Thalen Morris ran.
His messy, pitch-black hair whipped behind him as he sprinted across a narrow path suspended in a void—an endless, gaping abyss stretching beneath his feet. The path vanished behind him, crumbling into nothingness with each step. Ahead, new stones flickered into existence just in time to catch him.
He wasn't running toward something.
He was running from everything.
Running nowhere.
Then—suddenly—nothing appeared.
The path stopped.
Morris jolted upright, trying to halt, but it was too late.
His foot landed on air.
He plummeted face-first into the void.
And as he fell, the memories returned.
The world of Thea.
A sacred book ruled everything. A book bound in black leather, its cover etched with rose emblems. A title burned into the front in glinting red ink:
Inkblood.
Its owner? A calligrapher named Thalen Morris.
A man burdened with a horrifying power.
Anyone whose name was written in the book—was sealed to a fate they couldn't escape.
At first, he obeyed. Terrified, trembling, he followed orders. Names flooded the pages—dozens, then hundreds, then thousands, day after day.
The emperor demanded it. And Morris complied.
Until he broke.
One day, he ran. He took the book and fled—across towns, over meadows, through dark forests—pursued by knights, magicians, assassins.
Hunted for trying to stop the endless deaths.
And finally… he fell.
Morris jolted upright in bed, gasping, sweat clinging to his skin.
Where…?
A moment passed.
The walls around him were curved stone, dust-flecked and faded with age. A broken staff leaned against a bookshelf. Shelves were half-empty. The tower was real.
He was safe.
At least, for now.
He rose from the bed and made his way to the desk. With a twist of a rusted valve on a magic stove, fire bloomed from a glowing crystal socket. He placed a dented metal cup atop it and poured in water from a jug.
From the right-hand shelf, he pulled out the only precious thing that remained.
Tea. Black tea.
When the water reached a bubbling boil, he turned off the flame, added the leaves, and let them steep. While the tea brewed, Morris opened the left shelf and retrieved a weathered journal, a glass bottle of ink, and a feathered quill.
He dipped the quill, straightened the parchment, and began to write.
"Day 241 on the run.
I finally slept well last night. I've found shelter in an abandoned wizard's tower. I hope the villagers nearby don't mind. These 240 days have been—horrifying. Knights, magicians, bounty hunters—chasing me day and night. It's endless. Why? What did I do to deserve this?
I only wanted to stop the mindless killing. Is that such a crime?"
He paused.
Steam curled up from the cup beside him. He removed the tea leaves, took a careful sip, and let the warmth spread through him.
He loved black tea.
It was one of the few good things left.
He picked up the quill again.
"The anxious emperor… he ordered names added to the book with no thought. Anyone who seemed suspicious. Anyone who frightened him. He was terrified of the unknown."
"He is a monster."
Morris stopped. He closed the journal and set it aside.
Then he stood, walked to the cloth stand, and grabbed his worn coat and woolen hat. With one last sip of tea, he drained the cup, letting it settle him.
And then—he stepped out of the tower.
Toward the city.
He walked along a forgotten path, overgrown and narrow, swallowed by nature.
Birdsong filled the air. The sun bathed the fields in a golden haze. To anyone else, it might have seemed peaceful.
But not to Morris.
To him, every outing was terror in disguise.
His eyes flicked from side to side, scanning every shadow, every bush, every breeze that moved wrong.
It was not peace—it was danger wrapped in illusion.
A simple walk to the city meant risking his life.
He needed food. Supplies. Tea.
And for that, he had to walk this not-so-long path—
a path with an immeasurable cost.
He kept glancing over his shoulder. Always. Always checking.
Still hunted. Still feared.
Still alive.
Eventually, the gate came into view.
Or what passed for a gate.
A few sticks lashed together with frayed rope. Crooked, brittle, barely standing.
It was called a "gate," as if the name alone could ward off monsters.
Morris eyed it and muttered under his breath:
"One day, a real tragedy will come through here."
He passed through it and followed the trail trimmed down by goats that grazed freely around the outskirts of the village.
The people did not greet him.
They stared.
They always stared.
He didn't blame them. In places like this, strangers were danger—plain and simple.
