Madness.

The word gnawed at the edges of my mind, relentless, clawing at my sanity. I stood, a frozen witness, in the middle of a battlefield turned graveyard. The air was thick with the scent of blood—pungent, metallic, suffocating. Each breath felt like inhaling death itself, heavy and acrid on my tongue. My heart pounded erratically, as though it was trying to escape the hellscape that had swallowed us whole.

War.

All around me, the bodies of fallen soldiers, demons, and creatures I couldn’t name lay scattered like broken toys. My feet refused to move, rooted to the blood-soaked ground. My muscles ached to flee, to run from this nightmare, but fear held me captive. The scene before me—a macabre masterpiece of violence—paralyzed my mind. I clenched my sword tighter, its weight far too real, my fingers stiff with dread.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this.

I wasn’t a hero, just a lowly soldier with no name or rank that mattered. My shard, the source of power for so many legends, flickered weakly at my side, barely a spark compared to the maelstrom swirling around us. And yet, I stood here, following him deeper into the Demon Lord’s castle.

The Hero.

Why am I still alive?

The question looped endlessly in my mind. Each step forward felt like walking through quicksand. I had fought before, yes—minor skirmishes, brief clashes where death had brushed close but never embraced me. But this... this was different. The end was near. I could feel it.

"Steady yourselves!" The Hero’s voice cut through the chaos, strong and unwavering. His words pulled me back from the brink, if only for a moment. His presence alone was enough to push back the storm of fear surrounding us. His shard burned brightly, a sun amidst the shadows. He was everything I wasn’t—strong, determined, unstoppable.

"The throne room is ahead. Prepare yourselves!"

There was no hesitation in his voice, only the cold certainty of someone who knew victory was within reach. Or maybe he just believed it that much. Either way, it chilled me. Was this really the end? Or were we marching toward our own destruction?

I glanced down at my shard—its dim light barely a flicker. In the Hero’s hands, his shard was a weapon of unimaginable power, pulsing like a living heart. He carved through demon commanders with ease, his every strike sending ripples of energy through the air.

I couldn’t even steady my sword.

My breath came in shallow gasps as I followed him, my armor—cobbled together from fallen comrades—pinching my skin with every step. I wasn’t a warrior. I was a survivor. I was cannon fodder, a nameless soldier who would be forgotten when this was over. If it ever ended.

Ahead of us, the massive gates to the Demon Lord’s throne room loomed, ancient and foreboding. Every instinct screamed for me to turn back. But there was no going back. Not now. The Hero pressed on, his sword aglow with an unshakeable brilliance.

With a grunt, he pushed open the doors.

The room beyond was a monument to darkness—black stone scarred with ancient magic, air vibrating with malevolence. And there, waiting on his twisted throne of bone and iron, was the Demon Lord.

His shard—black as the void itself—hovered beside him, pulsing with the same dark energy that filled the room. He didn’t speak at first, his presence alone enough to steal the breath from my lungs. I felt the weight of his power crush me, forcing me to my knees. My heart raced, but I forced myself to stand. I had to.

The Hero, however, remained standing tall, his sword raised, eyes locked on the Demon Lord with an icy resolve.

"So," the Demon Lord’s voice finally broke the silence, low and mocking. "The puppet of prophecy arrives at last. And he brings his lambs to the slaughter."

Dark magic coiled around his fingers, and with a single flick of his wrist, the ground beneath us trembled. The air itself seemed to scream, the walls groaning under the weight of his power. My legs nearly buckled, but the Hero stood firm.

"I didn’t come here to talk," the Hero growled, his voice low and dangerous. "This ends now. For the fallen."

The Demon Lord chuckled, a sound as cold and empty as the abyss. "The fallen?" His eyes gleamed with malice. "Do you really think their lives mattered? You’re nothing but a tool, a weapon in the hands of fools. Fight, die—it’s all the same."

Without warning, the Demon Lord’s hand shot forward. A pulse of dark energy exploded from his palm, faster than I could process.

The Hero’s shield shattered. Our last defense, gone in a single instant. The blast tore through the room, the force of it throwing me to the ground. Pain shot through my body as I slammed into the cold stone, my ears ringing from the impact. The taste of blood and dust filled my mouth.

Move. I needed to move. But I couldn’t.

