The wasteland roared alive.
Chains lashed from every angle, a storm of steel and malice, their runes pulsing with the hunger of something ancient. Each link carried weight—the demand of the scenario, the whisper of inevitability.
Hae-won staggered, crimson cracks spreading along his arm as the Most Ancient Dream strained awake. His chest burned with the memory of the Titan's debt-sword, his veins shivered with half a thousand deaths, and the script itself bent toward him.
[ The System urges you: TAKE ACTION. ]
[ You are designated Instability Core. Passive combat required. ]
His breath rattled. If he unleashed his power now, the chains would obey him—but so would the voices. He could feel them clawing at the edges of his mind, promising control at the cost of sanity.
And then—
"No."
Do-hyun's spear slammed into the ground, violet fire splitting the incoming chains. He planted himself between Hae-won and the storm, shoulders squared, eyes blazing with the fire of someone who had always followed but now chose to stand.
"You've already carried us too far," Do-hyun said through clenched teeth. "This time, let us fight."
Another chain whipped in. Seo Ha-young's blade intercepted, sparks showering as steel screamed against steel. Her grin was wolfish, but her stance was solid, her back pressed against Hae-won's as if to dare the world itself to get closer.
"You think you're the only broken one here?" she spat, kicking a chain aside. "Step back, Hae-won. Some of us want to bleed."
The scarred leader laughed, his chains thrumming with delight. "Foolish! You shield a man who should be your weapon. You waste yourselves for nothing!"
"Shut up."
Arin's voice cracked like ice. Her wards flared brighter, shattering three incoming chains into harmless shards of light. She stood beside Hae-won, trembling but unyielding, her hand reaching for his sleeve.
"You gave me the choice once," she whispered, eyes fierce. "Now it's mine to protect you. Even if it costs me everything."
Seong-wu moved last. Silent, precise, his golden blades whirled in lethal arcs, each cut severing a chain before it reached their circle. His expression was unreadable, but when he spoke, his words carried iron.
"You burn too brightly. If you fight here, you'll scorch us all. So for once—" his eyes flicked toward Hae-won, cold but steady, "—let others hold the weight."
The circle tightened. Chains clashed against shields, sparks against steel, magic against inevitability. And in the center of it all, Hae-won stood shaking, every nerve screaming to tear reality apart, every instinct demanding he rewrite the battlefield.
But for the first time, his allies weren't looking at him as a weapon.
They were holding him as something worth saving.
The system howled in defiance.
[ WARNING. Instability core inactive. ]
[ Penalty building. ]
Chains thrashed harder, runes glowing blood-red, as though reality itself rejected their defiance.
But still, the others did not yield.
Do-hyun's flames roared higher. Seo Ha-young's blade cut faster. Arin's wards bent but did not break. Seong-wu's precision only grew sharper, colder.
And Hae-won—helpless, trembling—felt something far heavier than chains press against him.
The weight of being protected.
The clash of steel and chain blurred into thunder. Sparks bit the air, magic flared, voices screamed—but Hae-won's vision tunneled inward.
Because this had never happened before.
In regression after regression, he remembered:
• Do-hyun falling first, always. Brave but foolish, a flame that guttered too soon.
• Ha-young's blade turning against him, her loyalty twisted into betrayal by the ledger.
• Arin's hands, bloodied, clutching his dying body as her wards cracked.
• Seong-wu's cold calculation: "You are a liability." His sword striking where the chains could not.
Not once—not in five hundred lives—had they chosen to shield him.
And yet, here they were.
Do-hyun bracing the storm with fire.
Ha-young's laughter sharp in the dark.
Arin's hand clutching his sleeve, not letting go.
Seong-wu's blades whirling in defense, not execution.
His breath caught. Something in him cracked open.
The regressions…
No.
The drafts.
Each memory flared like ink on paper, half-formed, smudged lines of a manuscript. He had written them once—back before the ledger, before the chains, when he was nothing but a failed writer staring at a laptop in 2025.
Back then, every chapter had ended in ruin.
Every draft had killed them.
Because he had written them that way.
His hand trembled. His heart hammered like it wanted to claw out of his chest.
The ledger's voice hissed in his skull:
[ Draft Unstable. ]
[ Corrections Required. ]
But the battlefield didn't collapse. It held. Because this time, they weren't acting according to the script. They weren't characters on a page.
They were choosing.
And that was something even he hadn't written.
The chains struck harder, as though the world itself tried to erase this anomaly. Sparks showered. The system's messages flared, red and merciless:
[ ERROR. Instability breach escalating. ]
[ Rewrite path detected. ]
But for the first time, Hae-won didn't feel like a scribe caught in endless rewrites.
He felt like someone watching his characters come alive.
The chains roared.
They came not like weapons but like verdicts—each link a sentence, each strike a judgment. They lashed from the towers, black fire rippling across their iron skin.
Do-hyun met the first wave with a roar of his own. Flame burst from his fists, molten arcs branding the air. His body shook under the impact, knees buckling, but he gritted his teeth and held.
Arin moved next. Silver wards bloomed around the group, star-script spiraling in elegant lines. The chains hissed where they touched her shields, like serpents burned by holy fire. Sweat poured down her face, but her eyes never left Hae-won.
Behind them, Ha-young laughed—bloody, wild. Her crimson chains met the black ones head-on, teeth against teeth. For every strike she deflected, three more cut into her flesh. But she never faltered.
And Seong-wu—cold, calculating Seong-wu—his blades blurred in golden arcs. Not striking Hae-won. Protecting him. His stance was sharp, merciless, as though daring the world itself to come closer.
Hae-won staggered forward, hand outstretched.
He could rewrite this. He should rewrite this.
One word, one flicker of the Most Ancient Dream, and the chains would unravel.
But when his vision blurred—when he saw five hundred drafts of their deaths looped behind his eyes—another voice cut through.
"Don't you dare."
Arin's hand caught his wrist. Her eyes blazed with steel, silver script burning against her veins. "We're not your drafts, Hae-won. Not anymore. Let us fight."
The ledger hissed in his skull, furious:
[ Rewrite Path Available. ]
[ Instability Threshold Critical. ]
[ Cost: Identity. ]
He trembled. His chest ached. The temptation clawed at him—fix it, control it, end it before they die again.
But then—Do-hyun's flame flared brighter, shielding him from a strike meant to pierce his spine. Ha-young snarled as her crimson shackles wrapped a chain twice her size and dragged it into the dirt. Seong-wu's blade split the air, golden arcs cutting through despair itself.
And Arin—Arin stood unyielding before him, silver light cracking but not breaking.
This was different.
This was alive.
He let his hand fall. His lips pressed to blood as he whispered: "Then show me… show me a story I never wrote."
The chains struck again—fury given form. But they did not break.
Not because of him.
Because of them.
And for the first time in five hundred lives, Hae-won didn't feel like a writer rewriting his failures.
He felt like a reader—watching something he had never expected bloom from the ashes of his abandoned drafts