The sky split like parchment torn by careless hands.
Letters rained down from the wound above, glowing scarlet, burning through the air as if they carried the fire of deletion itself. The colossal black eye stared unblinking, and for the first time, I felt the weight of its attention press down on me like a thousand unwritten books.
The citizens screamed. Not because of collapsing ground or flickering outlines this time—no, this was different. This was primal. They felt it too. Something ancient and absolute was about to step into their world.
The Scribe fell to his knees, parchment-face folding into unreadable terror. "No… no, it cannot be. Not so soon. Not for you."
My grip on the boy tightened. His shadow writhed beneath us, rising like smoke, instinctively coiling around him as if it sensed the danger.
"Who?" I demanded. My throat was dry, my voice hoarse. "Who's coming?"
The Scribe raised his face slowly, ink dripping from his eye-sockets. His words scraped across parchment-skin like knives.
"The Editor."
The rift widened.
From the wound in the sky descended a figure—not falling, but rewriting itself into existence line by line. First an outline, then words, then flesh. A tall, skeletal man in a tattered crimson robe, each thread written in quill strokes. His face was smooth and pale, but where his eyes should have been, there were only two gaping holes filled with swirling red ink.
He carried no weapon. He didn't need one.
His very presence was erasure.
The ground beneath his feet lost texture, becoming white canvas. Citizens near him evaporated silently into drifting punctuation marks. Buildings bent away from him, their structures dissolving into sentence fragments.
And still, he walked forward, step by step, deliberate and calm, as though erasing the world was as natural as breathing.
The System blared.
[System Notice: High-Tier Entity Detected.]
[Designation: Editor of Redaction.]
[Warning: Survival odds < 2%.]
My chest clenched. Two percent.
But the boy's hand clung to mine tighter. "You said they'd have to erase you too. Don't let go."
I forced my knees to lock, though every part of me screamed to run. Running wouldn't matter. No wall, no district, no shadow could hide us from that.
The Editor's faceless gaze turned toward me. Words appeared in the air between us, written in dripping crimson ink.
"Candidate. You carry paradox beyond allowance. You shelter a fragment that writes. You corrupt the Archive."
His voice wasn't sound. It was statement. Truth carved into reality.
I swallowed hard. "And what if I do?"
The words in the air rearranged, sharp as blades.
"Then you are subject to redaction."
The boy's shadow hissed, rising like black fire. The Editor tilted his head faintly, as if regarding an amusing curiosity.
The Scribe hissed in my ear, frantic. "You cannot fight him! No Candidate can! Your paradox will collapse you before you land a blow!"
But then—
[New Option Unlocked: Paradox Overdrive.]
Burn paradox beyond safe limit. Rewrite at the cost of self.
Warning: Collapse probability: 94%.
I stared at the prompt, my hands trembling. Ninety-four percent. Almost certain death.
But if I didn't…
The Editor lifted a finger. A line of red text stretched from it, slicing through the air. The fountain at the Plaza's center split cleanly in half, water freezing midair before vanishing into blankness.
He could erase us with a gesture.
The boy stepped in front of me.
"No." His voice was small, trembling, but steady. His shadow stretched taller, darker, sharper. "You can't take him."
The Editor paused. For the first time, his crimson ink-eyes flickered. Words dripped into the air.
"Fragment anomaly. Unauthorized narrative resistance. Impossible."
The shadow lunged. Black tendrils shot forward, slamming into the Editor's chest. For an instant, reality itself bent—black against red, shadow against ink.
And then, impossibly—
The Editor staggered one step back.
The Scribe gasped. "He made it… move him?*"
The boy fell to his knees, coughing blood that wasn't red but black ink. His shadow quivered violently, nearly collapsing.
I dropped beside him, holding him upright. "Stop! You'll kill yourself—"
He shook his head, his eyes glowing faintly with inky darkness. "No… I'm… not done yet."
His shadow writhed upward again, striking like a spear.
The Editor raised his hand. Red text unfurled, wrapping around the shadow like a leash, pinning it in midair. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it downward, pressing the anomaly into the ground.
The boy screamed.
