At first, I thought it was a trap.
The book had no title, no texture, no real weight. It felt like a materialized idea, a concept torn from a library that didn't exist yet. But when I opened it… there were my words. Not the ones I'd already written—those yet to come. Future thoughts, choices not yet made. Crossed-out lines, corrected phrases, doubts I hadn't even felt.
And names.
Sera's.
Mine.
And another I didn't recall ever reading, but that burned my tongue just thinking it: Karael.
—
"What is it?" Sera asked in a low voice, as if the act of asking was already sacrilege.
"A diary of the future," I answered. "Or a threat. I don't know."
I flipped a page.
> "The day you choose to break the cycle, you'll lose more than memories. You'll lose the chance to be understood."
The next page was blank, except for one line:
> Write your ending.
It wasn't an invitation.
It was a sentence.
—
Sera knelt beside me, her fingers brushing the book's cover. She didn't touch it.
"This… isn't ordinary magic."
"No," I replied. "Not divine either. It's pure narrative. The story itself trying to protect itself."
And I had corrupted it. Not with spells. With choices.
Every time I took a different path. Every time I saved someone meant to die. Every time I rejected prophecy. Every time I looked at her with something more than resignation.
What I held in my hands wasn't a diary. It was a distorted mirror. A door into what could be… if I chose to write it.
—
We moved toward the central structure. The mask hovered, slowly rotating. The air around it vibrated like soundless music. And in its shadow, a figure waited.
Not human.
Not fully real.
It was a silhouette of smoke and glass, shaped like a being cloaked in broken code. It didn't speak, but it sent a message directly to my mind:
> "The story has begun to bleed. The script is unraveling. And you, Extra 9,387, hold the pen."
—What do you want from me? —I asked.
> "A choice. And a price."
—
The figure extended a hand.
And showed me two torn pages.
On one, my name was written in living ink, pulsing, next to a line:
> The one who destroyed the world to free it.
On the other, my name appeared at the foot of an empty gravestone:
> The one who accepted his role… to save her.
I looked at Sera. She looked back without tears, without fear. As if she already knew she couldn't help me choose.
—What if I write a third option? —I asked.
The figure paused.
And for the first time, I felt the story hesitate.
> "Then the price will be total."
—What price?
> "Your soul will be left without narrative. Without fate. Without memory. You will be… something outside the story."
—
I looked at the book. I looked at Sera. And for one second, just one, I understood what it truly meant to break the rules.
It wasn't freedom.
It was silence.
But maybe, just maybe, that silence was better than a predetermined song.
—Give me the ink —I said.
And the book… began to bleed.