So he kept walking, head down, toward a small shop with a cracked wooden sign: Rav's.
He pushed open the door.
"Hello, Mister," he said softly to the shopkeeper.
Silence.
The shop fell quiet.
Other customers turned their heads, eyes narrowing.
No one answered.
Unshaken, Morris stepped up to the counter.
"One bread. A box of black tea. Ten ounces of meat."
The shopkeeper said nothing at first—just stared.
Then he moved.
He gathered the items wordlessly and placed them on the counter.
"One box of tea. One loaf. Ten ounces."
"Twenty silver," he said, eyes still fixed on Morris.
Morris reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins—the last of them.
He counted twenty silver pieces and handed them over.
He took the bag without another word and turned to leave.
And as he stepped through the doorway, the voices began.
Soft at first, like insects.
Then louder.
"It's him."
"That's definitely him."
"Killer."
"Bastard."
"Monster."
Morris let out a tired sigh.
His shoulders sank a little lower.
He said nothing.
He just kept walking.
He was once terrified—haunted by the things he'd been forced to do.
The book. The names. The emperor's endless thirst for death.
Now?
Now he was… numb. Or maybe just hollow.
Is this what being unbothered looks like?
No. Not unbothered. Just tired.
Still surviving. Still breathing.
Barely.
A small boy turned his head, sunlight catching in his tousled blond hair. His sharp green eyes flicked back with a glimmer of curiosity—or was it fear?
He sighed once more as he left the town behind, still casting wary glances over his shoulder. The overgrown trail twisted ahead of him, familiar and wild. At last, the ruined tower came into view—its crumbling stone walls draped in ivy, the vines curling like ancient veins, forgotten but still clinging to life.
Morris opened the door, stepped inside, and set the bag of food gently on the table.
Then he walked over to the bed.
He lay down, pulled the thin, hole-ridden sheets over himself, and closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to rest.
Just to exist.
He fell asleep.
And then—
A dream.
A fragment of memory played out, looping endlessly in a circle too small to hold its full shape. Only a single scene remained, etched in the fog of Morris's sleeping mind.
An old man stood before him—
Long white hair, a flowing beard, and soft grey eyes that held both wisdom and weariness. A magician's robe hung from his frail shoulders. With a slow, affectionate motion, he extended his arms and gently patted young Morris on the head.
"You'll do great," the old man said, voice low and warm. "Just remember to follow orders."
The boy pouted, holding the black-leather book to his chest—Inkblood. His lips pushed out in a mixture of disappointment and curiosity.
"Gramps Mavric... what am I going to do there?"
"They never told me anything!"
"Ah..." Mavric's eyes dimmed. His gaze drifted downward, clenched with quiet sorrow.
"You'll be writing names," he murmured. "Wonderful names. Into that book."
Morris blinked, confused—until Mavric suddenly turned his head.
"Oh, look," he said. "He's coming to take you."
But something distorted in his voice as he said it—like part of the name was swallowed by the dream itself. Morris looked back.
A man approached from a distance, shrouded in a thick, grey fog.
He walked along a gravel path that hovered over a bottomless void, his steps silent.
Young Morris's eyes lit up.
He smiled. A spark of joy danced in his expression.
And then—
But the dream twisted—like parchment catching fire—and suddenly, the gravel path beneath the boy's feet dissolved into shadow.
He fell.
Morris jolted awake with a thud, crashing from the bed onto the cold stone floor.
The night loomed outside, heavy and silent. A half-crescent moon hung in the window, casting pale light across the room.
Gasping, Morris wiped the sweat from his brow. His breaths came shallow and loud, rattling in his chest. He threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the spinning world.
"I hate those nightmares," he muttered, barely above a whisper.
He braced himself with one arm and pushed upright, groaning softly. Every step was a limp, a quiet wince of pain, as he made his way to the table.
With a flick of his wrist, he lit the magic stove. A dull flame sparked to life. He set a dented metal cup on top and poured water from the nearby jug.
He slumped into the chair, trying to relax, but couldn't. The sweat hadn't stopped. It rolled down his face in beads, remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like fog.