I lay there, gasping for breath, as the realization hit me: half of us were gone. Not dead. Gone. Erased from existence, as though they had never been. One moment they were beside me, the next, nothing but ash.

Why am I still alive again?

I forced myself to sit up, my limbs trembling, my mind reeling from the shock. And then I heard it. Slow, deliberate footsteps. Heavy with the weight of certainty.

The Demon Lord.

He descended from his throne, walking among the ruins he had created. His eyes scanned what remained of our forces with casual indifference, as though we were less than insects.

"How does it feel?" he whispered, his voice soft but cutting. "To know you’re nothing but dust in the wind?"

The Hero stirred.

Bloodied, broken, but still standing. He gripped his sword with white-knuckled determination, his gaze never leaving the Demon Lord. There was something in his eyes—a fury, a defiance that burned even brighter than before.

“They didn’t die for nothing,” the Hero rasped, his voice filled with raw anger. “And neither will I.”

The Demon Lord smiled, cold and cruel. "They all die for nothing." He raised his obsidian blade, its dark energy thrumming with malice. "Just like you will."

And then, with a roar that shook the very foundations of the castle, the Hero charged.

His sword cut through the air like a beacon, its light colliding with the darkness in a blinding arc. The clash of their weapons sent shockwaves through the room, the force so immense that the walls trembled and groaned, as if the very castle itself was straining under the weight of their power.

I watched, heart pounding in my throat, as the Hero fought with everything he had. Each swing of his sword was laced with desperation, his strikes heavy with the weight of the fallen. But the Demon Lord barely moved, his body swaying only slightly to meet each blow. He didn’t block so much as absorb the impact, his expression never wavering from that same cold, mocking smile.

"Is this all?" the Demon Lord taunted, his voice a deep, cruel echo that reverberated through the chamber. "Is this what you cling to? Hope? It will fail you, just like it did them. Nothing can save you."

And then I saw it—the truth that had been gnawing at me from the start.

The Hero was losing.

His movements were slowing. His strikes, once full of vigor and light, were becoming sluggish. The glow of his shard, so brilliant at the start, was flickering now, like a candle fighting against a storm. The sweat and blood running down his armor had mixed, and I could see the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. He wasn’t just fighting to win—he was fighting to stay alive.

And then it happened.

A sound split the air—sharp, like the world itself had been torn open. The Demon Lord’s blade sliced clean through the Hero’s side.

Time stretched thin. I watched as the Hero staggered back, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. Blood gushed from the wound, a deep, terrifying crimson that stained his armor. His face twisted in pain, his lips parting in a gasp, but even as his strength faded, his hand remained tightly gripped around his sword.

The shard on his chest flickered weakly, barely a spark now. But it didn’t go out. Even in the face of defeat, the Hero refused to let go.

The Demon Lord’s laughter rang out, hollow and cold, sending chills down my spine. He loomed over the Hero, his sword dripping with blood, his eyes alight with sadistic pleasure.

"Look at you," the Demon Lord whispered, his voice low, dripping with venom and satisfaction. His red eyes gleamed in the darkened chamber. "Broken. Dying. How does it feel, Hero, knowing that your world will crumble with you?"

He stepped closer, towering over the slumped figure of the Hero, who lay against the cold stone floor. The chamber reeked of iron and smoke, the remnants of a once-glorious battle now reduced to ruins. The weight of the Demon Lord’s words bore down on me, his victory seeming all but inevitable.

But the Hero… He lifted his head.

A weary smirk tugged at the corners of his cracked lips. The sound that escaped him was more of a raspy chuckle than a laugh, but it cut through the thick air of despair like a blade.

"You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?" The Hero’s voice was hoarse, each word strained with exhaustion, but there was still a flicker of defiance in it—a spark that hadn’t been snuffed out. Slowly, painfully, he adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, its edge stained with the blood of countless battles. "This sword... has killed every Demon Lord before you. You? You’re no different."

Silence followed. The words lingered in the air, almost daring the darkness itself. For a moment, hope—fragile and fleeting—stirred in my chest. The Hero wasn’t broken. Bruised, bloodied, and barely clinging to life, but he hadn’t given up. Not yet.

The Demon Lord’s smile twisted into a grimace. His eyes flickered down to the Hero’s sword, lying in a pool of his own blood. A faint shimmer caught my eye—the Sword of the Savior. Subtle at first, but unmistakable, as if the blade itself was waking from a long slumber.

