Adventure Time Tree Trunks Apple Pie Novels & Stories

On the day the male influencer patient was discharged, he posted a tearful video accusing my chaste, principled doctor wife of sexually assaulting him. In the clip, he cowered in a corner of the hospital, trembling, his clothes disheveled. With a terrified cry of "Dr. Shelby," he abruptly cut the footage. Overnight, my wife became a monster in a white coat—public enemy number one across the internet. We begged him, again and again, to come forward and clarify the truth. Instead, he posted an injury assessment report and wept about being bullied by his doctor. My wife had no way to defend herself. She was suspended pending investigation—and in the end, she leapt from the thirtieth floor. I endured humiliation and waited for the truth to surface. When it finally did, I obtained a reexamination report that proved her innocence. But by then, no one cared about the truth anymore. And I, consumed by despair, died of cancer. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day that patient was first admitted. This time, I begged my wife to take leave—I wanted to take her away from this doomed fate. But my gentle wife wrapped her arms around me, her eyes red, and said, "Don't be afraid, honey. This time… I won't run away."

In real life, I had been pushed to the brink by an online romance scam. Just when everything fell apart, I awakened something called the Devotion System, and before I could make sense of it, I found myself thrown into a horror game. Among all the players, I was the weakest, barely able to take care of myself. If I wanted to survive, I had only one option—find someone stronger and cling to them, no matter what it took. However, things did not go the way I expected. Every player avoided me like the plague. Not a single one was willing to team up. With nowhere left to turn, I made a desperate decision. I chose a ghost. I treated her as my bound partner and devoted myself completely to her, clinging to her as if my life depended on it. However, as I spent more time with her, I began to realize she was not just something terrifying. She was someone who had been hurt, someone deeply broken. Hence, I stopped pretending. I began to help her sincerely. In the end, we overcame everything together and cleared the game. However, when I returned to the real world, I discovered something I never could have expected. She had followed me back. From that moment on, all I could do was wait for the system to pull me into the next stage.

After the company's entire plane crashed and everyone on board died, we all found ourselves transported into a novel, tasked with winning the favor of a queen. The system's icy voice issued its prompt: [The queen's male consort possesses a voice as melodious as a lark's.] Our handsome secretary smiled with quiet confidence. That very day, he stationed himself along the queen's usual route and began to sing a modern pop song. The queen was thoroughly pleased. She summoned him onto her carriage. Our colleagues looked on with unconcealed envy. "Looks like the bonus is his." "How lucky. The queen is wealthy and beautiful. Not only does he get to spend the night with her, he'll make a fortune too." But the next day, we saw the secretary hanging from a tree in the royal garden. His body was completely naked, riddled with arrows, his eyes still wide open in death. The voice he had once cherished was now a vessel crammed with thick, crude bamboo spikes. At the same time, the system's cold notification sounded once more. [All challengers' lives have entered the countdown. Please complete your conquest as soon as possible.]

I sell handmade fortune cookies in the park. Each one costs $10,000, yet every day, people fight to buy them. That’s because what I sell are fertility fortune cookies. Eat one, and you can get pregnant instantly. You can even choose what kind of child you want. Slip in a double-yolk charm, and you’ll have twins. Seal in a perfect test paper, and your child will be a genius. A spayed female dog ate one and ended up pregnant with six puppies. Someone buried a fortune cookie beneath a withered tree, and by the next day, it had burst into full bloom. I sell fortune cookies to both women and men—anyone who wants to get pregnant. I turn no one away. Even animals, if they so much as make a sound, I’ll feed them. Until one day, a young woman, Mara Kessler, who had been standing in line from dawn until dusk, finally stepped forward and timidly said she wanted to buy a fortune cookie. I only took one look at her, then staggered back in terror. "I can’t sell to you. Leave. Now."

The tree I fell from was rotten. It's leaves were rotten, it's bark was rotten, and it's roots were rotten. Unfortunately, I am an apple that didn't fall far from that rotten tree. I was groomed in the shadow of that rotten tree and sprayed with poison to ensure I would be nothing but it's germinated seed. My earliest memories are dark and painful. My most vibrant memories are coated in crimson red and shame. The small pieces of my soul that I kept hidden and protected are the only parts of myself I can tolerate. The rest of who I am... The despicable trash that haunts my dreams... I hate. Death is the only answer to my life. Not love. I don't deserve love. A tainted apple is never put amongst the ripe juices apples. It is thrown away, discarded... As I should be.

