For one, infinite moment, the world dissolved, There was no light, No dark, No time, No you. Just the echo of millions of voices refusing to be silenced, When your senses returned, you were floating, not falling, not flying, suspended in a glowing web of threads.Each thread pulsed with a story, Each story… was alive, You realized something terrifying, The Forge wasn’t destroyed, It had been reborn.The Forge no longer existed in one place, or as one thing. It had become a lattice of living energy, threading through every soul, syncing with every heartbeat.You saw it running through birds, trees, machines, even whispers in the wind, Where once a few powerful people controlled the narrative, now every being was connected to it.But something was wrong, Some threads… were flickering. Fraying, Disappearing, You reached out to stabilize one and were dragged into it.You landed in a burning village, Gunfire. Screams. Smoke curling into the sky, A boy clutched a crumpled notebook to his ch

The sky had healed. But the light that now glowed above the horizon was unlike anything you'd seen. It was neither metallic nor cosmic.It shimmered softly, bending color, shape, and distance all at once. A vessel… but not crafted by Architect hands. Not designed in any system you knew. It didn’t land, It didn’t hover, It simply existed, like a truth too big for language.Mira stared at it, her voice hushed. “Is that… ours?”Narratum stepped forward beside you, silent for a long while. “No. It’s older.”“Much older.”As you approached, the vessel revealed its entrance, a spiraling aperture made of folded time, It pulsed once, and a door appeared, Not by design. But by acknowledgment.As if the ship were saying: I see you now, You, Mira, Tracy, and Narratum entered together, Inside, there were no walls. Just memory, Floating through the space were fragments of lives: A boy building a toy with broken parts.A woman throwing seeds into poisoned ground, An old man screaming into a well, b

Bang!The gunshot echoed through the collapsing fabric of the Vessel’s space, but it didn’t end you. Instead, time froze. The bullet shimmered in midair, humming like a tuning fork caught between dimensions.A figure stepped in front of you, feminine, tall, cloaked in glowing symbols. The words that made up her body rearranged like cascading lines of prophecy.“I told you, Alan,” she said without turning.“You’re not meant to die here.”It was Narratum. But not as you'd ever seen her. This was her true form, the Living Manuscript. The Forgotten Chapter. She snapped her fingers. The bullet turned into smoke and vanished.Then she turned to the crimson assassins of S.C.A.R. Dozens of them, emerging from fractured panels of space and time, each armed with rewritten realities and compressed time-guns.“You shouldn’t have come here,” Narratum said.“This domain obeys only one Author now.”The lead assassin, the same one who said “Erase”took a step forward. You could feel the pressure from

The glass shards hadn’t even touched the floor when your instincts took over. You didn’t move. You vanished.Silent Rewrite: The ability that let you unweave yourself from time for five seconds, five precious, deadly seconds. And that was all you needed.1st Second, You mapped the room: six assassins, two on either side, one rappelling from above, one stepping out of the shadow behind Milo.2nd Second, Your hand shot toward the pen-shaped detonator embedded in your desk. With a flick, the room’s electromagnetic field reversed. Every smart-weapon glitched.3rd Second, You slid under the coffee table, twisted the carved knob on its underside, revealing a hidden panel containing your personal ChronoBlade.4th Second, You stood, whirling the blade as time resumed, and slashed through the first two attackers before their feet hit the floor.5th Second, Milo turned, smug and slow. You hurled the blade, directly at his throat.CLANG.A glyph barrier flashed into view. The blade ricocheted ba

The room smelled of leather and power. Alexander adjusted his cufflinks as he stood in the vast conference hall, its ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers that sparkled like a constellation of trapped stars.He had faced enemies, betrayals, and ambushes in recent weeks, but this meeting carried a different kind of weight. This wasn’t a negotiation or a business deal, it was initiation.The Masked Council, a centuries-old gathering of the world’s wealthiest dynasties, had summoned him. For reasons he couldn’t fully grasp yet, they had chosen to recognize him as heir to the consortium.Every step echoed as he walked across the polished marble floor. At the far end, a circular table stretched like a wheel of fate, with twelve high-backed chairs. Eleven of them were occupied. The twelfth, directly opposite the entrance, remained empty, waiting for him.The members were draped in anonymity: black robes, golden masks shaped like beasts, lion, serpent, eagle, dragon. Each mask bore centur