The courtyard rang with steel.
Morning drills stretched across the academy grounds—rows of cadets paired against each other, wooden blades clattering in practiced rhythms. Instructors barked orders, correcting stances, striking the flat of their sticks against careless wrists.
But Hae-won heard none of it.
Every sound was muffled under the constant hiss in his skull.
… modifier … error … observed … unpaid …
The ledger had not gone silent after last night. It was watching him. Judging. Waiting.
And Ha-young's words clawed at the back of his mind. "Errors draw collectors."
He flexed his hand around the training sword, knuckles tight. The phantom ache of the debt-blade's thrust lingered in his chest. His every breath reminded him what failure felt like.
Not again.
Never again.
The whistle shrilled. "Pairs—engage!"
Do-hyun grinned at him across the circle. His friend's hair was tied back in a messy knot, his stance just a little too loose—always confident, always underestimating. "You ready this time, bookworm?"
Hae-won didn't answer. He couldn't afford levity.
He dropped into stance.
The clash came fast—Do-hyun lunging forward with a wide slash. Hae-won parried without thought, feet sliding, body remembering motions drilled into him over countless lifetimes. Wood cracked against wood.
But it wasn't enough.
Not against the memory of the Titan. Not against inevitability.
His pulse surged.
And the ledger flared in response.
[ Modifier Accessed. ]
[ Script Line: Do-hyun strikes with a wide horizontal slash. ]
[ Proposed Adjustment: Trajectory falters. Blade misses target. ]
The words bled across his vision like ink seeping through paper.
Hae-won's grip tightened. He didn't know what triggered it—desperation? Intent? The refusal to follow the same page?
He whispered, voice trembling.
"…Change it."
The ink shivered.
[ Adjustment Logged. ]
Do-hyun's blade stuttered in mid-arc, his arm jerking as though unseen strings tangled around his muscles. His strike went wide, missing Hae-won by a handspan.
The crowd gasped.
Do-hyun stumbled, eyes wide. "What the—?"
Hae-won moved before doubt could catch him. His blade whipped upward, clean and sharp, stopping just shy of Do-hyun's throat.
The instructors froze.
The courtyard fell silent.
Every eye turned to him.
Hae-won's chest heaved. Sweat slicked his palms. The whispers hissed louder in his ears.
… unauthorized … modification … anomaly …
Do-hyun blinked at him, stunned. "…Since when were you this fast?"
He couldn't answer. He couldn't tell them he had bent the script itself, shifted the line of fate.
But Ha-young knew.
Across the circle, she watched him. Silent. Her lips curved—not in mockery this time, but in something closer to hunger.
The whistle shrilled again, snapping the crowd back to motion. The instructor barked, "Switch pairs!"
But Hae-won didn't move. His pulse thundered. His head pounded with the echo of those words:
[ Adjustment Logged. ]
He had done it.
He had broken the page.
⸻
The second bout came.
This time, his partner was a taller second-year, eyes sharp, stance disciplined. No careless swings here.
The strike came fast, precise—straight for his ribs.
And the ink flared again.
[ Script Line: Opponent's thrust strikes true. ]
[ Proposed Adjustment: Thrust glances off harmlessly. ]
The temptation was overwhelming. Just a word. Just a whisper, and the debt of pain would vanish.
But as he opened his mouth—
The ledger roared.
[ Warning: Unauthorized Adjustment Frequency Exceeded. ]
[ Risk: Collector Attention. ]
Agony ripped through his veins. His chest clenched as though the debt-sword had pierced him again.
He gasped, stumbling.
The strike nearly landed.
Instinct screamed. He twisted, barely deflecting the blade. The wooden edge scraped across his ribs, bruising deep.
The second-year sneered. "Sloppy."
Hae-won's teeth grit. His breath came ragged, sweat dripping down his jaw.
So there was a cost.
One change—the script bent.
Two—and the ledger itself bit back.
Errors draw collectors.
Ha-young's voice echoed in his mind.
He glanced toward her across the field. She was sparring with fluid grace, blade flashing, eyes never leaving him. She saw his stumble. She knew.
The whispers raged, a storm pounding against his skull.
… unpaid … modifier … error … monitored …
His vision blurred at the edges.
But he refused to fall.
If the cost of bending fate was blood, he would bleed.
If the ledger marked him as an error, he would carve his place into its margins anyway.
Because the alternative—the Titan's fist, the screams, the red smear where lives had stood—was worse.
Far worse.
He raised his blade again.
And this time, he didn't whisper to the ink.
This time, he fought with his own strength.
The bruise on his ribs throbbed, pain anchoring him. His strikes were slower, heavier, more human. The second-year pressed him hard, sweat pouring, but he refused to yield.
Every block, every parry was clumsy, imperfect. But real.