It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a relic of a forgotten age, forged by the gods, blessed to be wielded only by a true Hero—one whose heart was unyielding, whose will was indomitable.

The Demon Lord scoffed, the sound harsh and cold. "That relic means nothing now." His voice held a cruel amusement. "You think that scrap of steel will save you? After everything, this is what you cling to?"

The Hero shifted, wincing as pain shot through his body. His breaths were ragged, each inhale a battle of its own. Yet despite the agony, he grinned, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure." His eyes gleamed with something dangerous—determination mixed with a hint of something the Demon Lord didn’t expect. "I’ve got a surprise for you."

The words hung in the air, a silent promise. The Demon Lord’s expression tightened. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—an emotion I hadn’t seen before. Fear. It was fleeting, barely a moment, but it was there. And then it was gone, replaced by simmering fury.

"A surprise?" The Demon Lord’s voice held a sharp edge. "You’ve lost everything, Hero. Your body is broken. Your world is burning. What could you possibly have left?"

The Hero’s grin widened. His fingers tightened around the sword, knuckles white, as he slowly reached into his tattered cloak. "You’ll see." His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made the chamber seem smaller, as if the walls themselves were listening.

And then he pulled it out—a shard. Small, jagged, glowing with an ethereal light that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The air around it seemed to hum, charged with power.

The Demon Lord’s eyes widened. He took a step back, his dark aura faltering for the first time. "No... that can’t be!" His voice trembled with disbelief. "How could you possess that? It was lost... erased from existence!"

But there it was, in the Hero’s hand—the shard of the First Light, the last fragment of a power that had long been thought destroyed. Its glow was soft at first, almost gentle, but then it began to grow, brighter and brighter, until its brilliance consumed the room.

The oppressive darkness that had suffocated the battlefield peeled away, retreating as if burned by the light.

This is impossible, I thought, my chest tightening. What is that shard?

"This," the Hero said, his voice steady and cold as steel, "this is hope. And it’s something you will never understand."

The Demon Lord’s face twisted, a mix of fury and something far more dangerous—fear. His fists clenched, dark energy swirling around him in chaotic waves. "Hope?" he spat, his voice cracking. "Hope is a lie! It will fail you, just as it has failed everyone who came before!"

But there was a crack in his words, a sliver of doubt that even he couldn’t mask. He knew. He felt it. The power of the shard wasn’t something he could control, wasn’t something he could fight. The darkness that had once obeyed his every command was now pulling away, retreating from the light.

With a roar of rage, the Demon Lord lunged forward, his power surging like a tidal wave. The ground shook beneath the weight of his wrath, dark energy coiling around him like a serpent, ready to strike.

The Hero moved.

With a roar that seemed to shake the foundations of the castle, he charged. His sword blazed with radiant light, fierce and brilliant, cutting through the darkness like it was nothing more than smoke.

For the first time, the Demon Lord faltered.

The smug confidence that had oozed from the Demon Lord since the start of the battle shattered. His eyes widened, a flash of disbelief crossing his face as the Hero’s sword cut through his defenses with effortless precision.

“Impossible,” the Demon Lord snarled, his voice filled with rage. His massive blade, once so fearsome, wavered in his hands. When the Hero’s strike landed, the Demon Lord staggered back, clutching his chest. Dark, corrupted blood oozed from the wound, staining his obsidian armor. His gaze dropped to his hands, slick with the vile liquid, as though he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

“Impossible!” he roared again, his voice trembling with fury and fear. The word echoed through the chamber, but it didn’t matter anymore. His once unassailable figure now shook, visibly unraveling in the face of the Hero’s relentless assault.

The Hero didn’t waste time on more words. His silence was more damning than any taunt or boast could be. He raised his sword again, his eyes burning with focus, and without hesitation, he struck.

The air around us shifted—the tide had turned.

The Demon Lord, once a towering, invincible figure, now stumbled back under the weight of the Hero’s blows. His movements were erratic, desperate, as the shadows he had commanded for so long began to flee. The balance of power had shifted, and the Hero—wounded, exhausted, but unbroken—pressed forward.

For the first time since the battle began, I felt it—belief. Not in a miracle, but in the possibility that maybe, just maybe, we could win.