The shadow shrieked in harmony, a soundless howl that tore at my skull.
I couldn't think. I couldn't hesitate.
[Paradox: 23.]
I opened the Overdrive option.
[Confirm Paradox Overdrive? Collapse Probability: 94%.]
The System pulsed, waiting for my choice.
The echoes' voices whispered in my skull.
"Abandon him."
"Give up."
"Rule them."
And the boy's broken voice overlapped them all.
"Don't let them… erase… me…"
I slammed the confirmation.
The world ignited.
Paradox flooded every vein, every nerve, every thought. My body screamed as if I'd swallowed a star. Reality blurred, lines rewriting themselves around me with every heartbeat.
[Paradox Overdrive: ACTIVE.]
[Rewrite Potential: Unstable. Reality will resist.]
My fist burned green with raw rewriting power. My eyes split with light—I could see sentences forming in the air, could read the fabric of existence itself.
The Editor turned toward me. His words carved through space.
"You cannot rewrite higher authority."
I grinned, blood dripping from my nose. "Watch me."
I lunged.
"REALITY REWRITE!"
My fist slammed into the leash of red text binding the shadow. Letters shattered like glass, bursting into fragments. The leash snapped.
The boy collapsed into my arms, gasping, but free. His shadow recoiled, flickering like a dying flame—but still alive.
The Editor tilted his head again. For the first time, his ink-eyes narrowed.
"Candidate. You risk collapse. You risk deletion. Why persist?"
The words cut into my skull, demanding an answer.
I bared my teeth, glaring back. "Because he's mine. And I won't let you edit him out."
The Editor extended his hand. Crimson letters spiraled outward, forming a circle of runes that pulsed with erasure. Entire blocks of text in the distance vanished as the circle grew.
If that hit, nothing would remain. Not me. Not the boy. Not the Plaza.
The Scribe screamed behind me. "Run, fool! You cannot resist that!"
But the boy tugged weakly at my sleeve, whispering. "Together."
His shadow rose one last time, curling around my burning fist. Black merged with green. Anomaly fused with paradox.
I roared, thrusting my hand forward.
"REWRITE: DENIAL!"
The two forces collided.
Red erasure against black-green defiance. The sky cracked like glass, letters raining down like meteors. Citizens were thrown to the ground by the force of it.
My veins tore. My bones screamed. The paradox burned hotter than ever, threatening to consume me whole.
But the boy's shadow anchored me. His tiny hand clutched mine. His existence screamed alongside mine.
And for one impossible moment—
The Editor staggered backward.
The System went wild.
[Unprecedented Action Recorded.]
[Editor of Redaction: Displaced.]
[Collapse Probability reduced: 94% → 62%.]
The Editor's crimson eyes flared. The words he cast burned hotter, angrier, faster.
But then—
The black eye above blinked.
The Editor froze. He tilted his head, as if listening to some higher command. The red text around him dissolved, retracting into his body.
And then, as swiftly as he came, his form unraveled line by line, vanishing back into the rift above.
The wound in the sky sealed shut.
Silence.
I collapsed, gasping, my entire body trembling. My paradox bar flickered violently.
[Paradox: 23 → 29.]
[Collapse Probability: 62%.]
Barely alive. Barely myself.
The boy lay beside me, his breathing ragged. His shadow coiled weakly around us both, like a dying ember refusing to extinguish.
The Scribe approached slowly, parchment-face unreadable. "You… you displaced an Editor. Impossible. Unthinkable. The Archive will not ignore this."
I forced myself to my knees, clutching the boy close. "Good. Let them notice. Because I'm not done."
The Scribe's words scratched across his skin. [Then you are no longer Candidate. You are Enemy.]
I looked up at the sealed sky, teeth clenched.
"Then let them send more. I'll rewrite every one they send."
The System pulsed ominously.
[Hidden Achievement Unlocked: Defier of Editors.]
[Title Gained: Enemy of the Archive.]
[Consequences: Irreversible.]
And for the first time, the Archive itself whispered into my skull—cold, vast, infinite.
"You will not be allowed to finish this draft."
To be continued…