The abyss opened like a wound that did not bleed.
From its center, something moved. Not shadow, not duplicate, but something older. The air cracked. Every breath Lio took dragged smoke and ink into his lungs.
He staggered to his feet, fists trembling, veins glowing with black fire. The more he fought, the more the flame inside him turned cruel. What had been stubborn defiance now burned with hunger. His skin itched. His thoughts twisted.
He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill.
And the abyss fed him.
The Narrativeless did not stop him. They only leaned closer, recognition pressing harder. They wanted him to drink from the blank. They wanted him to be more bridge than man.
But far away, deeper than distance, another meeting began.
The Originless had not gathered in one place for centuries. Most of the world believed they were myths. Some believed they were gods. Others whispered they were mistakes.
But now, eleven figures took their seats in a chamber outside of causality.