The floor beneath us trembled with each strike, but now it was the Demon Lord who struggled. His once unbreakable sword arm wavered, and with every clash of blades, sparks flew wildly. But it was clear—he was tiring. The Hero’s light was pushing him back, step by step.

“You’re done,” the Hero said, his voice low but certain, the exhaustion seeping into every word. “It’s over.”

The Demon Lord snarled, but this time, there was no arrogance—only raw, jagged defiance. His blade wobbled in his grip, his movements erratic, every step heavier than the last.

I could almost taste the end. Victory was within reach.

But just as the Hero lifted his sword for the final strike, something shifted. The Demon Lord’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer, and a glint appeared in his eyes—a look that wasn’t fear. It was something darker.

“You think you’ve won?” he rasped, his voice softer, almost amused. “How predictable.”

Before the Hero could react, the Demon Lord struck—not with strength, but with speed. His hand shot out, dark tendrils of energy snaking through the air like vipers. The Hero’s sword moved to block, but the Demon Lord wasn’t aiming for the blade. He was going for the shard.

The Hero’s eyes widened in shock, but it was too late. The dark magic coiled around the shard, wrenching it from his side with a sharp, vicious pull. The Hero staggered back, his hand instinctively reaching for where the shard had been, but it was already gone—now gripped tightly in the Demon Lord’s clawed hand.

The Demon Lord grinned, a wicked grin, as he held the shard aloft. Its light, once radiant, dimmed and twisted in his hands, darkening as his corruption seeped into it.

Stolen story; please report.

“No!” The Hero’s voice cracked, his hand still outstretched as if he could snatch it back. But the moment had passed.

“You relied too much on this,” the Demon Lord hissed, his words quiet but dripping with malice. “And now look where it’s gotten you.”

The Hero lunged to strike, but the Demon Lord merely flicked his wrist, and the shard pulsed with dark energy. A shockwave of power slammed into the Hero, sending him sprawling to the ground. His sword slipped from his grip, skidding across the floor with a dull clang.

The Demon Lord stood over him, his grip tightening around the shard. His voice was soft, but brimming with satisfaction. “This is where it ends.”

He raised the corrupted shard high above his head, its energy crackling through the air, dark and malevolent. The room seemed to shrink around us, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest. This was it—the end of everything.

But then... something changed.

The power the Demon Lord had sought so greedily began to turn against him.

His body, once towering and invincible, convulsed violently. His form jerked and spasmed, as though his own muscles were rebelling. The shard in his hand, which had once pulsed with dark energy, was no longer under his control. It flickered and crackled, sending chaotic arcs of energy that illuminated the room with dangerous flashes of unstable light.

The Demon Lord’s face twisted in agony, his mouth opening in a guttural scream. “What... what is this?!” His voice, usually commanding and cruel, now cracked with fear. “Why... why can’t I control it?!”

I could feel the air shift. His scream echoed through the chamber—raw, visceral, the sound of a creature truly afraid for the first time. “It burns!” he roared, his body buckling as he fell to his knees. The heavy clang of his armor hitting the cold stone reverberated through the silence. Veins of white light, pulsing with chaotic energy, spread through his body, crawling under his skin like poison.

This wasn’t the Demon Lord we had fought for so long. He wasn’t the nightmare who had terrorized us. In that moment, he was just another creature in pain—consumed by the very power he had sought to control.

I glanced at the Hero, who stood not far from me, his breath ragged and his body trembling from exhaustion. His once-gleaming armor was streaked with blood and dirt, his sword out of reach. He had given everything to get us here, to this moment. But now, he looked defeated. His body shook, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of keeping himself upright. His eyes, once bright with purpose, were dulled by fatigue.

He took a step forward, dragging his sword behind him, its tip scraping the stone with a dull rasp. The shard beside him flickered, its light dimming, unsteady. But even as his strength waned, the Hero’s resolve remained unbroken.

He raised his sword, but something felt off. His movements were slow, too slow. His breathing was labored, each breath a struggle. I could see it—he wasn’t going to make it in time.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, the realization hit me.

This is your moment.

Before I could think, my body moved on instinct. My sword was already in my hand, and I was moving, faster than I had ever moved before. The Hero was too far, too drained. He wouldn’t reach the Demon Lord in time. If the Demon Lord recovered, even for a second, everything we had fought for—everything we had sacrificed—would be lost.

It had to be me.