The water reached a boil. Morris turned off the flame, opened the tea box, and dropped in a handful of black tea leaves.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. He pressed it against his face—wiping the sweat away in one long motion, covering his eyes and breathing in the dark. For a brief moment, he felt safe. Hidden. Still.
Then he set the cloth on the table and carefully stirred the leaves with a crooked spoon. Once steeped, he brought the cup to his lips and drank—every drop in a single breath.
"Good," Morris murmured.
He liked the taste. It reminded him of her.
His mother.
A memory stirred—faint at first, then bright.
A younger Morris, feet bare, dashed through tall doors and down the long corridor, a blur of laughter and joy. He turned sharply and bounded down the stairs, beaming from ear to ear, unstoppable.
He burst into the living room, then the kitchen—and there she was.
Elaisa Thalen.
His mother.
She stood by the counter, preparing lunch. Her long black hair cascaded down to her ankles. Her sharp blue eyes sparkled with kindness and quiet strength. Even in simplicity, her presence was radiant.
She looked up just as Moris ran toward her.
He leapt into her arms, hugging her tightly around the waist.
"Moris! Dear, don't run in the house," she scolded, laughing.
He giggled in reply, warm and breathless. She joined him in laughter—soft and full of love.
And just like that, the memory slipped away.
Back to the present.
Morris stared at the floor. His voice dropped into a quiet monotone.
"Monsters."
He stood again and walked back to bed, dragging his limbs with the weariness of years. He collapsed onto the thin mattress and pulled the worn blanket over himself, just barely.
Moonlight poured through the window, casting a pale glow over him.
He reached out and pulled the book—Inkblood—close to his chest, holding it like something sacred.
It was because of that book that everything had happened.
Every death. Every nightmare. Every hunted day.
But still…
It was the only thing he had left in the world.
The only thing that had stayed.
Birds chirped outside as sunlight filtered through the window, casting a soft glow on Morris's worn face. He groaned and scrambled upright, rubbing the sleep from his bleary eyes. Deep shadows clung beneath them — reminders of the nightmares that haunted him night after night.
A tattered book lay beside him on the bed, half-buried under a blanket that had long lost its warmth. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked over to the desk, poured water into a metal cup, and set it atop a small magic stove. The flame flickered to life with a low hum.
He stood in silence as the water began to boil. When it was ready, he turned off the stove and reached for a wooden box filled with black tea leaves. Just as he was about to drop them in, a knock at the door made him freeze.
His hand paused mid-air. He turned toward the sound, tension crawling up his spine. A cold sweat formed at his brow.
He tossed the tea leaves into the water and opened the drawer beneath the counter, pulling out a small dagger. Silent as a shadow, he approached the door and peered through the peephole.
A boy.
Blond hair. Green eyes. No older than twelve.
Morris exhaled in relief, his grip on the dagger loosening. He set the blade down on the small table by the door and slowly opened it.
"Good morning," the boy said politely.
Something about him was off — the way his eyes darted, the stiffness in his voice. There was an unease about him, something he was holding back. A plan. A secret.
Morris hesitated but stepped aside, against his better judgment. "Come in."
The boy walked straight to the center of the room and took a seat at the table without being asked. Morris followed with his tea in hand, dumping the leaves onto the desk as he passed. He sat opposite the boy, watching him with quiet suspicion.
"I'm Allen," the boy finally said. "I live in the village you visited yesterday."
He fell silent again, fidgeting, clearly struggling to find the right words. Morris waited, uneasy. His instincts told him something was wrong.
But he told himself: It's just a kid.
Allen took a deep breath. "I… I need to ask you for a favor."
"I know how it might sound, but please — just listen to me."
He looked Morris in the eyes. "Are you really Thalen Morris? The Emperor's right hand?"
Morris stiffened. The question hit like a punch to the chest. He hadn't heard that name in months. He opened his mouth, almost to deny it — but something inside him urged otherwise.
"…Yes," he said at last, lying without knowing why.
Allen raised his hands defensively. "I'm not spying on you, sir. I just overheard the villagers talking. They speak loudly."