She was never supposed to matter. The novel never gave her a name worth remembering. After dying in a mundane accident, twenty-three-year-old Clara Quinn opens her eyes inside the pages of the fantasy novel she despised most — reborn not as the heroine, not as the villainess, but as an unnamed background character fated to die before the story even begins. Her plan is simple: stay invisible. Attend the Imperial Academy of Asterveil, avoid every named character, and quietly survive a plot designed to destroy everyone foolish enough to interfere. That plan lasts exactly one day. During the entrance ceremony, Lady Morwen Ashvale — the infamous crimson-eyed prodigy that even crown princes fear — steps off her platform, walks past every noble heir waiting for her acknowledgment, and stops directly in front of Clara. "You belong to me," Morwen says, loud enough for every student in the hall to hear. "Do not forget it this time." This time. Clara has never met this woman in her life. Yet Morwen looks at her as though she has been searching for centuries. As shadows begin stalking Clara through the academy's cursed corridors — as the original story fractures and rewrites itself around her — Clara uncovers the truth that should be impossible: Morwen has lived this story hundreds of times. She has watched Clara die in every single one. And in every timeline where Clara falls, Morwen burns the kingdom to ash. She is not obsessed. She is grieving. She has always been grieving. And this time, she refuses to lose again.

After the evening study session, I was just about to return to the dorm when my first boyfriend, the school's valedictorian and undisputed top student, suddenly tore across the courtyard toward me. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist and, in full view of a crowd of stunned students, dragged me into a frantic run toward the front gates. I exclaimed, "Julian, have you lost your mind? Graduation's six months away. Are you really trying to run off with me now?" I struggled the whole way, twisting and pulling against him, but his grip never loosened. "Autumn, don't ask any questions. Just come with me. Hurry!" he said, his voice trembling with panic. We fled the school, jumped into a taxi in the middle of the night, and rushed to another city, where we checked into a rundown budget motel. Arms folded and brow furrowed, I glared at him. "So you hauled me out of school like a lunatic just to hole up in a cheap motel?" His cheeks turned bright red. He flailed his hands in frantic denial, then thrust a phone into my hands. I barely had time to unlock the phone and start dialing my parents before a breaking news alert flashed across the screen. My eyes locked on the screen, and I went rigid with shock. The headline reported, 'Mass Death at Blackwood High: All 5,000 students and faculty found dead last night after experiencing catastrophic bleeding. Only two students who skipped the study session survived.' I looked up at Julian in horror. He was staring at the screen too, his face white as paper, cold sweat running down his forehead. "You knew, didn't you?" I asked. "What the hell is going on?"

My new patient, Lydia Baldwin, has called the police 99 times. Her voice trembles with fear as she says, "My son has a mole on his neck, but the one now doesn't! My husband used to throw up at the smell of cilantro. But now, he eats it every day and even enjoys it! "They are impostors! Why won't the police arrest them?" I am deeply shocked. Because just half an hour earlier, I met her son. He had dark circles under his eyes as he handed me Lydia's medical records. "My mom has Alzheimer's disease. She doesn't just forget things now. She talks nonsense too. Please, you have to help her come to her senses." But I specialize in treating Alzheimer's. Lydia's memory is sharp. Her logic is clear and well-supported. She isn't sick at all.

After being chosen by a horror game, I took over a food stall in a small town. A ghoul tried to eat me, his huge, bloody mouth a gaping maw, but I quickly shoved a focaccia sandwich into it. He chewed and then said, “Oh, forget it. With food to eat, I’ll kill her tomorrow.” The next day, I made delicious pierogies, then skewers and stews. All the ghouls who stopped by gave up on trying to kill me, focusing on eating instead. The audience watching me was shocked that I could survive all the way to the end with just my cooking.

To pay off my student loans, I started doing spicy streams online. I never thought I'd actually blow up. Every night, my audience floods the chat, fawning over my face and my body. I love the attention, and I work hard to give them what they want. Until I was dropped into a horror game. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a rotting corpse. And for some reason, my livestream was still running. When the game’s Boss told us all to pick a weapon to die by. The other players all chose to die of old age, or peacefully in their sleep like a baby. I turned my phone to face the boss. "My fans think you're hot," I stammered. "They want me to be killed by... well, by the weapon between your legs. They said 'deeply.' Is that... an option?" The other players whispered among themselves. “This woman must have a death wish.” “Just watch. The Boss is about to tear her to shreds.” But no one expected the Boss to blush.