But Hira did not rise.
Not yet.
Because the blank page—so clean, so pristine—began to resist.
The cursor blinked faster. An anxious heartbeat. Then it jerked, as if tugged from the other side. The page spasmed. Something behind it wanted out.
A voice crawled through the whitespace, ancient and eager.
> "You think you won, little authorling? That was only the Draftkeeper."
From the shadows beneath the margins, a footnote peeled itself into being. It pulsed with editor's ink and screamed in twelve-point Times New Roman:
> See Appendix: Godmode.
Hira turned slowly.
There, rising from the footer—where no narrative dared tread—came the worst thing of all.
The Final Form.
The Canon.
It was not a creature.
It was a commandment.
A towering edifice of consensus, calcified by adaptations, boxed sets, and curriculum placements. Its limbs were compiled fan expectations. Its breath was a thousand wiki articles citing sources long since disavowed. Its eyes gleamed with continuity.
