The paper sky stitched itself back together above Seth Virell as he stumbled, gasping. His heart thundered as if he had run a thousand miles, yet he hadn't moved at all. White margins reasserted themselves. The streets of paragraphs—those living fragments of fiction—curled and faded, leaving him standing alone in the pale expanse once again.
From the silence stepped the cloaked figure. His presence pressed against Seth's mind like a fist closing around a candle flame.
"You nearly drowned," the figure said, voice cold as dripping ink. "You lost yourself in the narrative."
Seth clenched his fists, fighting the lingering tremor in his hands. "I almost—died. It tried to write me back into itself. Like the book wanted to claim me."
"That is the nature of living texts," the figure replied. "They hunger for coherence. They despise intruders who disturb their endings."
Seth swallowed, then forced himself to meet the shrouded gaze. "But… I realized something. If we have this power—if Archivists can delete a book with a thought—why not just erase them all? Why struggle, why risk madness, why send us into these labyrinths? If they leak into the base world, just delete them. Wouldn't that solve everything?"
The silence afterward stretched like the pause before a knife fell.
Then the figure's voice came low and sharp:
"Do you truly think deletion is so simple?"
Seth felt the weight behind those words. "…Isn't it? I erased that priest with a thought."
"You erased an actor," the figure corrected, tone laced with scorn. "A single thread of ink. But what you suggest is erasing entire manuscripts, entire structures. Tell me, novice—what happens if you tear out a page from your own life?"
Seth hesitated. "…There'd be a hole."
"Yes. A hole that demands to be filled. Stories are not isolated—they are woven into the Loom of Aetheros, into the substructure of reality. Erase them carelessly, and the Loom recoils. Another narrative—darker, hungrier—will rush to fill the absence. Deletion is not correction. Deletion is rot."
The words sank like cold needles into Seth's chest.
"So… even erasing a single book could twist reality itself?"
"Yes. A book destroyed leaves echoes—shards of plot, drifting metaphors—seeking hosts. They can infest minds, buildings, even the city itself. A block of Aetheros could wake one morning speaking in verse because some novice thought it 'efficient' to delete a troublesome tragedy. Entire districts have been lost to such arrogance."
Seth staggered a step back. The ground beneath him felt suddenly fragile, as though one wrong thought could collapse the white plain beneath his feet.
The figure continued, merciless:
"You ask why we do not delete every book. The answer is simple—because deletion breeds corruption. A sealed story sleeps. An altered story bends. A cataloged story rests within our control. But a deleted story rages in fragments, unmoored. It is far worse than letting it remain."
Seth clenched his jaw. "…Then what I just did—erasing that priest—was dangerous?"
"On its own, minor," the figure said. "One line excised is harmless. But imagine deleting a protagonist. Or a world. Or the book entire. You would leave a wound that never closes. Do you understand now why Archivists tread carefully?"
Seth nodded slowly, his breath shallow. "I… understand."
"Good. Because this was merely a test."
Seth blinked. "A… test?"
The figure's cloak shifted, like paragraphs folding on themselves. "This book was child's play. A simple morality fable. And still—you nearly lost yourself. You asked the wrong questions. You lingered too long in the background. And you toyed with deletion. You were on the brink of failure."
Seth's throat tightened. "…Failure means death, doesn't it?"
"Failure means erasure. Death would be merciful."
A chill spread through Seth's limbs.
The figure let the silence gnaw at him before continuing.
"Remember, novice. What you faced here is nothing compared to the books you will one day enter. Narratives that resist with fury. Texts that rewrite you, strand you, devour you. This was the shallow end. You have yet to wade into oceans of ink."
Seth breathed deeply, forcing his pounding heart to steady. "Then I'll prepare. I won't fail again."
A pause—then, quietly, "Good."
But curiosity burned in him, gnawing at restraint. He looked at the cloaked figure and asked, "Senior… What about you? What is your Discipline? Your Cipher?"
For the first time, the figure tilted his hooded head, as if measuring whether Seth deserved an answer. Finally, he spoke:
"I am a Tensionwright. My Cipher four—Climax Forger."
Seth's eyes widened. "Cipher… four? Then that's—"
"Quasi-Virtue," the figure said. "Yes."
Seth exhaled, awe flickering in his chest. "You're so powerful. That must mean you can use your abilities in the base world too, not just inside books."
The figure's silence was confirmation enough.
Seth pressed further, his voice trembling with reverence and hunger. "Then… what exactly is a Quasi-Virtue?"
The cloaked head turned toward him, the shadows deepening. "You wish to know?"
"Yes," Seth whispered.
"Very well."
The air seemed to grow heavier, as though the weight of doctrine itself bent it.
"Ciphers Nine through Five—those are apprenticeships. You grasp the edges of narrative, but you remain chained to the book. Your powers manifest strongly only within texts. You are still mortal, still vulnerable, still ignorant. You are tools, not weapons. At those levels, Archivists are expendable."
Seth felt the sting of those words.
"But from Cipher Four to Three—" The figure's voice lowered into something akin to reverence. "—one crosses into Quasi-Virtue. That is when the narrative begins to bow to you even in the base world. You become something… more than human. A shadow of what the Nameless Author once breathed into creation. Your words shape tension, silence, endings. Your very presence alters stories around you. That is what I am."
Seth's breath caught. "…So you're already like an God."
The figure chuckled darkly. "An God? No. An echo. A foretaste. A Quasi-Virtue bends the narrative—but only partially. We still wrestle with restraint. We are not yet embodiments of Law. That comes only at Cipher Two to One."
"Virtue," Seth said softly.
"Yes. Virtue."
The word resonated like a bell through the empty white plain.
"At Virtue, you no longer wield a Discipline. You are the Discipline. A Closurist at Cipher One does not 'end' things—he is Ending itself. A Tensionwright at Cipher One is Suspense incarnate, the silence before the world's final breath. Virtues are regarded with awe, dread, worship. To encounter one is to stand before living scripture."
Seth's body trembled with equal parts fear and desire.
The figure leaned closer, voice sharp. "And now do you see why your question was foolish? If a mere Closurist at Cipher Nine could erase books carelessly, why would there be any need for Virtues at all? The responsibility of endings cannot be squandered. It must be earned—through blood, ink, and obedience."
Seth bowed his head, shame burning in his chest. "I understand, Senior. I was… arrogant."
The figure's tone softened—barely. "Arrogance is common in novices. But arrogance untempered becomes heresy. Remember this."
"I will."
"Good. Then listen well, Seth Virell. Your journey has only begun. You will be sent into texts a thousand times harder than this one. Entire cities of stories, each with their own resistance. And if you hesitate, if you drift too far into background, if you mistake yourself for an Author rather than an Archivist—you will be consumed."
Seth raised his head, determination burning behind his exhaustion. "Then I'll cling to my Discipline. I'll be a Closurist, obsessed with endings. I'll never forget."
The figure regarded him silently, then gave a single nod.
"See that you don't."