The ink hovered at the edge of his vision, waiting, tempting. But he ignored it.
And when the whistle blew, ending the match, he was still standing.
Barely.
But standing.
⸻
As the cadets dispersed, Ha-young appeared at his side. Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, but her smile was sharp as ever.
"You bent it," she whispered.
His jaw tightened. "…And it bent back."
"Good." Her voice was low, hungry. "Now you know the teeth you're playing with."
He met her gaze, steady despite the tremor in his chest. "I'll pay the cost."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You don't even know the price yet."
But she didn't try to stop him.
And that, more than anything, terrified him.
Because if Seo Ha-young—traveler, manipulator, villain in waiting—wasn't warning him off anymore…
It meant she wanted to see what would happen when the collectors came.
The day's training ended with aching muscles and a bruise throbbing deep in his ribs.
Hae-won dismissed himself quietly, ignoring Do-hyun's grin and Arin's worried glance. The cadets filed toward the mess hall in noisy clusters, their chatter a grating reminder of how unaware they all were.
The world had already killed them. Twice.
They were smiling inside a coffin.
He didn't join them. Instead, he cut away down the quieter corridors, past windows painted orange by the falling sun. The academy at dusk always looked deceptively calm: students hurrying to study halls, lanterns kindling one by one. Nothing in the polished stone floors or bright banners hinted at the truth—that this place would be reduced to rubble, soaked in blood.
He couldn't stop seeing it.
The Titan's roar. The screams. The sword of debt rammed through his chest.
He touched his sternum, phantom pain pulsing beneath his palm.
"Not again," he whispered.
The ledger hissed in his skull.
… unauthorized … anomaly …
He shut his eyes, leaned his forehead against the cool glass of a window. The reflection staring back was pale, lips bloodless, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes.
How long could he keep breaking the page before it tore back?
⸻
Night settled heavy over the academy.
In his dorm, the room was silent save for the scratching of his quill. He had dragged every textbook across his desk, opened every manual of spellcraft and tactical theory. But none of the neat diagrams or training instructions told him what he needed to know.
There was no guide for this.
The modifier wasn't magic. It wasn't skill. It was theft.
Stealing the author's hand, writing his own line over theirs.
His knuckles whitened on the quill. He didn't know how long he could get away with it. Ha-young's warning replayed in his head.
"Errors draw collectors."
He needed to test. Carefully. Something small.
He shut the books and reached for the candlestick. The flame guttered low, casting long shadows across the dorm walls.
His pulse quickened.
The ink bled across his vision.
[ Script Line: The candle flickers in the draft. ]
[ Proposed Adjustment: The candle burns steady. ]
His breath caught. He swallowed, the copper tang of blood lingering faintly from where he had bitten his lip earlier.
"Change it," he whispered.
The flame stilled.
Perfect. Upright. Unwavering.
No draft touched it.
The dorm was utterly still, yet the candle burned like a sculpture of fire, frozen in place.
He exhaled slowly, a tremor running through him. It worked.
And no backlash.
Not yet.
Encouraged, he pressed further.
[ Script Line: The wax drips down the candlestick. ]
[ Proposed Adjustment: The wax hardens before falling. ]
His throat tightened. "Change it."
The droplet of wax froze in mid-descent. Hardened instantly, a half-formed bead clinging to the metal lip.
Unnatural. Wrong.
He stared, heart hammering.
This was control. Real control.
But then—
… unpaid … unpaid …
The whispers rose, thick as tar, pressing against his skull.
The candlelight warped. Shadows twisted unnaturally long across the walls. His reflection in the darkened windowpane wavered, stretched.
And then it blinked.
Hae-won's breath stopped.
The reflection's eyes opened before his did.
Wide. Empty. Watching.
He staggered back, chair scraping the floor. His chest burned, ribs aching as if the debt-sword had been thrust through again. The whispers grew louder.
… error … error … anomaly detected …
The flame guttered back to life. The wax bead fell naturally this time, dripping down the candlestick.
The reflection was just a reflection again.
He gasped, clutching his chest. Sweat drenched his shirt.
So this was the price.
Not just pain. Not just exhaustion. The collectors were watching. Already reaching through the cracks.
He couldn't risk pushing too far, not here. Not yet.
But the possibility was real.
If he could bend one flame, one bead of wax—
Could he bend the Titan's strike? Could he bend death itself?
His hand shook as he blew out the candle. The room drowned in darkness, but his thoughts burned hotter than fire.
⸻
The next morning, exhaustion dragged at his bones.
The dorm bell jolted him awake, and he nearly collapsed as he dressed. The memory of that frozen flame clung like frost, refusing to thaw.
He found himself in the mess hall, barely touching the food. Do-hyun was rambling about sparring drills. Arin laughed at something trivial.
Across the table, Ha-young's eyes locked on him.