My heart thundered in my chest as I charged forward, driven by something beyond fear. I wasn’t the Hero. I wasn’t supposed to be the one to end this. But in that moment, none of that mattered. The soldiers behind me were frozen, too far away to react, their faces masks of disbelief as they watched me rush forward.

The weight of my sword felt heavy in my hand, but I kept moving.

One step. Then another. The Demon Lord, writhing in agony, hadn’t even noticed me. His attention was consumed by his own suffering, his voice a low growl of torment. The shard in his hand flickered wildly, barely holding its form.

Closer. I was getting closer.

I could see the Hero struggling to lift his sword, but he was too slow. His arm trembled, his body too worn down. In that moment, I knew—he wouldn’t make it.

So I did what had to be done.

Before the Demon Lord could react, before he could lash out one last time, I lunged. I raised my sword and brought it down with every ounce of strength I had left. The blade cut through the air, slicing cleanly through the Demon Lord’s neck.

His body jerked violently, his head snapping to the side before collapsing in a heap on the floor. The sound of his armor hitting the stone was deafening in the sudden silence. His head rolled to a stop at my feet, his lifeless eyes staring up at me, wide with disbelief.

The throne room fell into stunned quiet. My chest heaved with the effort of every breath, my muscles screaming from the strain. My sword, slick with the Demon Lord’s blood, felt impossibly heavy in my hand.

I had done it.

I glanced at the Hero. He stood just a few feet away, his sword still raised, his eyes locked on the Demon Lord’s lifeless body. Slowly, his arm lowered, the sword slipping from his grasp. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

He stared at me, his face a mask of shock and something else. Not relief. Not gratitude.

Rage.

"You..." His voice was hoarse, broken. "It should have been me."

His words were quiet, but they cut through the air like a blade. He took a step toward me, his eyes burning with fury. "Why did you...?" His voice trembled, his hands curling into fists, his whole body shaking—not from exhaustion, but from anger.

I stood frozen. The weight of the sword in my hand felt unbearable, but I couldn’t let go. I had done what had to be done. But the Hero—the man who had led us here, the one we had all followed—looked at me as if I had stolen something from him. Something vital.

I had stolen his victory.

Before I could speak, the air around us shifted again. A voice—deep, resonant, and utterly inhuman—rumbled through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a knife. The walls themselves seemed to vibrate with the sound, as if the world was acknowledging what had just occurred.

"[World Story Plot Completed.]"

The words echoed, chilling in their finality. The battle was over—but something far greater had just begun.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat as the words reverberated around us, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sound wasn’t human—it was cold, dispassionate, like a detached observer narrating events from some distant plane. The soldiers stirred, their eyes wide, darting across the room in panic. The source of the voice was unseen, but its presence was undeniable. It was too powerful, too immense for anything mortal.

"What... what is this?" one of the soldiers whispered, his voice trembling.

Then came the words again, sharper this time, ringing through the chamber like a final judgment:

"[World Story Plot Completed.]"

The words crashed over us like thunder. My body seized up, my pulse hammering in my ears. The sound reverberated through the stone walls, shaking something deep inside me. I turned, scanning the room, searching for the source of the voice—but there was none. It seemed to come from everywhere, from the very air itself.

I wasn’t the only one who felt it. The other soldiers shifted, their faces pale with confusion and fear. The voice... it wasn’t for us. It felt too large, too distant—like it had been spoken by the world itself.

"What... what is this?" the soldier next to me whispered again, his voice quivering. His question echoed in my mind. What was happening? We had defeated the Demon Lord. The battle was over. So why did it feel like something far worse had just begun?

My legs locked in place. Something deep inside me screamed that this wasn’t over, that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

And then the voice returned—colder now, detached, as though it was reading from an unseen script.

"[Plot: The Demon Lord and the Fake Hero.]"

Fake Hero.

The words hit me like a hammer, knocking the breath from my lungs. I turned toward him—the Hero, the man who had led us through blood and fire. The man who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Fake? How could that be?

I stared at him, waiting for him to respond, to deny it—but he didn’t move. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and his body was frozen, as if the words had turned him to stone. He wasn’t looking at any of us. He was staring into the distance, into nothing, his lips moving, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

And for the first time, I felt it. Something was wrong.

His strength, his certainty, the way he had always seemed to know exactly what to do—hadn’t it felt strange? Hadn’t there been moments when the world seemed to bend around him, when things happened just a little too perfectly?

