The Fool stood at the edge of reality, watching them with an expression that wasn't quite a smile but not far from it.
He was Klein, and yet he wasn't.
The contours of his face, the way he stood, the weight of his presence—everything felt wrong.
Too composed.
Too certain.
Too final.
Yeaia didn't move. Neither did Klein. The weight of the moment pressed against them like a tide ready to crash.
The shadow at the Fool's side remained bowed, as if in reverence.
Who was bowing to who?
Yeaia didn't know.
The Fool let the silence stretch, drinking in the stillness, the unspoken horror etched into Klein's face. Then, as if remembering something amusing, he exhaled softly and stepped forward.
Klein stiffened. Yeaia remained poised, unreadable.
The Fool stopped a short distance from them, his gaze flickering from Klein to Yeaia before settling on the former.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he mused.
Klein said nothing.
The Fool's smile deepened, but there was no warmth in it. "Or perhaps," he continued, voice dripping with amusement, "it's because I am not the ghost."
A low, sharp chuckle left his lips.
Klein's hands curled into fists. His mismatched eyes burned with something undeniable—something primal. Fear? Anger? The realization of a truth he had never wanted to face?
"I killed you," Klein whispered.
The Fool tilted his head. "Did you?"
The space around them seemed to breathe. The edges of reality quivered, as if holding its breath.
"You shouldn't exist," Klein said, firmer now.
The Fool raised an eyebrow. "And yet, here I am."
He gestured at himself, as if he, too, found his presence unexpected.
Yeaia watched the exchange in silence, their mind calculating, observing.
The Fool was testing Klein. Pushing him.
And Klein—
Klein didn't have an answer.
"You don't belong here," Klein gritted out. His voice was unsteady, like the world itself might collapse under his words.
The Fool chuckled again, this time softer, almost pitying.
"Klein," he said, stepping closer, "if that were true, do you really think this story would have let me in?"
The words struck deeper than they should have.
Because they were true.
Klein was the Fool.
He was supposed to be.
And yet—here was another.
Not an illusion. Not a remnant.
A being just as real as him.
The loops, the distortions, the shifting lines of reality—it had all been leading to this.
Klein's own identity was being rewritten, overwritten, twisted by a force that had been lurking beneath every moment of his existence.
And now, face to face with the thing that should not be, he found himself hesitating.
The Fool watched him closely, reading every flicker of expression.
Then, finally, he sighed.
"You still don't understand," he said, more to himself than them.
He turned, casting his gaze over the shifting, unstable world around them.
"This place," he murmured, voice almost wistful. "It's unraveling."
Klein and Yeaia exchanged a glance.
The Fool continued.
"The moment you realized the truth, the moment you looked at me and saw me for what I am, this place began to fall apart."
He turned back to them, and for the first time, his expression darkened.
"It means the one holding the pen has grown impatient."
Yeaia's breath hitched.
Klein's fingers twitched.
The one holding the pen.
The writer.
The thing that had been looping them.
They had seen the cracks forming. They had felt the weight of a story forcing them down paths they had never chosen.
But now—the illusion was collapsing.
Yeaia finally spoke. "Then why are you here?"
The Fool's gaze snapped to them.
Something flickered in his expression. A moment of curiosity, of amusement.
And then—
"Because," he said slowly, "I was never supposed to be."
Yeaia frowned.
The Fool smiled again, softer this time. More genuine.
"You see," he said, almost kindly, "you aren't the only ones who were rewritten."
Yeaia's breath caught.
The Fool took another step forward, unhurried, unafraid.
"When the story was changed," he continued, "when the loops began, when the ink was spilled over everything that was supposed to be—"
His mismatched eyes burned.
"I woke up."
The weight of his words pressed into them.
A second Fool.
Not just a shadow. Not just an impostor.
A being created from the very fabric of the rewritten world.
A mistake.
A flaw in the design.
The Fool had emerged the moment something in the story had gone too far.
He shouldn't exist.
But neither should the loops.
Neither should the thing holding the pen.
Yeaia's mind raced. The implications, the possibilities—this changed everything.
The Fool saw their realization. He smiled.
"I am the crack in the narrative," he said. "The one inconsistency that cannot be erased."
He spread his arms, as if embracing the very absurdity of his existence.
"And that," he said, "is why I am here."
The world shuddered.
A crack splintered through the space beneath their feet.
Yeaia and Klein stepped back instinctively. The Fool remained still, unconcerned.
"…Time's up," he murmured.
The air rippled.
A sound, distant and terrible, echoed through the space.
The pen was moving again.
Rewriting.
Correcting.
Erasing.
The Fool sighed. "It's coming."
Klein's voice was hoarse. "What's coming?"
The Fool looked at him, as if he pitied him.
"The ending."
The crack beneath them split open.
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End of Chapter 64.
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