The world had forgotten what it felt like to see the numbers.
Five years after the Great Deletion, the children playing in the parks of District 7 didn't look at a butterfly and see its Level or its potential item drops. They saw color. They saw movement. They saw life. The blue holographic flickering that had once haunted the periphery of every human's vision had been replaced by the steady, unblinking clarity of the sun.
Han Jue stood at the top of the Museum of the Ancient Audit, a structure built on the foundations of what was once his Eternal Tower. The obsidian glass had been replaced by limestone and oak—materials that required maintenance, materials that aged, materials that were real.
He looked down at his desk. There was no Gavel of the Void resting there. There was only a heavy, silver-tipped fountain pen and a ledger made of handmade hemp paper.
[Current Status: Human]
[Level: N/A]
[Debt: None]
He smiled at the mental habit of checking his stats. It was a phantom limb he still felt every now and then.
"The gala starts in twenty minutes, Mr. Han," a voice called out.
It was a young intern, a girl named Maya. She was part of the first generation that had never 'Awakened.' To her, the stories of the Abyssal Governor and the Sovereign of the Ledger were fairy tales, as distant as the myths of Zeus or Odin.
"I'll be down in a moment, Maya," Han Jue said, his voice mellowed by the years. "I just need to finish the final entry for the archive."
The Museum of Debt
The museum was not a celebration of the System; it was a memorial to the cost of it. In the main hall, there was a glass case containing a rusted, serrated knife. The plaque beneath it read: The Scavenger's First Tool.
Further down the hall, there were deactivated fragments of mana-tech, looking like fossils of a dead civilization. There were recordings of the "Face-Slaps" that had changed the world, but they were presented as historical turning points rather than entertainment.
As the "Old Guard" arrived for the five-year anniversary, the atmosphere was one of quiet, dignified survival.
Garrick arrived first. He was no longer a man of iron and steam. He walked with a slight limp—an old injury from the Vulcan-X crash that hadn't quite healed without the System's auto-repair. He wore a simple tweed suit and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and oil.
"Audit's still looking clean, Han Jue," Garrick said, shaking Han Jue's hand. His grip was still firm, though it lacked the mechanical power of his Level 88 days. "My logistics company just moved its ten-millionth ton of cargo. No magic. Just physics and hard-working people."
"And the profit margins?" Han Jue asked with a wink.
"Healthy," Garrick laughed. "But I still find myself checking my pockets for Soul Points every time I buy a coffee."
Selas followed shortly after. She was the Director of the Global Meteorological Institute now. Without the ability to summon hurricanes at will, she had spent the last five years mastering the complex equations of fluid dynamics.
"The atmosphere is finally stabilizing," Selas said, her silver hair now cut into a practical bob. "Without the System siphoning mana from the currents, the weather patterns are returning to their pre-Rift cycles. It turns out the world is much more predictable when gods aren't fighting in the clouds."
Elena Sol, now a high-ranking official in the United Nations' Security Council, looked over the crowd. She was the one who kept the peace in a world where "Power" was now defined by diplomacy and law rather than XP.
"The Holy Alliance has officially dissolved its last paramilitary branch today," Elena reported, her voice carrying a sense of profound relief. "Julian—or rather, the man formerly known as Julian—is teaching theology in a small village in the Alps. He says he finally understands what 'faith' means when it doesn't come with a mana-shield."
The Chancellor's Report
Han Ling arrived last, fresh from her university graduation. She was the pride of the New World—a woman who had been a 'Chancellor of the Abyss' but chose to become a Chancellor of Human Rights.
She walked up to Han Jue and handed him a bound thesis.
"It's finished," she said, her eyes bright. "The General Theory of Social Equity. I used the 'Audit' logic you taught me, Jue. I proved that when resources are distributed based on human need rather than 'Potential Rankings,' the overall productivity of a civilization increases by a factor of $\phi$, where $\phi$ represents the Golden Ratio of social balance."
