The world had just begun to heal. Co-authorship was fragile but alive. Elior and the New Reader wrote cautiously, each word tentative but honest, Nia stood guard over the memories, cataloging what must never be forgotten.And you, you held the mirror pen, still tethered to the invisible thread of every reader who ever cared. But then came the message. “A Reader is coming who does not want to read.”A torn warning. No return address. No context, Just dread. And then, The Final Manuscript began to smoke. Pages curled at the edges. The sky dimmed. A sound like paper tearing underwater spread across the world.Something was arriving, And it brought no ink. Only fire. In the eastern village of Whispwall, characters began to vanish. Not rewritten. Not edited. Erased. Their names turned to ash mid-sentence. Their arcs, gone.Even the memories of them crumbled. Nia raced to the center of the village. Only one soul remained. A boy named Jory. His voice trembled: “They didn’t die.”“They were…

The card left by the Editor was still warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat, You turned it over again, eyes narrowing at the words etched beneath layers of shifting ink: “Your story has reached its midpoint. Prepare for revision.”The Library of First Lines was silent, yet a soft groan echoed from beneath its marble tiles, like a breath held too long. Elior appeared beside you almost instantly. “No one’s received a card like that in centuries,” he whispered. “Not even me.”Nia held her staff tightly. “The Hall of Revisions… it's dangerous. That’s where stories go to be… undone.”You swallowed hard. “Then we better make sure we’re not next.”The moment you pressed the card to the floor, the world beneath your feet turned translucent, The ground rippled. Symbols from a thousand forgotten scripts shimmered beneath the tiles. Then with the creak of old pages, a spiral staircase unfurled down into darkness.The stairs twisted endlessly Each step was lined with half-formed let

The second pen “Draft 0: The Writer’s Last Word” sat silently in your hand, colder than anything you had ever touched. It didn’t vibrate with magic like the Pen of Final Ink. It didn’t pulse with life. And yet, you knew:This pen could write something outside the Archive’s rules, But before you could test it, a warning appeared in midair, written in crimson letters across the library ceiling: "Using Draft 0 may awaken the Unwritten."A deathly silence swept the chamber, Nia whispered, “I thought the Unwritten were just a myth…”Elior looked visibly shaken. “They were removed from the narrative, not because they were weak, but because they were never supposed to exist in the first place.” You stared at the pen again, And made a choice.To find the original Author or anyone capable of crafting a sentence beyond the Final Ink, you needed access to the Forbidden Shelf, a place that had no index, no door, and no boundaries. It only appeared when the Archive deemed a reader ready to challen

Blink. Blink. Blink.The cursor pulsed steadily in the void, an invitation, a threat, a question. You floated in a space of nothingness, a white page stretching infinitely in all directions, unmarred by time or shape.And then, in a voice that felt like your own and yet older than the stars, it whispered: “This is the True Draft. You are no longer a character.”Your hand the one holding the Second Pen, shimmered with golden veins. The Pen vibrated with anticipation, hungry to write not just on the page, but into existence. “Write,” the voice urged. So you did.Your first word echoed like thunder: “Land.”The void beneath your feet shifted. Mountains tore themselves from the white canvas like sharpened script. Rivers uncoiled like sentences curling into paragraphs. Trees bloomed like verses. Then, another word: “Time.”The sun rose, not by celestial alignment, but by narrative declaration. Days unfolded. Shadows formed. Winds moved in stanzas, You looked up and saw stars blinking into

The Null Entity surged, Where its touch landed, existence unraveled, characters lost their names, settings faded, and dialogue turned into a vacuum of silence. Not even death lingered. Just absence.You gripped the Core Fragment tighter. It pulsed in your palm, warm like memory, heavy like responsibility, Nia screamed, her body glitching. Her form split between frames, half light, half text, half thought. “It’s erasing me!”“Hold on!” you shouted.You turned to the Programmer, who struggled to keep his compiled structure intact. Lines of error code crawled up his arms. “Can we rewrite it?”“No,” he groaned. “You cannot write that which was never written.”“Then we bring it into the draft,” you said, stepping forward. “We write Chapter Zero.”The Pen trembled in your grip, its tip crackling with light. “I call the unwritten,” you said. “I summon the words never dared. I write the first chapter that never was.”You pressed the Pen to the air and began. “Chapter Zero,” you wrote, “was no