His gaze darted around the room. Nervous. Sweating.
Then he swallowed hard.
"I came here… to make a request."
Morris sipped his tea, brows drawn. What could a child possibly want from a monster like me?
"…Go on."
Allen's eyes narrowed. "You have the book, don't you? InkBlood?"
Morris's cup trembled in his hands. His eyes widened, a drop of sweat sliding down his cheek.
Before he could speak, the boy pressed forward.
"I need you to write someone's name in it... please," Allen said, voice shaking.
"What?"
"I know what the book does. I know what it costs. But I don't care."
fists clenched. "You have to kill Avric Maxer." He stood abruptly, slamming his hands on the table. The noise echoed through the small room, startling Morris.
Morris pushed back from the table, furious. "Are you out of your mind?! Why would I ever do that?!"
But Allen cut him off, voice cracking with desperation.
"You have to kill Avric Maxer! You have to! Please!"
Tears spilled from his eyes, his chest heaving. "Please… You're the only one who can bring him to justice."
His legs gave out as he slumped back into the chair, covering his face with trembling hands.
"That bastard… he raped my mother. He raped my sister. He murdered my father. And he got away with it."
Allen's voice shook as he spoke, his fingers twitching in time with his words, anger and sorrow bubbling up from deep inside.
"He bought his freedom with money. That monster walks free."
His eyes, once green, now burned with fury. No more tears came — they had dried with the weight of too much pain.
Allen looked up, his voice low and trembling.
"That monster has to pay. Please, Morris… you're the fairest man in this world. You're the only one who can save them."
Those words — "the fairest man in this world" — echoed in Morris's mind, stirring something long buried. A memory. A name. A moment he thought he'd forgotten.
But it wasn't gone.
A vast, dim room. Only a single window poured in light, casting a pale square onto the desk where two men stood—
a slightly younger Morris… and the Emperor.
The Emperor wore a golden crown, though his scalp was bald at the top. His remaining hair, long and silver, spilled down his shoulders to his chest. A wild, unkempt beard framed his jaw, and though his eyes gleamed with madness, they were still unmistakably dignified—piercing navy blue, sharp as ice.
He stepped close and laid a firm hand on Morris's right shoulder. With a crooked smile and a voice that grated like rusted metal, he whispered:
"Oh, dear Morris… please. This is important. He's dangerous. He's the danger to our empire."
The Emperor withdrew his hand and retreated into the shadows. The moonlight followed him as he raised both arms like a prophet. His gold-threaded cape unfurled behind him as he declared:
"The empire's peace is at stake! Think, Morris. Think!"
His voice cracked as he roared:
"HE IS A THREAT TO OUR EMPIRE!"
Then—silence. Cold and dreadful.
Morris stood frozen, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. Fear gripped his spine.
The Emperor spun sharply, now at the far end of the room, his silhouette framed in moonlight. Slowly, he began walking toward Morris, his steps deliberate and heavy.
"Pope Masus is the greatest threat we've faced since the Hero Vavarian," he said darkly.
"You must kill him."
He clenched his fists in the air as he approached, voice rising again:
"He cannot be allowed to live. If we let him be… he'll destroymy perfect, righteous empire!"
"I WON'T LET THAT HAPPEN!"
He seized Morris by both shoulders and leaned close—too close. His voice slithered into Morris's ear, thick with spit and breath that steamed in the freezing dark.
"After all," he hissed, "you're the fairest man in the world."
—
The memory snapped like a shattered mirror.
Morris awoke, drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his back. His face twisted in horror and disgust.
"GET OUT!" he screamed.
Allen flinched and bolted, not daring to question. The door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous THUMP.
Silence devoured the tower.
Only Morris's ragged breathing remained—heavy, uneven, trembling with fear. The sound alone reeked of dread.
He stood, barely. Legs shaking. The memory still clung to him like rot.
Stumbling toward the bed, Morris collapsed as soon as he reached it.
And then—darkness.
He passed out.
Mavric's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"The past… it never stays buried. It always finds a way back. Remember that, my boy. Never forget."
Without another word, he turned and strode into the thickening fog, his figure swallowed by the gray haze with each hurried step.