Han Jue flipped through the pages. The equations were complex, bridging the gap between economics and ethics.
$$\Delta S = \int_{t_0}^{t_1} (P_{human} - D_{system}) dt$$
"This is your legacy, Ling-er," Han Jue said softly. "Not the void-energy or the secret ledgers. This. The ability to look at a person and see their value, not their debt."
The Final Lesson: The Blank Page
As the gala reached its peak, Han Jue was called to the podium. The room was filled with former Hunters, former Sovereigns, and the new youth of the world. Thousands more watched via the global broadcast—the same screens that had once shown the Bailiff's execution.
Han Jue didn't bring a speech. He brought a single, blank sheet of paper.
"Five years ago," Han Jue began, his voice echoing through the silent hall, "we lived in a world where our value was determined by a screen. We were told that we were born into a debt we could never pay, and that the only way to survive was to take from someone else. We called it 'Leveling Up.' We called it 'Growth.'"
He held up the blank page.
"The System gave us a script. It told us who the heroes were and who the 'Trash-men' were. It gave us power, but it took our agency. It gave us immortality, but it took our humanity."
He paused, looking at the faces in the crowd—Garrick, Selas, Elena, and his sister.
"When I deleted the System, I didn't give you a new one. I didn't replace the Master Creditor with myself. I gave you this: The Blank Page."
He took his silver pen and drew a single, straight line across the middle of the paper.
"Life is not a ledger of what you are owed," Han Jue said. "It is an audit of what you choose to give. There is no 'Source' watching you from the stars. There is no 'Origin' waiting to reclaim your soul. There is only the balance you create with your own hands."
He set the pen down.
"The Sovereign Audit is officially closed. From this moment on, the only person authorized to audit your life... is you. Make sure your books are worth reading."
The Scavenger's Sunset
The gala ended with a quiet celebration, but Han Jue slipped away before the final toast. He walked out into the cool evening air of District 7, heading toward the old industrial sector—the place where it had all begun.
He found himself standing at the edge of an old, abandoned Rift Gate. It was now a hollow arch of rusted metal, covered in ivy. It was no longer a portal to a dungeon; it was just a piece of scrap.
He sat on a nearby crate, the same kind he used to sit on when he was waiting for the Golden Dawn to finish their raids. He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a man who had worked hard, a man who had lived.
A small shadow moved in the darkness of the alley. A young boy, no older than ten, emerged, clutching a rusted extraction knife he'd found in the debris. He looked at Han Jue with wide, curious eyes.
"Are you the man from the museum?" the boy asked. "The one who fought the King?"
Han Jue looked at the boy, then at the knife. "I'm just a man who knows how to use a pen, kid."
"I want to be a Hunter," the boy said, his voice filled with the same desperate hope Han Jue had felt twenty years ago. "But there are no monsters left. My dad says the world is boring now."
Han Jue reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ordinary mana-stone—a dull, non-magical pebble he had kept as a souvenir. He handed it to the boy.
"The world isn't boring, kid," Han Jue said, his eyes sparkling. "It's just quiet enough for you to hear your own heart. You don't need a monster to be a hero. You just need to find someone who's in the red... and help them find their way back to the black."
The boy looked at the stone, then at Han Jue. "Is that the secret? Is that the Sovereign's power?"
"No," Han Jue said, standing up and dusting off his suit. "The Sovereign's power was knowing that the stone didn't matter. What matters is the hand that holds it."
He walked away, leaving the boy standing by the ivy-covered arch. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The debt was settled. The ledger was closed. And the world was finally, beautifully, unwritten.
Author's Final Thought
Chapter 22 is the 'Legacy' chapter. It's the final breath of a story that wasn't about stats, but about the value of a human soul. Han Jue's journey from a scavenger to the Auditor of the World ends not with a bang, but with a quiet lesson shared in an alleyway.
Thank you, readers of Inkstone. You have been the ultimate investors in this journey. Your 'Power Stones' were the currency that kept this world alive, and your comments were the 'Audit' that kept me writing.
The Sovereign of Spilled Blood has officially left the building.
But remember... the ledger is never truly finished. It's just waiting for your next entry.
THE END (FOR REAL).