Thank God I didn't break anything else. Someone made an offer on my house, but it was below market value. I stared at the number for a while, fingers hovering over the email. A year ago, I would've fought for more and argued over every dollar. Now? I didn't care. The only thing I could think about was getting off this cursed planet and going somewhere else. I picked up the phone.

"Accept it," I told the realtor. After some thought and reflection, I decided not to travel to the far-off Gates and instead limit my visits to those in Europe. I wanted to get all the money, buy everything else I might need, farm some more skill points, and leave. Still feeling down after the court hearing, I was tired of this place and wanted to leave it behind as soon as possible.

In an online search, I found a few more upcoming one-day workshops and made a list: Terrarium Workshop Pottery Wheel Throwing Ikebana Class Craft Cocktail Making Bonsai Tree Treatment DIY Perfume Homemade Cosmetics Basics French Croissant Baking Class Yoga Class Salsa: Beginners Class Graffiti Lesson For some reason, the yoga class wasn't recognized by the system. I wondered if I should attend a few more classes to get the point, but decided against it. The rest yielded ten Ability Points.

I spent one on Guitar Playing and saved the rest. While considering what else to bring, I checked more entries in the World Information and the Archive. None matched the humor of the first, but reading outsider perspectives about the world I knew was still entertaining. One Traveler raved about boxer briefs and bought fifty to take with him. It made me laugh, and I bought a hundred, just in case. I also picked up extra clothing, footwear, and some armored leather biker gear for protection.

In pawnshops within a hundred-mile radius, I bought a lot more jewelry. I searched for a mechanical solution to bring music with me, but unfortunately, I couldn't find one. There were mechanical turntables that could play vinyl records, but collectors actively hunted the working ones, and none were available for sale. Instead, I visited music stores and purchased every available guitar sheet music songbook.

I also visited bookstores to stock up on reading materials—mostly fantasy to match the circumstances—and reference books on topics ranging from math and engineering to medicine, chemistry, mechanics, and more. Eventually, I would build my new home somewhere and might need this knowledge. Finally, my house sold. I paid off the mortgage and collected the remaining amount. The cars went next, and with that, I started my final shopping spree.

I knew different worlds would have food, and at first, I almost skipped the food shopping. But after some thought, I went with it anyway. If the food there turned out to be too different, the familiar tastes would be a treat. And based on historical texts, hygiene wasn't exactly prevalent in the past. Maybe magic had a solution, but since I didn't know that for a fact, it was better not to take chances. Storing food as-is in my Storage didn't sit right with me.

After testing it with a cup of coffee and finding it still piping hot after two months, I knew things would stay fresh indefinitely. But somehow, it still felt wrong. As a solution, I bought fifty camping coolers, filled them with ice, and started visiting stores. First fifteen different butchers—cleaned them out. Then, fish shops—same. Fresh eggs came next. I might have created a shortage. I cleaned out the delis, then moved on to fruits and vegetables.

That's when the thought struck me: I had no idea what would be available in fantasy land, and I wasn't about to spend the rest of my life without tomatoes, coffee, or chocolate. I stopped by every nursery in the area and grabbed every seed variety they had. Who knew what I might miss? Then came the absolute essentials: coffee and tea, and, of course, more coffee. Two hundred pounds later, I figured I was set. Maybe it was excessive, but I had no intention of finding myself coffeeless.

I also stocked up on dairy products, spices, salt, rice, pasta, candies, cooking and lamp oil, sugar, baked goods, and lots of bread. Alcohol came next. I bought whiskey, bourbon, and wine in barrels since they looked less suspicious, and cleared out three liquor stores of beer and spirits. I wasn't much of a drinker, but I knew the value of a good social lubricant. Alcohol was a great icebreaker and bribe. Water was next. Sure, I had the Purify spell, but I preferred the convenience of bottled water.

Just in case, I also bought ten of the largest water tanks I could find, each with a tap, and filled them to the brim. Naturally, I stocked up on toilet paper (I don't like leaves), personal grooming supplies, and detergent. Sure, I had the Clean spell, but better safe than sorry. My Storage looked full. Maybe the stuff inside didn't reach the ceiling yet, but it was close. I hadn't believed I could fill 64 cubic meters of space, but I managed—big time.

I spent another Ability Point to house the rest of my money; there was no point in leaving it behind. Now I had 216 cubic meters, and I again used the press-and-pull method to give it a tolerable shape. Looking at the space, I rubbed my hands together. Challenge accepted. I planned to drive between the Gates in Europe, making stops at supermarkets to stock up, and visiting pawnshops and gaming stores for jewelry and copper coins. I was ready. Just one last thing to do …