The ancient entity's voice reverberated through the Inkless Realm like the first word ever spoken, each harmonic carrying the weight of choices that had shaped reality itself. Lio felt his consciousness fragmenting under the pressure of that impossible attention, his sense of self scattering like leaves before a cosmic storm.
"Hello, little creator. Are you ready to learn what you really are?"
But before he could respond—before he could even process what responding might mean—the white void around them erupted into chaos.
The cracks that had been spreading through the realm suddenly widened into chasms, revealing not the darkness one might expect, but pages. Infinite pages, each one containing fragments of reality that had never been written, never been chosen. They fell like snow made of potential, each sheet carrying the weight of worlds that could have been.
