The countdown glowed red across the screens: 5:50. Ten minutes left.
In a dimly lit room, monitors displayed every tunnel, every corridor, every remaining beat of life inside this iron-and-blood labyrinth. Seated before them, the Vassal watched with a calm smile.
A guard burst in, out of breath.
> "Lord Vassal, everything is ready. We await only your signal."
The Vassal didn't take his eyes off the monitors. He murmured softly:
> "Good. Everything is going exactly as planned."
The guard hesitated, then pressed on.
> "With all due respect, my lord… you could wipe them from the map without effort. Why give them a chance? Your power… is absolute, isn't it?"
The Vassal's smile deepened, amused.
> "Absolute? Perhaps. But you see, a power that is too absolute quickly grows… bland."
He drew a small black notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket. Its worn cover seemed to tremble faintly, as if the words etched on its pages still whispered.
> "Everything I write in this book," he said calmly, "becomes reality."
The guard shuddered.
> "Then why not use it?"
> "Because that would be too simple," the Vassal replied, rising to his feet.
"A king gifted me this power, yes. But a game without risk is not a game.
I want to see their despair, their courage, their refusal to yield. If I crushed them with a single word… my victory would mean nothing."
He let his hand hover over the pages of the notebook, where a few lines had been inscribed—short sentences, precise, like verdicts.
> "This world is a theater," he continued. "And I am the one who writes the script.
But even the greatest playwright needs living actors."
The guard took a step backwards, unsettled by the Vassal's calm tone.
> "You… you are a monster."
A slow smile spread across the Vassal's face.
> "No. I am simply the one who holds the pen."
He glanced up at the screens: Hastur, Efa, Arata… they ran through the tunnels, their breaths mingling with the whistle of the approaching train.
> "5:55," he murmured.
"The dice have been cast."
He closed the notebook gently. The tick of the clocks echoed in the hush. On each screen the masked man's face appeared, repeating in a warped voice:
> "Five minutes until the end.
Let the final act begin."
The Vassal snapped off the lights, leaving only the red glare of the countdown behind. His footsteps rang through the corridor — cold, measured, almost ceremonial.
> "Blood, screams, faith… everything will be written," he whispered as he vanished into shadow.
For that book awaited only one thing…
The last page.