"Wait!" Morris cried, his voice cracking. "Don't leave me!"
He reached out, desperate to grasp even a shadow—but it was too late.
He jolted awake.
Drenched in sweat, heart hammering, tears streamed down his cheeks as if the dream had ripped something raw from within. The room was dark, the air thick, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Then, with trembling hands, he wiped his face, sat at the edge of his bed, and stood—his legs unsteady, but his eyes even worse
deader than before
He grabbed the InkBlood and stood up.
Crossing the room, he took a piece of bread from the desk, then made his way to the door. He put on his coat, his hat, and stepped out of the tower.
Chewing on the bread, he glanced over his shoulder as he walked toward the village.
A thought surfaced, unbidden.
"Allen... poor boy."
His expression darkened further. He muttered under his breath,
"Cruel world."
The path beneath his feet faded as memories surged up—unwelcome, vivid.
Flashbacks clawed at him.
He saw his mother, Elaisa, standing in a field.
The wind danced through her dark hair. She wore a flowing black dress—one of her favorites.
Morris, overwhelmed by the sight, stepped forward, hope breaking through the shadows in his mind.
"Mom! Mom!" he called.
Elaisa turned slowly, her voice soft, drained of warmth.
"My dear boy… Morris. It's you."
Her back was still to him.
"It's you who—"
Morris hesitated. Her words chilled him. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"M-Mom?" he stammered.
Then she turned.
Her face—no, there was no face.
Only a skull.
Her skull.
A jolt of dread coursed through him.
With seething contempt, she screamed,
"IT'S YOU WHO KILLED ME! DAMN YOU! CURSE YOU! YOU WERE NEVER MY CHILD—I NEVER LOVED YOU!"
Morris flinched violently. The memory seared his mind as he trudged through the village.
Daylight offered no safety; the nightmares walked with him.
His eyes were sunken, bruised by sleeplessness.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
The madness crept in, slow and steady.
People stared. They whispered. They knew who he was.
But they never reported him.
Why?
Perhaps they feared being reported themselves.
He slipped through the village's back gate, crossing the meadows, until he reached the old oak.
The tree stood tall—ancient, beautiful, a relic of joy and sorrow.
So unlike Morris.
He sat beneath it.
Against his better judgment, he let his eyes fall shut.
Too tired.
Too sad.
And there, in the shadow of the oak, he drifted into uneasy sleep.
Again, a nightmare.
Morris stood in a dark void. Silence pressed in from all directions. He looked around—nothing.
He ran. And kept running. Through the emptiness, through the silence, through the dark.
Then—THUD.
A door slammed into existence behind him.
Startled, Morris turned. Slowly, he walked toward it.
He grabbed the handle and pulled.
Locked.
He slammed his fists against it. Kicked it. Again and again. Desperation overtook him.
Then, stepping back, he prepared to ram into it—
But the door creaked open on its own.
Beyond it stretched a corridor—long, narrow, faded. It was familiar. Forgotten.
His breath caught.
The old corridor from his childhood home.
No… it was that corridor.
Morris ran, searching for something—but he didn't know what.
As he moved, the hallway twisted and shifted. The wallpaper peeled away. The wood turned to stone, then to steel. The ceiling stretched higher. The walls closed in.
The whole corridor warped before his eyes.
Panic clawed at him.
Then—a second door appeared. Sudden. Unnerving.
It swung open without a sound. Not like a threat.
Like… an invitation.
As if it was the first thing in the world that ever welcomed him.
Inside—his childhood home.
Dusty. Still. Preserved in time. His mother's presence clung to every surface.
He looked around. A calendar on the wall caught his eye.
1499 / 08 / 22
His breath hitched.
"That's the day… the day I escaped."
"No. No, no, no—"
He ran.
Down the hall. Around the corner. Through old memories.
Then he saw him—his younger self. A boy, crying in the corner, curled into himself.
Morris's heart broke.
And then—he saw them.
Four knights towered over his mother.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
They beat her—mercilessly. One struck her ribs with the hilt of his blade. Another slammed her head against the floor.
She screamed. Once. Then choked. Blood splattered the walls.
