2026-02-14 17:52:28
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The Glass Horizon
The cracking sound wasn't coming from the stone or the air. It was the sound of reality itself splintering like a mirror under a hammer.I stood at the edge of the Unwritten, looking through the jagged hole in the fabric of my existence. On one side was the grey mist of the "Drafts"—the wreckage of a thousand failed stories. On the other side was a world that made no sense. It was a world of blinding artificial lights, towering boxes of steel and glass, and millions of voices humming in a web of invisible lightning."Step through, Lucius," the silver-haired Creator urged. Her voice was fading, her form turning into simple pencil sketches. "The Library is gone. The Editor is gone. There is only the Source now. If you want to know why you suffered, you must ask the one who imagined it."I looked at my left arm. The ink-ribbons were pulsing with a violent, violet light. I looked at the **Iron Quill** embedded in my skin. If I crossed over, what would happen to the "Zero" power? What happ
The Primal Ink
The sensation of climbing against the current of time was like trying to swim up a waterfall of molten lead. Every second I fought to move "upward" into the Prequel Era, the "System" screamed at me, tearing at my memories. I felt the Silver Spire Academy, my battle with the First Overlord, and even the smell of the Ink-Waste Library beginning to blur.If I didn't reach a solid point in history soon, I wouldn't just be defeated—I would be a "Plot Hole" that had never existed."I... am... the... Origin!" I roared, jamming the **Iron Quill** into a swirling mass of golden light that represented the era of the Founding Emperors.*CRACK.*The light shattered. The rushing sound of time stopped, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a jungle and the smell of ozone.I hit the ground, hard. This wasn't marble or bone. It was earth—raw, fertile, and pulsing with a level of mana that made the modern Empire look like a desert.**[System Notification: Prequel Era Reached.]****[Time Period: Age
The Mirror of Malice
The wind that whipped across the flesh-and-ice landscape of the Northern Wastes didn't just carry the scent of frost; it carried the sound of a thousand scratching pens.Standing before me was an impossibility. An army of me.There were versions of Lucius Thorne in royal silk, versions in blood-stained rags, and versions that were nothing more than skeletal frames wrapped in violet mist. But the one at the front—the "Original"—was the most unsettling. He had the face I had forgotten, the face of a boy who hadn't yet seen the abyss."Look at you," the Ghost-Lucius sneered, his voice a perfect echo of my own, but without the gravel of a hundred deaths. "A patchwork monster made of stolen ink and borrowed rage. You call yourself an Overlord, but you’re just a typo in the history of the Thorne family."**[System Warning: Identity Paradox.]****[Status: Reality Flux 88%.]****[Enemy Type: Narrative Echoes (The Plagiarists).]**Behind me, Valeriana’s hand tightened on her sword, but I could
The Glitch-Shifted World
The world didn't wake up with a bang. It woke up with a flicker.I opened my eyes, but the colors were wrong. The sky wasn't blue, and it wasn't the white of the Eraser. It was a shifting, digital violet, streaked with lines of static that hissed like distant snakes. I reached for my left arm, the memory of it being erased still stinging in my mind—but it was there. Or at least, a version of it was.My left arm was now composed of shimmering, translucent ink-ribbons, woven together in the shape of bone and muscle. It hummed with a low-frequency vibration.**[System Status: Critical Error.]****[Reality Grade: Unstable (Glitch-Shifted).]****[Narrative Role: The Outlier.]**I sat up and realized I wasn't in the Cathedral anymore. I was in a forest, but the trees were made of calcified scrolls, and the leaves were snippets of dialogue from plays that had never been performed."You're lucky," a voice whispered.The Delete girl was sitting on a stump made of frozen ink. Her charcoal hair
The Second Draft
The air was heavy with the scent of lilies and expensive incense. The sun streamed through the high windows of the Cathedral of the Sun, casting golden patterns on the marble floor. It was a scene of perfect, holy beauty—the exact same scene I had lived through before I was cast into the Rift.I was kneeling. My knees felt the familiar cold of the stone. My heart beat with the same frantic rhythm."Lucius?" my father, Emperor Magnus, asked.His voice was warm, fatherly, and filled with a pride that I now knew was as fake as a copper coin painted gold. He stood above me, the ceremonial dagger held high. In his other hand, the Divine Core pulsed with a soft, inviting light.To my right, Julian stood with his hands folded, his face a mask of youthful innocence. He looked so young. So fragile. It was hard to believe this was the same creature who had worn a porcelain mask in the Ink-Waste.**[System Warning: Narrative Loop Detected.]****[Status: Level 1 Overlord (Suppressed by Time-Seal)
The Ink-Waste Prison
I was falling.There was no wind, no gravity, and no sound. Only the rustle of millions of pages. Every piece of parchment that brushed against my skin felt like a razor, carving tiny lines into my flesh. These weren't just papers; they were records. They were the stories of every life I had ended, every drop of mana I had consumed, and every promise I had broken.**[System Warning: Reality Distortion.]****[Status: Narrative Entrapment.]**I tried to flare my Void wings, but the black energy wouldn't answer. Instead of shadows, black ink bled from my pores, staining the air around me. My power wasn't gone—it was being converted into a medium I didn't understand.I hit the ground. Or rather, I hit a floor made of stacked, ancient books that stretched infinitely in every direction.The air smelled of old parchment, dry leather, and the metallic tang of fresh ink. Above me, there was no sky. Instead, massive wooden rafters held up shelves that disappeared into a golden mist. This was th
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