Your name?
You’ve forgotten it. But, you knew that would happen. You still remember your job. Chronicler.
Here, in this box, this prison, names are as fleeting as a match’s flame.
You remember nothing of how you got here, only that your purpose is singular: to record the last words of gods and legends.
And now, you find yourself face to face with a restrained old man.
A chair sits in the middle of the black prism-like room. Black chains wrap around the wrinkled man, gray hair dangles in front of his eyes, and a cocky smile peaks beneath.
“I am **** the Great,” he begins, voice scraping across the obsidian walls. “Breaker of celestial courts, pantheons, and messiahs. Inheritor to Alexander’s will. You’ve heard of me, or maybe you haven’t. But, that doesn’t matter now.”
Your tendrils of memory unfurl towards him. Three small tentacles pulsing purple outstretch from your palm, snaking through the air like living things. They push past his swaying gray hair and clutch onto the prisoner’s face. You flinch as they touch him. A cold rush of thoughts flood you, but they do not overwhelm. Your training, forgotten, but still ingrained, bats the invasive thoughts away. You invite yourself deep into his mind. He invites you deeper, whispering the secrets of a Godkiller.
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“What matters,” **** continues, his tone now laced with dark amusement, “is that I am a prisoner—bound beyond the edges of time, space, and reality itself. Sentenced to an execution so final that not even your Creators dare witness it.”
The words hang in the air. He looks deep into your eyes, past the pulsing tentacles. Eyes burning red with hatred. You want to ask questions, to interrogate him, yet you are here to listen. To record. It’s your duty, after all. You set your tool down, a large blank book, on your lap as the secrets from the tendrils fill the pages.
The Chronicle of the End uses no ink to tell its story. The book’s pages flow with words carved from memory, burned from the honest source of the interrogated. Carved into the everlasting tome.
“Why am I a prisoner?” **** asks, and though you know it’s rhetorical, the question lingers in your mind.
“Officially, because I broke Fate.”
The tendrils pulse with each word, pulling you deeper into his story. Words scorched onto the page of the blank book on your lap.
“Unofficially, because a human from a backwater planet should have never lived to gain celestial-shattering power.” He pauses for his own dramatic tendencies.
“But, if you ask me?” he continues. “It’s because a human from Earth never learned to let go of a grudge.”
The tendrils’ pulse quickens, pulling you deeper into his story. His truth. Your vision flickers as you dive deep into the prisoner’s consciousness. Instinctively, you try to resist as you always do, but there’s no escape. The Chronicle of the End needs its story, and ****’s must be told.
“I’ll tell you everything, every detail. After all, I’ve conquered the old gods, toppled empires, and stopped the flow of Fate itself. What’s left, but to carve my name into your mind, to burn my story into your soul and the pages of that book?”
“Don’t worry,” **** says, his voice echoing in the infinite darkness, “I’ve got all the time in the world. And so do you.”