She tried to crawl.
Tried to reach Morris's younger self.
But they dragged her back. One twisted her arm until it snapped like a dry twig. The others laughed—mocking, detached.
Then—
A blade was drawn.
With one final motion, they plunged it into her chest.
Her body jerked, then stilled.
Her eyes—still open—fixed on the boy in the corner.
As her body fell, the knights turned to him, speaking in unison—voices cruel and hollow.
"It's your fault she died. If only you hadn't run."
They laughed. Maniacally. As one.
Dread. Fury. Sorrow. Regret.
It all crashed into Morris like a wave.
He looked at the boy.
A small, shaking thing huddled in the corner.
Tears streamed silently down his cheeks, but his eyes—
They were hollow. As if the soul behind them had cracked and vanished.
No sobs. No screams.
Just a vacant, glassy stare fixed on nothing.
His face wasn't crying.
It was empty.
The kind of emptiness that could never be filled again.
And then—
The ground beneath him dissolved into black mist. It coiled around his ankles, then his waist, then pulled him under.
He fell.
Faster and faster, through the dark, until—
He landed on the cold, unforgiving stones of a castle floor.
castle floor?
It was the Capital Castle—the place where all his nightmares began.
Morris stood up slowly, his legs trembling. One step at a time, he moved forward.
The corridor stretched endlessly before him—impossibly tall, impossibly long. The walls breathed with silence. His sweat dripped with each step. His hand twitched.
He remembered.
The blood.
The screams.
The choices he never wanted to make.
His pace quickened. Then faster. And faster—until he was running.
The corridor twisted and rotated around him. Up became down. Down became up. The world spun in impossible angles, but Morris didn't stop. He couldn't.
And then, just as suddenly, the world righted itself. Slowly. Gravity returned. The marble beneath his feet steadied.
He reached the grand gate at the corridor's end.
Without hesitation, he hurled his body into it. The doors flew open.
Inside was a vast chamber—opulent, crowded, smothering. Nobles. Aristocrats. Businessmen. Heroes. Every powerful person Morris had ever known or feared.
And there, on an elevated throne at the far end of the room, sat the Emperor.
The crowd parted.
A clear path opened along a red carpet leading to the throne. In the middle of it, knelt a man—Morris, twenty-five years old. His face was pale. His eyes wide. Terror clung to him like sweat.
He looked ready to collapse.
As Morris walked down the carpet, he bumped into people—shoulders brushing, footsteps fumbling. But no one acknowledged him.
They didn't see him.
They didn't care.
It was as if he didn't exist.
"Is this the same… as my mother's house?" he thought. "Is this… a dream?"
He looked to the throne.
Then the Emperor rose.
"Finally, Morris—my dear!" the Emperor declared, stepping down slowly from his throne.
Each footfall echoed like thunder, the sound growing louder, heavier.
With arms raised high like a messiah, he bellowed,
"YOU DID IT!"
"YOU SAVED OUR EMPIRE!"
"YOU KILLED THAT WRETCHED POPE!"
He approached Morris with a sword in hand.
The blade tapped Morris's left shoulder.
"I bestow you power."
Spit flew from the Emperor's cracked lips. His mouth twisted grotesquely with each word.
The sword moved to Morris's right shoulder.
"I bestow you position."
His breath was foul—decayed, rotten—and Morris shuddered beneath it.
Then the Emperor gently pressed the blade against young Morris's head.
"From now on, you are my right hand."
He screamed, mad with fervor:
"THE EMPEROR'S RIGHT HAND!"
"NOW—YOU MUST KEEP MY EMPIRE SAFE—FOREVER!"
The chamber dissolved into darkness.
Only Morris and the Emperor remained, standing on a glowing patch of ground in a sea of nothing.
The Emperor gestured for Morris to rise. He obeyed.
Then, with a twisted smile, the Emperor leaned in close to his ear and whispered, voice thick with corruption:
"My friend."
Then—darkness again.
Morris fell.
Down, down, down—through the void he feared most.
As he tumbled endlessly, the shadows parted below him, revealing a familiar place:
His room.
The room from before he ran.