She tilted her head, as though seeing the sweat at his temple, the twitch in his hand.
And she smiled.
"You tested it, didn't you?" she murmured under the chatter.
Hae-won stiffened.
Her smile widened, wolfish. "What did it cost you?"
He didn't answer.
Because he already knew the truth.
It had cost him the margin.
The thin space between him and the collectors' gaze.
And each time he scribbled across fate's script, that margin grew thinner.
Training grounds, noon.
The clang of steel rang sharp against the air, cadets grunting as wooden swords clashed in controlled rhythm. The instructor barked corrections, his voice booming across the yard. Sunlight blazed overhead, the heat pressing down on every back.
Hae-won stood at the edge of the ring, his arms aching from drills, sweat running down his spine. His body felt heavy from the sleepless night, but it wasn't fatigue alone. It was the lingering weight of the modifier.
He hadn't told anyone. Not Seo, not Arin, not even Do-hyun, though his friend had asked more than once why he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.
And yet, Ha-young's eyes still followed him. Like she already knew the cracks in his bones.
"Pair up!" the instructor barked.
Hae-won's stomach twisted. He didn't want this. Not today.
Do-hyun jogged over with a grin, practice blade resting on his shoulder. "C'mon, Hae-won. Let's shake the dust out of you."
He forced a nod.
The bout began.
Do-hyun struck fast, light on his feet, each blow carrying the strength of someone who lived for this. Hae-won parried, deflected, but his arms felt like lead. Each vibration rattled up into his skull.
He staggered back.
Do-hyun frowned. "You're off. You sick?"
"I'm fine," Hae-won muttered.
But then it happened.
A cadet from another ring misstepped, sword flying from his grip. The weapon spun through the air—straight toward Arin, who was watching nearby.
Her head turned at the wrong moment.
The blade was going to split her temple open.
And Hae-won moved.
Not his body—his hand didn't even twitch.
It was his will. The modifier flared.
[ Script Line: The sword strikes Yun Arin. ]
[ Proposed Adjustment: The sword embeds in the ground beside her. ]
His chest seized. Breath caught.
"Change it."
The world lurched.
The sword slammed into the dirt, inches from Arin's foot, quivering upright like a marker.
Gasps broke out. The nearby cadet paled, bowing in frantic apology.
Arin blinked, startled but unharmed.
And Hae-won's knees nearly gave out.
Pain ripped through his chest, his veins screaming. His vision doubled, black static crawling at the edges.
The ledger's voice roared inside his skull.
… unauthorized modification …
… anomaly confirmed …
… NARRATOR STATUS: PROVISIONAL …
He choked, clutching his sternum.
The words burned across his vision now—not imagined, not whispered. Real. Systemic.
[ Authority Detected: Narrative Override ]
[ Status Acquired: Provisional Narrator ]
[ Warning: Narrator role requires debt equivalent exchange. Collectors inbound. ]
He gasped for breath, sweat soaking his collar.
"Narrator…?" he rasped under his breath.
This wasn't regression. This wasn't just a second chance.
He wasn't playing inside the story anymore.
He was writing it.
And the story wanted blood in return.
⸻
"Hey."
A hand grabbed his arm.
Arin's eyes bore into him, confusion etched across her face. "What just happened? You didn't move, but—"
"I—" He tried to steady his breathing. "I don't know."
A lie. His mouth filled with the taste of copper again.
Do-hyun jogged up, worry furrowing his brow. "You okay? You're shaking."
"I'm fine," Hae-won snapped too quickly.
But he wasn't. The phantom weight of a thousand eyes pressed against his back, the collectors watching through the cracks. He could feel them—like breath on the back of his neck.
Across the ring, Ha-young was smirking. Not shocked. Not confused. Smirking.
She knew.
She had known from the beginning.
⸻
That night, the system did not let him rest.
[ Provisional Narrator Functions Unlocked. ]
[ Access Level: Margin Edits. ]
[ Rule of Exchange: Each alteration requires equivalent debt. Paid in blood, memory, or life. ]
[ Warning: Overuse draws Collector intervention. ]
He read the glowing script carved across his dorm wall. His hands trembled so hard the ink-stained quill dropped to the floor.
Narrator.
Not protagonist. Not hero.
The one who writes between the lines, changing fates at a cost.
His chest throbbed. His mind reeled.
Blood. Memory. Life.
How much of himself would he bleed into this story before the collectors came to tear it away?
He thought of Arin, alive because of him. He thought of Do-hyun's grin, Seo's sharp laughter, even Ha-young's wolfish smile.
He thought of all the cadets, laughing in the courtyard as if the Titan weren't waiting just beyond the page.
He pressed his forehead to the desk, shaking.
He just had to bleed himself into every word until it was enough.
Enough to save them.
Enough to pay what was owed.
Even if the story devoured him whole.