The presence of the Last Chapter enveloped Zayn, its incomprehensible aura suffusing him with a blend of wonder and unease. Its voice reverberated not through sound but through thought, touching every corner of his consciousness.

"You and many others have been chosen to become Loreforged," it began, its tone both instructional and commanding. "To take your first step, you will need a record of yourself, for every character must have one to claim importance in a story."

Before Zayn could react, a massive sheet of paper materialized before him. It was no ordinary paper—its surface shimmered with an otherworldly essence, cosmic patterns flowing across its texture, shifting with meanings he could barely comprehend. Letters formed and dissolved across its edges like whispers of creation itself.

A line appeared at the top of the page, glowing faintly:

[What is your name?]

Zayn's mind answered instinctively. Zayn.

The letters etched themselves onto the sheet, bold and unwavering. Below it, another line appeared, accompanied by a subtle hum of anticipation:

[What is your surname?]

For a moment, Zayn hesitated. His parents' surname lingered in his mind like a shadow, but he dismissed it. No. He would not carry the name of those who had abandoned him.

With a thought, he answered: No surname.

The letters glowed for a moment before settling, the paper appearing to accept his defiance. Another question followed.

[What do you do as a hobby?]

Zayn answered quickly. Reading.

[Are you social?]

The answer came slower this time. Zayn reflected, his mind turning over the past. "I don't know." Despite his obvious lack of social interactions, he didn't consider himself someone who disliked it. He never had the chance to figure that out, so he decided to be ambiguous.

The paper absorbed his hesitation without judgment. Several more questions followed, each asking about his habits, preferences, and tendencies. Zayn answered them, some with certainty, others with doubt. But when the final question appeared, he froze.

[What is your dream?]

This question stopped him. His mind churned, grasping at fragments of his life—the loneliness, the abandonment, the lack of belonging. Slowly, he formed an answer, not with words but with raw emotion: To really exist.

The questions vanished from the page. Only his name remained at the top, glowing faintly. Beneath it, a single word appeared:

[Genre: Unknown]

Zayn frowned at the words, their cryptic nature unsettling. The Last Chapter's presence surged around him, its essence growing stronger.

"You are a unique one," it stated, its voice laced with a curious intensity. "Even among those chosen, none have answered the final question as you have. Because of this, your genre can not be determined. Thus it will be unknown."

Zayn blinked—or rather, he felt as though he had. "What does that mean? Why unknown?"

The Book's presence shifted, exuding something that might have been amusement. "What good story explains everything from the start?"

The massive sheet began to shrink, folding in on itself until it was no larger than the palm of his hand. Then, with an ethereal glow, it pressed against what felt like his chest. Warmth surged through him as it fused with his being.

"This is your Record," the Last Chapter explained. "It will evolve as you traverse the realms of stories and forge their lore. It is both a reflection of you and a tool to record your journey."

Zayn nodded faintly, the strange sensation settling into something almost familiar.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The Last Chapter's voice softened but remained firm. "You may think of it like the systems of those internet novels humans once created. Their stories were crude and simplistic, yet they held potential. But make no mistake—this is not your genre. You are not a protagonist. You are simply a piece in the larger narrative."

Zayn processed the words, his mind flickering with memories of reading those same novels. He recalled how AI systems later flooded the world with them, diluting their charm.

"Then what am I?" Zayn asked, his voice carrying both curiosity and apprehension.

The Last Chapter's tone turned enigmatic. "The best story is the one an author can make manifest as truth. Whether you are a hero, a villain, or neither—that is for the story you reveal to decide."

Zayn clenched his fists—or what felt like fists in this space. His resolve solidified. Whatever this was, wherever it would lead, he would face it. To really exist, he thought. That was his dream, and he would see it through.

Zayn's thoughts spiraled inward, pulling him into the depths of his mind as he considered the question that had lingered since the Last Chapter had asked him about his dream. To really exist. The words had flowed from him naturally, but now, in the stillness, he reflected on their meaning.

Before the incident, life had been a monotonous cycle. He woke up, ate, went to school, came home, and slept. Nothing stood out. He had no passion, no purpose. It wasn't even a bad life—just empty, as though he were moving through a script written by someone else, unseen and unimportant.