And now, I understood why.

"No..." The Hero’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with something I’d never heard from him before. "Not again."

A chill ran down my spine. I had never seen him like this. He was always so strong, so sure of himself. But now... he looked terrified. He looked broken.

Suddenly, without warning, he screamed.

It was a raw, guttural sound, filled with a terror that made my blood turn cold. His fists clenched, his body shaking violently, and in that moment, he no longer seemed invincible. He no longer seemed human. He was fragile. Desperate.

"Not again!" His voice cracked, the words ripping out of him as though they tore him apart. His hands slammed into the stone floor, his body trembling with fury and fear. Before I could react, his fist flew out and struck me across the face.

The pain exploded in my jaw, blinding and immediate. I stumbled backward, clutching my face, my vision swimming. What was happening? What had I done?

"You!" His voice was wild, venomous, his eyes wide and unhinged as they fixed on me. "It’s because of you! You’ve ruined everything!"

I blinked, still dazed, trying to make sense of his words. Ruined everything? How could I have ruined anything? I was just a soldier—a nameless nobody who had followed him. Who had believed in him. How could I have possibly—

But then it clicked. The feeling I’d had for so long, gnawing at the back of my mind. The way the world had bent to him. The way the battles had unfolded.

It wasn’t real.

He lunged at me again, grabbing my collar and shaking me violently. "You... you broke the story!" His voice cracked, wild with desperation. "You destroyed everything! Do you even know what you’ve done?!"

I stared at him, my mind reeling. Broke the story? What story? Nothing made sense. The world felt like it was unraveling around me, but I didn’t know why. What was happening? What had I done?

And then the voice came again—cold, detached, like an invisible hand directing the play.

"[Evaluating narrative integrity...]"

The Hero’s grip loosened, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. His sword slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone floor. His fingers clawed at the ground, as though he was trying to hold onto something real, something solid as everything around us fell apart.

I staggered back, my heart pounding in my chest. The soldiers stood frozen in place, their faces masks of terror. They didn’t understand. None of us did.

But I could feel it—the world was coming undone.

"[Error detected.]"

The Hero’s body jerked violently, as though struck by some unseen force. His hands flew to his head, clutching his skull as another scream tore through him. "No... no... not again... please, not again..."

I felt the ground shift beneath me, cracks splintering through the stone like veins. It was as if the very fabric of reality was breaking apart.

I looked down at him—the man I had believed in, followed through so much blood and death—and finally, I understood.

He wasn’t the Hero. He wasn’t even real.

"This... this isn’t the first time," he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "I’ve been here before. Over and over. Living the same story. The same damn lie."

My chest tightened. Everything we had fought for, everything we had believed in—it had all been a lie.

"I was never the Hero," he continued, his voice bitter, his eyes locking onto mine. "I was never meant to be. I’m just a tool... a puppet in their story."

The cracks in the floor widened, spreading like jagged webs across the room. The walls trembled, the air thickening with a force that felt like it was tearing reality apart.

"[Error confirmed.]"

The Hero let out a hollow, broken laugh. His body shook with the weight of it all, his hands still clutching his head as he rocked back and forth.

"They’re watching," he whispered, his voice laced with despair. "The readers... they’re watching everything. Don’t you understand? We’re nothing but entertainment."

I stepped back, nausea rising in my throat. My mind raced, struggling to grasp what he was saying. Readers? Entertainment? What did that even mean? How could everything we had done be...

"[The story fails to meet required parameters.]"

The words echoed through the chamber, cold and detached, like a final judgment passed on all of us. The Hero’s laughter grew bitter, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Parameters," he muttered. "It’s all a game. A story for them to watch. We’re nothing but characters."

My breath hitched. The weight of his words pressed down on me like a stone. My legs trembled, threatening to give out as the realization set in. Everything we had fought for—it was all a lie.

This world, this war... nothing more than a scripted tragedy.

"[Awaiting final approval...]"

The Hero’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes rising to the ceiling as if searching for something beyond us. "The Author decides," he said, his voice hollow. "They write our fate. But they don’t care about us... only the story."

A tremor rippled through the room, shaking the walls, sending cracks spider-webbing across the floor. The air grew heavier, suffocating. I could feel it—reality itself unraveling, piece by piece.

"[Author has rejected the narrative.]"

