The world wouldn't stop flickering.
Cobblestones rippled beneath my boots, shifting between stone, parchment, and raw white void. My breath came ragged, every inhale scraping like sandpaper.
Paradox burned in my veins. Twenty-three points. Every second felt like my body was seconds away from tearing itself apart.
The Scribe's parchment-face loomed over me, shifting with frantic words. "You must rest, Candidate. The paradox is gnawing at your structure."
"I don't have time," I croaked. "If another district collapses—"
"Then it collapses," he snapped. "If you overload, all collapses."
I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. The boy steadied me, his shadow stretching faithfully beneath him. "You can't fall," he whispered. "If you fall, we all fall."
I clenched my teeth, forcing myself upright.
And then—
The street split.
Not a collapse, not an Editor's strike. This was different. The air twisted, text warping into mirrored sentences. Out of the distortion, a figure stepped forward.
My breath caught.
It was me.
Not just similar—me. Same face, same tattered clothes. But his eyes were calm, steady. His posture was confident, assured.
He looked at me with pity. "You're doing it wrong."
My stomach twisted. "What… the hell are you?"
The System flickered violently.
[Warning: Paradox Overload generating Narrative Echo.]
[Echo Classification: Alternate Draft Self.]
An echo. A rewritten me.
The copy smirked faintly. "If you'd stopped wasting paradox on trash NPCs, you'd already be strong enough to survive."
I staggered back. "Trash…? You mean the people I saved."
"They aren't people. They're fragments. Filler. You know it. Yet you keep bleeding yourself dry for them. That's not survival. That's suicide."
The boy clung tighter to me, glaring at the echo. "He's real! He saved me! Don't call us trash!"
The echo sneered down at him. "One child. One pointless shadow. And in return, Candidate, you've halved your chances of winning. You're a fool."
My fists clenched. The paradox pulsed like fire in my chest.
I lunged.
"Verdant Impact!"
My fist struck the echo's face—only for my knuckles to sink into liquid text. The echo's body shimmered, absorbing the blow.
He grabbed my wrist, eyes burning with cruel familiarity. "You can't fight me. I'm you. I know every move before you make it."
And then he shoved me back with impossible force. I slammed into the ground, breath bursting from my lungs.
The Scribe shouted from somewhere distant, voice muffled through the haze. "Do not lose yourself, Candidate! If the echo consumes you, your draft ends here!"
The echo loomed over me, crouching low. His eyes were sharp knives.
"You don't need them," he whispered. "Forget the citizens. Forget the Scribe. Forget this whole cursed city. Take the power for yourself. That's the only way to survive."
His words slithered into my skull like poison.
And the terrifying part?
Somewhere inside, a part of me agreed.
Another ripple tore through the street. And from it—
Another me stepped out.
This one was older, scarred, eyes hollow. His presence was heavy, dripping with despair.
He stared at me with disgust. "Neither of you understand. There is no survival. There is only deletion. We are doomed. Everything you save will collapse again. Everything you write will be undone."
The boy whimpered, clinging to my arm. "Stop… stop it, make them stop…"
My head pounded. Too many voices, too many versions.
The System screamed warnings.
[Paradox nearing unstable threshold.]
[Multiple Narrative Echoes manifesting.]
A third ripple.
A third me.
This one smiled cruelly, his eyes gleaming with hunger. He twirled a crimson pen between his fingers—the Red Pen Agent's weapon.
He licked his lips. "Or maybe, instead of saving or surrendering… we become the Editors."
The three echoes stood around me, their voices weaving into a storm.
"Abandon them."
"Give up."
"Rule them."
My own words, twisted into futures I hadn't chosen.
I clutched my head, screaming.
"SHUT UP!"
The boy's voice cut through the chaos, thin but fierce. "You're him! Not them!"
I froze.
He looked at me with desperate conviction. "You're the one who gave me a name. You're the one who saved me when everyone else vanished. You're real. You're mine!"
His tiny fists pounded my chest. "Don't let them steal you away!"
The echoes hissed in unison. The confident one sneered. "Pathetic."
The despairing one whispered, "Hopeless."
The cruel one grinned. "Tempting."
But their forms flickered. For a moment, I saw the truth.
They weren't whole. They were drafts. Possible endings of me. Fragments of what paradox thought I might become.
Not destiny. Not fate.
Just echoes.
I forced myself upright, staggering toward them. My fist glowed faintly with the unstable power of Reality Rewrite.
"You're not me," I growled. "You're just rejected drafts."
I swung.
"REWRITE!"
The glowing fist tore through the confident echo. His body unraveled into scattered letters.
The despairing echo shrieked, fragments of his face peeling away like burnt paper.
The cruel one lunged—but the boy's shadow stretched suddenly, slamming into him with unnatural force. For an instant, the echo faltered.
I seized the moment, plunging my burning fist into his chest.
"REWRITE!"
The last echo screamed as his body splintered into ink and silence.
Silence fell.
The street stabilized. My vision cleared.
The boy sagged against me, exhausted but alive. The Scribe hurried forward, parchment-face wide-eyed.
"You resisted," he whispered. "You resisted yourself."
I collapsed to my knees, trembling. "Those things…"
"Were you," the Scribe said softly. "Or rather, they could have been. Alternate drafts, birthed by paradox. Do not mistake them for illusions. They are futures you may yet become."
My stomach twisted. "If I keep going…"
"Yes," he said gravely. "The more paradox you wield, the more echoes will haunt you. Some will beg. Some will tempt. Some will devour."
The System chimed.
[Narrative Echoes Defeated.]
[New Trait Acquired: Echo Resilience.]
Resistance against mental corruption from paradox.
I exhaled shakily, staring at the faintly glowing window.
Echo Resilience.
A small safeguard against myself.
But as I glanced at the boy, clutching my sleeve with fierce trust, I realized something chilling.
I hadn't defeated the echoes alone.
Without him, I might have listened.
Without him, I might have become them.
The Scribe's voice was low, almost fearful. "Be careful, Candidate. For every paradox you spend, the Archive writes another draft of you. How many times can you rewrite yourself before you are no longer the original?"
I stared at my trembling hands, the paradox still burning in my veins.
And I had no answer.
To be continued…