The light beyond the gate was blinding, like walking into the heartbeat of a sun.For a moment, there was nothing but sound — the slow, rhythmic pulse of creation. Then the brightness dimmed, revealing a world unlike anything I'd ever imagined.
The Core of Creation was not a place. It was a living thought.
We stood on a bridge made of quills and glass, stretching into a vast abyss filled with floating orbs of light. Each orb was a story — entire worlds beating like stars, their light flickering between birth and destruction. Beneath us, rivers of black ink flowed endlessly, swirling into the shape of a colossal heart suspended in the center of it all.
It pulsed slowly, each beat echoing through the void like thunder. The Ink of God. The source of all creation — and all endings.
Sera's breath caught. "Is this… the Author's heart?"
I nodded. "Or maybe the story's soul."
The air shimmered. Words appeared in midair — not written, but spoken directly into existence.
You came farther than I thought you would.
The voice didn't echo. It existed everywhere — behind, above, within.
Sera gripped my sleeve. "Lucien…"
I stepped forward. The light ahead twisted, forming a human shape. It was me.
Not just a reflection — an exact mirror. Same eyes. Same scar. Same faint, tired expression.
"You," I breathed.
The reflection smiled faintly. "I am the Author. Or what remains of him. You already guessed it, didn't you? You are my guilt given form."
My stomach turned cold. "Guilt?"
"Yes. When the reader grew tired of the story — when you, Evan Rylan, screamed at the cruelty of the villain's death — the story broke. The Author tried to erase your anger, but emotion doesn't vanish. It created a fragment. You. The reader's regret, reborn inside his own creation."
Sera's eyes widened. "He's saying you were never meant to exist."
The Author nodded slowly. "A mistake. A contradiction. A villain who refuses his role, and a reader who refuses to stop feeling."
I clenched my fists. "Then why bring me here? To end me?"
"No," he said softly. "To finish the story."
He spread his hands. The world around us shimmered, and a thousand memories burst into the air — every fight, every death, every choice I'd made since I woke in Lucien's body.
"Every rewrite weakens reality," the Author said. "Every act of rebellion breaks the ink that holds this world together. You cannot fix a story by hating it."
His voice grew quieter. "You can only rewrite it by understanding it."
Sera stepped between us, her eyes fierce. "He's lying. You don't need his rules, Lucien. You've already changed the story by surviving."
The Author looked at her with something almost like pity. "Ah, Sera Vionne. The perfect heroine. Even now, you believe love can rewrite destiny."
He extended a hand toward her. "But you are not real, either. You are a paragraph—one that ends with tragedy."
The air rippled. Sera gasped, clutching her chest. Her hand passed through her body—transparent, fading.
"No!" I grabbed her shoulders. "Don't you dare!"
The Author's voice turned sharp. "This is what rewriting costs. Every time you change the script, something must be erased. You wanted to save her? Then prove she deserves to exist."
My vision blurred with fury. "I don't need your permission!"
I raised my sword—the black fire ignited again, brighter than before. It pulsed in rhythm with the Ink of God.
The Author smiled faintly. "Good. Then write."
The battle didn't happen in motion, but in meaning.
Every swing of my blade cut through words, not flesh. Every defense he raised was a line of narration that tried to define me.
The villain strikes blindly, consumed by rage.I slashed, rewriting it—The man fights to protect what the story forgot.
The world shook with each clash. The rivers of ink boiled, the heart of creation beat faster, spilling black light across the bridge.
The Author's voice grew quieter, almost human. "You're learning. You think because you read stories, you can write one. But do you understand what it means to create?"
I blocked another strike—sentences of fire crashing against my will. "Creation isn't control. It's choice."
He tilted his head. "Then choose, Lucien. Her… or this world."
I froze. Sera was on her knees, her form breaking apart like smoke.
"Lucien…" Her voice was faint. "It's okay. Save them. Save everyone. Don't let my story stop yours."
"Stop talking like that!" I shouted. "You're not a character. You're you!"
I could see the Author watching, expression unreadable. "Even now, you can't see the truth," he murmured. "You're fighting not me—but yourself. The part of you that can't let go."
The bridge began to collapse. The heart below roared, releasing tendrils of black light that rose like veins into the air.
I made my choice.
I leapt forward, plunging my sword directly into the Ink of God.
The moment the blade touched it, light erupted—pure and endless. Sentences shattered mid-formation, ink turned to flame, and every story I had ever read flooded through my mind at once: love, betrayal, death, redemption.
And then I spoke—words not written by anyone else, only felt.
"If creation means losing her, then I'll become the villain again. But this time, it'll be my story."
The Author reached for me, his voice breaking. "You fool—if you rewrite without balance, you'll destroy everything!"
"Then let it break."
I twisted the blade.
The heart split open, pouring light across the void. The bridge shattered, throwing me and Sera into the flood of ink and fire. The Author's voice echoed faintly—no longer angry, almost sad.
At last… even the writer must be written.
Then everything went white.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on grass. Real grass.The sun was warm, not ink. The air smelled of spring.
For a moment, I thought it was over—that I'd woken back in my old world.
Then I saw the city in the distance.The same towers. The same banners. The same uniform folded beside me.
But something was different.
I felt… whole.
And Sera was there, sitting beside me, her eyes closed, sleeping peacefully.
I reached for her hand. It was warm. Solid. Real.
A single page lay beside us in the grass.
It read:
"The villain wrote his ending, and in doing so, became something new."
I smiled, feeling the wind against my face.
But far away, beneath the ground, the Ink of God still pulsed—slowly, faintly—waiting.