The Hero’s scream tore through the chamber, raw and filled with a despair I had never heard before. "NO! DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU, AUTHOR!" His fists slammed into the ground, his body trembling with fury. "How many times?!" His voice cracked, desperate and broken. "How many times will you rewrite me?!"

I stood frozen, paralyzed as the man I had once trusted—the man who had led us through so much—fell apart in front of me. His hands shook as he pushed himself off the ground, his breath ragged and uneven. His eyes blazed with rage, but behind that rage... I saw something else. Desperation.

He staggered toward me, his words sharp and venomous. "I was supposed to win."

I could feel the weight of his anger pressing down on me, crushing my chest. His eyes locked onto mine, and in that moment, I saw it—the madness, the need for escape. He had spent his life fighting for a freedom he would never have. And now, he blamed me.

I had broken the story.

His expression twisted, and in that moment, I knew what was coming.

Before I could react, before I could raise my hand, he lunged.

The blade flashed, catching the fractured light as it tore through my chest. The pain was immediate, sharp, and blinding. My body jolted, my breath ripped from me. I stumbled, collapsing to the ground, my hands instinctively reaching for the sword embedded in my chest.

The world blurred, darkness closing in from the edges of my vision. Blood pooled beneath me, staining the cold stone. The Hero stood over me, his face twisted with anger—but in his eyes, there was something else.

Regret.

"You broke it all," he whispered, his voice trembling with grief. "Everything."

The cracks deepened, the room trembling as reality itself began to collapse.

And then, the world shattered.

A blinding light flashed, and suddenly, the floor beneath me gave way. I wasn’t standing anymore—I was falling, my body sinking into an endless void. The sensation of falling stretched on, like time itself had unraveled, leaving nothing but the abyss to swallow me whole. There was no ground, no sky—nothing but darkness, cold and silent.

Was this death? My body felt distant, fading. The pain in my chest, sharp and raw, had dulled to a faint throb. I could barely sense my own existence anymore, as if I were slipping away from reality, becoming... nothing.

The Hero. The soldiers. The world.

Where had they gone?

From the void, something stirred.

It wasn’t light that appeared—it was darker, vast, incomprehensible. An entity, ancient and eternal, loomed from the nothingness. Two glowing eyes—cold and luminous—locked onto me, freezing me in place. Even in the void, where I had thought nothing remained, this presence was undeniable, suffocating.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. But in the depths of my fading mind, I felt it watching me.

Was I supposed to die here? Was this how it ended, after everything?

The entity remained still, silent, its gaze piercing me like ice. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move. It simply... watched. The sheer indifference in its presence was suffocating, like the universe itself had decided to look down on me and found nothing worth its attention.

I was alone.

The realization crept over me, slow and inevitable. None of it had mattered. The battles, the bloodshed, the sacrifices—they were all pieces in a game. A game none of us had chosen. The Hero had tried to fight it, to scream at the story itself, but it had all been futile. We were pawns, nothing more.

I wanted to deny it, to scream that I was more than this—but the truth had already settled in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.

We were never in control.

The world had always bent to the story’s will. The Hero, with all his power and defiance, had been nothing more than a puppet on invisible strings. And I? I was just another piece, drifting in the void.

But then... why was I still here?

I was supposed to die, wasn’t I? The Hero was supposed to kill me. The world was supposed to shatter. Yet here I was, alone in the void, still conscious. Still aware.

The entity’s gaze bore into me, deeper now, as if examining every fiber of my existence. And then, for the first time, it spoke—not in words, but in a presence that filled the void, pressing down on me from all directions.

“You.”

The voice wasn’t a sound—it was a force. An overwhelming weight that crushed me from every side, like the universe itself had acknowledged my existence for the first time. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t curious. It simply... was.

“The story is broken.”

The words reverberated through me, shaking me to my core. Broken. The world, the story—it had all shattered, just like I had. And this entity, this being that watched over everything, was here to judge.

“You are the cause.”

The accusation hit me like a hammer. Me? How could I be the cause? I had felt the world cracking, yes, the strange moments where reality seemed to warp around us, but I hadn’t understood. I had been too blind, too caught up in the fight, to see what was really happening.

And yet, here I was—facing the truth that I couldn’t escape. I had broken the story.

My mind reeled. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I had followed the Hero. I had fought for something. And now, in this empty void, I realized it had all been for nothing.

