The City of Manuscripts had gone quiet.
Not silent like the tutorial world—this quiet was different. Heavy. Expectant. The half-finished citizens no longer moved in their endless loops. They stood still, their hollow eyes fixed on me.
I swallowed hard.
They'd seen.
They'd seen me fight the Red Pen Agent. Seen me tear its narrative apart. Seen me survive.
And now, they were staring as though I were something more than a candidate.
As though I were an Author.
[Hidden Function: Narrative Theft unlocked.]
The System window still pulsed, glowing faintly. My new skill hovered in its display.
[Stolen Skill: Erase Line.]
A slash of red ink that deletes unstable matter. Costs paradox.
I clenched my fist. Power hummed at my fingertips, ready to carve the world into blankness. But every use meant more paradox, more risk of overload.
Still… the temptation burned.
"Archivist Candidate."
The Scribe approached, parchment-robe whispering. His face shifted constantly, words rewriting with every breath. "You carry now what no one should. The power to steal narrative. Do you understand what this means?"
"Not really," I muttered. "But I can guess—it means I'm dangerous."
The Scribe tilted his head. "It means you are an Editor's nightmare. You are a story they cannot control."
The words made me shiver.
A sound broke the air.
"W…write me…"
I turned sharply.
A woman stood at the edge of the street. Her face flickered between outlines, sometimes with features, sometimes without. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
"Write me in. Please."
Behind her, others stepped forward. A child missing half his shadow. A man whose arm stopped at the elbow, unfinished. A group of faceless citizens, their mouths moving in silent prayer.
All staring at me.
All whispering the same desperate plea.
"Write me… Finish me… Make me real…"
My chest tightened.
The System pulsed again.
[New Archivist Function Detected.]
[Draft Granting: You may stabilize fragments of half-finished characters by assigning them a Role.]
[Warning: Granting consumes paradox.]
So that was it. I could give them stability. A place in the story. But the cost… paradox. Again, paradox.
The woman stepped closer, trembling. "Please, Candidate… make me someone."
Her unfinished face flickered. For an instant, I saw fear. Desperation. And the crushing emptiness of not existing.
My hand hovered over the System window.
If I granted her a Role, she would stabilize—become real, permanent. But every paradox point was another nail in my coffin.
The corpse in the tutorial flashed in my mind. Paradox overload. Dead.
I clenched my jaw.
"…What happens if I don't?" I asked.
The woman's outline shimmered violently. For a moment she screamed—but no sound came out. Her body fractured into drifting words, scattering into the street.
The others recoiled in horror.
The Scribe lowered his head. "Unwritten. She ceased because no role was granted."
My stomach churned.
This was what it meant to be the Archivist Candidate. Not just fighting glitches, not just defying Editors.
It meant deciding who deserved to exist.
The crowd pressed closer, whispering louder.
"Write me…"
"Give me a name…"
"Make me matter…"
I gritted my teeth, glaring at the System.
"Fine." I pointed at the child missing half a shadow. "Him."
The window flared.
[Assign Role?]
Suggested: Street Urchin (Minor).
Cost: 1 Paradox.
"Do it."
Light enveloped the boy. His missing shadow stretched, filling in. His outline solidified. Eyes blinked open, wide and real for the first time.
He gasped, staring at his hands. Then at me.
"I… I'm here?"
I nodded slowly.
The boy collapsed to his knees, sobbing with joy.
[Role Granted: Street Urchin.]
[Paradox +1. Total: 11.]
My chest tightened. Eleven. Dangerously high.
But the look on the boy's face…
It was worth it.
For a moment.
The crowd surged forward. Dozens of hollow faces, all crying out now.
"Me next!"
"Give me a role!"
"Don't let me vanish!"
The System pulsed again. Windows popped up, offering fragments of suggested roles. Merchant. Guard. Beggar. Scholar.
Each cost paradox. Each one chipped away at my survival.
The Scribe stepped forward, raising a parchment-hand. "Enough!" His voice thundered across the city. The half-finished froze. "The Candidate cannot grant all of you. Every paradox spent invites erasure. Do you wish to destroy the only chance of survival?"
The citizens trembled, outlines flickering, but slowly retreated. Their hollow eyes still burned into me, full of hunger. Hunger for identity.
I exhaled, trembling.
The Scribe turned to me. "Do you see now? This is the curse of your System. The power to decide life and death. The power to write. But every word you write brings the Editors closer."
"I didn't ask for this power," I muttered.
"No one does," he said softly. "But now it is yours."
Before I could answer, the ground trembled. The sky cracked faintly overhead.
From the fissure, whispers poured down.
"Too much paradox…"
"Unstable Candidate…"
"Correction required…"
The Scribe stiffened. "The Editors are watching. You must tread carefully."
I looked at the boy I'd stabilized, clinging to life, tears still streaming down his cheeks.
And I looked at the countless unfinished faces still begging silently.
Careful?
How could I be careful when every choice was life or erasure?
The System chimed.
[Archivist Task Updated.]
Stabilize City of Manuscripts to 50%. (Current: 23%)
Survive under Editor Observation.
Manage paradox to avoid overload.
Fifty percent. Twice its current stability. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of characters would need roles. Every one of them would drain me.
The whispers grew louder. The eye in the sky blinked once.
And I realized something chilling.
The Editors weren't just testing me anymore.
They were waiting for me to collapse.
I clenched my fists, glaring at the broken sky.
"You want to watch?" I muttered. "Fine. Watch me."
Because if paradox was the price… then I'd pay it.
But I wouldn't just write them.
I'd write myself.
To be continued…