The moment Klein's eyes opened, he knew something was wrong.
Not in the way reality had twisted before—where pages had rewritten themselves, where existence had looped endlessly, where time had turned in on itself like a snake eating its own tail.
No, this was something different.
Because there were no words.
No narration.
No voice telling him where he was.
For the first time since he had begun his journey—since he had awoken in the body of Klein Moretti, since he had stepped into the gray fog, since he had fought gods and monsters alike—
The world was utterly silent.
Klein sat up.
The ground beneath him was… what?
It wasn't stone.
It wasn't dirt.
It wasn't anything at all.
His fingers brushed against it, and he felt nothing.
His heartbeat quickened.
He looked around.
There was no sky above him.
No horizon.
Just a vast, endless expanse of white.
Not fog. Not light.
Just absence.
It was a world without description.
A world without words.
And he—
He was the only thing here.
—
A Place That Shouldn't Exist
Klein pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow, deliberate.
He was used to strange places.
The world above the gray fog.
The spaces between dreams and reality.
Even the depths of the Abyss.
But this—this was something else entirely.
He spoke.
Or at least, he tried to.
But no sound left his lips.
No words formed.
Not even the vibration of his own voice.
It was as if language itself had been stripped from this place.
His hands clenched into fists.
Think, Klein. Think.
If there was no narration, no description—
Then that meant…
This place had never been written.
Not by the Fool.
Not by the one who rewrote fate.
Not by any god or being in existence.
This was outside the story itself.
Somewhere even the pages had not reached.
Somewhere that should not be.
And yet—here he was.
—
The First Sound in Silence
Klein took a slow breath.
If this place was unwritten—if it had no voice—then he would have to give it one.
He reached deep into himself, into the power that had carried him through the loops, through the shattered narratives, through the endless rewriting of his fate.
And he spoke.
Not with his voice.
But with his will.
"Exist."
The word rippled.
Like ink on blank paper.
The silence shuddered.
The white void trembled.
And for the first time, something appeared.
A single object.
A quill.
It floated before him, hovering in the air, waiting.
Klein's breath caught.
A writing tool.
A means to shape the unshaped.
He reached out, fingers wrapping around it.
The moment he did, the silence broke.
A sound echoed across the blankness.
A heartbeat.
His own.
And then—
A second one.
Not his.
A heartbeat that did not belong to him.
But to something else.
Something waking up.
—
The First Page of a New Story
Klein turned sharply.
The vast whiteness had changed.
A shadow stretched in the distance.
No, not a shadow—a figure.
Someone standing there.
Watching him.
The heartbeat grew louder.
Not one. Not two.
But many.
As if countless lives were stirring all at once.
Klein took a step forward, gripping the quill tightly.
"Who are you?"
This time, his voice worked.
The figure tilted their head.
And then—
They smiled.
"You should not be here," they said, their voice layered with thousands of others. "But then again, neither should we."
Klein's grip tightened.
This was it.
The place beyond words.
The place that had never been written.
And he—
He was not alone.
---
End of Chapter 70.
---