None of it had ever been real.

The battles, the victories, the losses—they were just moments in a story. Moments we had been forced to live out, controlled by unseen hands. And now, I stood here, alone, confronted by the entity that had watched it all.

The entity’s voice returned, a cold presence that filled the void. “You were not meant to interfere. And yet...”

For the first time, there was a shift. The glowing eyes narrowed, as if studying me more closely, as if I were an anomaly it couldn’t quite comprehend.

“You have drawn the attention of those who watch.”

I blinked. Those who watch? The entity’s gaze shifted, and suddenly I felt it—an awareness pressing in from all sides. Eyes. Not just the entity’s, but countless others, unseen but present, watching from beyond the void.

They weren’t part of the story. They weren’t part of the game. They were beyond it, observing everything that had happened, everything that had broken.

“Your actions have been observed,” the entity continued, its voice colder now, more deliberate. “And they have... approved. You, a mere anomaly, have achieved something unexpected. Your disruption has earned 99.9% approval from the audience.”

Approval? From whom?

The weight of the revelation pressed down on me, but I couldn’t process it. How could approval matter in a world that was falling apart? Who were these observers, these watchers who existed beyond the story?

The entity continued, unshaken by my disbelief. “As the Game Master, it is my role to correct fractures in the narrative. But in this rare instance, I am authorized to offer you something.”

Its gaze, cold and calculating, bore into me. “A reward,” it said, the word heavy with meaning. “You, who have broken the story—tell us your wish.”

A wish? The offer hung in the void, weighty and strange. I almost laughed, though there was no air to carry the sound. A wish? After everything that had happened?

I clenched my fists, feeling my nails bite into my palms. The pain grounded me, pulling me back from the edge of despair. What was left to wish for? Freedom? Power? Escape? Those were the desires we had before we knew the truth—before we understood how hollow those dreams really were.

The Hero had wished for freedom. He had fought for it, believed in it, only to realize, in the end, that he was nothing but a puppet in a game he couldn’t win.

But now... I was still here. Alone, faced with the entity’s cold offer.

They thought I would crumble, just like the Hero had. They thought I would wish for something small, something they could twist and control. Something that would keep me locked in their game forever.

They were wrong.

I wasn’t like him. They didn’t understand what I had become.

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything press down on me—years of battle, of bloodshed, of following a story that was never mine. This wasn’t about me anymore. It was about all of us.

The faces of those who had fallen flashed through my mind—the soldiers, the innocents, the forgotten. The countless lives erased and rewritten, over and over, all for the amusement of some distant audience.

No. This wasn’t about a wish for myself.

This was about breaking the game.

The decision settled over me, heavy but resolute. I didn’t need to say it aloud. They didn’t deserve to hear it. It was mine, buried deep inside me, where their gaze couldn’t reach. A silent, defiant flame, hidden from their view.

The void around me stretched, tense and expectant, waiting for my answer.

I remained silent.

The Game Master hesitated. Its eyes narrowed, and for the first time, its voice held a hint of uncertainty. “Wish acknowledged.”

And then, the world shattered again.

Reality trembled. The void rippled, cracks splintering through the fabric of existence. Pain exploded through my body—searing, white-hot. It was as though I was being torn apart, piece by agonizing piece. I could feel myself breaking, fracturing, but I held on.

I wouldn’t let them erase me.

Through the blinding agony, I clung to one thing—the wish. My wish. It flickered in the storm, small but indestructible. They couldn’t touch it. No matter how much they twisted or reshaped me, that flicker remained.

They thought they still held the pen. But this time... I was writing the story.

The pain grew unbearable, twisting through every part of me. I felt my mind begin to fray, the edges unraveling as though I were moments away from being torn apart completely.

And then... everything stopped.

The void fell silent.

I stood there, breathless. Broken. But still standing. The wish—it was still mine. Still hidden. Still alive.

The Game Master’s presence began to fade, retreating into the void. But before it withdrew completely, I sensed something else—a hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty.

They couldn’t see me anymore. Not truly.

The void rippled one last time, and then...

I was gone.

Not erased. Not broken.

But free.

To those watching, it might seem like I had vanished, lost to the void. But they wouldn’t know the truth.

Not yet.

I had become something else.

Now, I was free. Free to watch. Free to wait.

Free to change everything.

[A new storyline has been created.]