After the incident, that emptiness was replaced by chaos. Scorn, abandonment, hatred—all these things consumed him. He hadn't thought about anyone else, hadn't cared to. He simply drifted further into the stories he read, wishing to be anywhere but the present.

Stories.

To Zayn, the characters in those tales were more than words on a page or data on a screen. In their corners of history, they existed. Their adventures, their triumphs and failures, their loves and losses—they were real in a way he couldn't articulate.

That was what he wanted.

Not to be remembered. Not to leave a legacy. Those things were fleeting, dependent on others' perceptions. What he sought was more fundamental, more visceral. He wanted to exist, truly and undeniably. He couldn't explain the difference, but in his heart, he understood it.

Lost in his thoughts, Zayn suddenly considered something. He looked inward, or at least felt as though he did, reaching toward the presence of the Last Chapter. "Do you speak to all the Loreforged like this?"

The Last Chapter's voice responded, resonating with an air of amusement and mystery. "No. Only those who will serve as integral to the story."

The words lingered, carrying a weight Zayn wasn't sure he was ready to bear.

Before he could ask more, the presence began to withdraw, its overwhelming essence fading into the distance of his consciousness.

"Farewell, sentient lifeform," the Last Chapter said. "I hope you make an interesting story."

And with that, it was gone, leaving Zayn alone in the void of potential, where his journey as a Loreforged was about to begin.

Zayn floated in a state of pure euphoria, his being suspended between what he once knew and something incomprehensibly vast. The sensations were overwhelming yet intoxicating. He could feel the fabric of existence stretching around him, threads of light and shadow weaving in intricate patterns. Worlds. Stories. Lives. They surged past him in a river of infinite possibility.

He could see them—worlds of sprawling kingdoms bathed in magic, where dragons soared and heroes rose; cities illuminated by neon lights, where technology blurred the lines between human and machine; starships sailing across galaxies vast and uncharted.

And among it all, he saw his own reality, a fragment now tangled in that great tapestry. It was being pulled, stretched, and reformed, interwoven with the worlds and stories of humanity's collective imagination.

It wasn't just sight—Zayn could feel it. Each thread carried emotion, struggle, and triumph. He sensed fear and hope, laughter and despair, all bound together in a chaotic yet purposeful design. He had no doubt others like him, scattered across the vastness of existence, were witnessing it too. He couldn't explain how he knew, but the connection was undeniable.

Then, amidst the euphoria, he felt something.

Heat.

It started as a faint warmth, then grew into an unbearable scorch. He winced, his bliss cracking as discomfort seeped into his awareness.

Shouts followed.

At first, they were muffled, distant. Voices distorted, tangled in the threads of stories he saw. But the heat intensified, and the voices sharpened, their cadence filled with rage.

What is this? Zayn thought, his focus fracturing as he tried to understand.

The voices became clearer. Words spilled through the haze, cutting into his euphoric state like jagged glass.

Burn the witch!

Zayn's eyes snapped open, and the euphoria that had gripped him moments ago was gone. In its place was chaos.

Flames roared around him, licking at the air with searing intensity. Their heat was real, biting against his skin and sending waves of discomfort through his body. Smoke curled upward in thick plumes, choking the sky. His heart pounded as he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Across the wall of fire, he saw them.

A crowd.

Men and women dressed in rough, weathered clothing—tunics, cloaks, and aprons—faces twisted in anger and hatred. Some brandished torches, while others clutched farming tools like makeshift weapons. Their voices were a storm of rage, echoing in his ears.

"Burn the witch!"

The chant tore through the air like a relentless drumbeat, each repetition a hammering blow against his hearing. He blinked, trying to understand what was happening, but the scene before him refused to make sense.

Where am I? What the hell am I doing here?

The flames cracked and spat embers, forcing him to shield his face. The heat was unbearable, sweat dripping down his brow as his mind raced.

Zayn turned, desperate for answers—and froze.

Behind him, tied to a tall wooden pole, was an unconscious girl.