With a deafening THUD, he hit the ground.
Groaning, he pushed himself up—and there, beside him, stood his younger self.
Young Morris.
They looked identical.
Morris stared at him, wide-eyed.
He recognized the exact moment—this was him, right before everything began.
Morris stood up walking up to his young self
He saw him.
Sweating. Eyes vacant. Dead inside.
His face was dark and hollow, drained of emotion, yet his hands moved with frantic purpose.
He was writing—desperately—something into a book.
Morris leaned closer.
InkBlood.
He was scribbling names. Mindlessly.
SCRIBBLE.
His quill scratched across the page with feverish speed.
DIP.
He dipped the quill into the ink bottle again.
And again.
Writing faster.
Faster.
Even faster—
Then suddenly, he snapped.
He couldn't take it anymore.
With a jolt, he grabbed the ink bottle and hurled it at the wall.
It flew—right through Morris—and exploded on the stone with a sickening splatter.
Pat. Pat.
Young Morris breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion.
He couldn't stay.
He had to run.
Morris watched.
Young Morris stumbled out, anxious, eyes darting, heart pounding.
Two knights stood in the corridor.
They paused, bowed, and stepped aside without question.
He picked up the pace.
Turned sharply down the corridor.
Ran.
Faster.
He burst through the door, descended the spiraling stairs—
Down and down.
Floor after floor.
From the highest tower to the base of the fortress.
Morris followed, the air thick with dread.
The tension was so heavy it could be sliced with a knife.
At last, the ground level.
Young Morris rushed toward the front gate.
The staff glanced at him strangely.
Morris remembered those stares.
Even now, his face darkened at the memory.
Then—he was at the gate.
A guard stepped forward.
"HALT! Stop right there!"
Then, recognizing him:
"Oh, Mr. Morris. Hello! What brings you here?"
Young Morris hesitated, his throat dry.
"Out… I'm going out."
The guard chuckled, shaking his head.
"I can't let you do that, you know it's the Emperor's orders."
Anxiety surged.
Young Morris glanced around, desperate.
Then—he saw it.
A metal rod, discarded on the ground.
"Ey, what are you—yo–"
CRACK.
The rod struck the guard's face.
He crumpled with a groan.
Young Morris didn't wait.
He ran.
Ran for his life—into the mist, into the void.
Morris stood still.
He looked down at the guard, groaning on the ground.
He looked up—Young Morris, a fading silhouette, swallowed by the black fog.
Sadness struck him like the blow he had dealt.
Regret flooded him.
The dream twisted—darkened—until the world around him unraveled.
The void came for him.
He fell.
Falling endlessly through darkness.
Then—
A light.
Tiny. Distant.
It rose as he fell.
Brighter.
Closer.
Until the void itself became light—
And Morris jolted awake.
His breath ragged.
Tears staining his face.
Dark bags under sunken eyes.
His skin pale—paler than ever.
Hair disheveled. A faint beard shadowed his jaw.
He stood, sluggish.
Weariness dragging at his limbs.
Depression wrapped around him like a cloak.
He walked.
Slowly.
Silently.
He made his way to the village.
In his pocket, Morris gripped InkBlood even tighter.
He had arrived at the village—but something was wrong.
No voices. No villagers. Not a single human in sight.
"What...?" Morris muttered, blinking through exhaustion.
"Where is everyone?"
He turned down the narrow path, eyes scanning every shadow. Then, as he looked to his right, he saw them.
Nine guards.
And in front of them—Allen.
"He's living in a tower! I swear—he's here!" Allen cried, gesturing wildly.
Then Allen caught a glimpse of him—just the edge of Morris's figure in the distance. He flinched, pointed, and screamed,
"THERE! HE'S THERE!"
The guards snapped into motion.
"GO! NOW—GET HIM!" they barked.
Their boots thundered toward him.
Morris jolted. Fear gripped his heart like ice.
Sweat drenched his face as he spun around and dashed for the village's rear exit.
"FASTER! GET HIM!"
He didn't dare look back.
Couldn't.
He ran—right turn, forward—then left, then straight again. The back gate came into view.
He passed the old oak tree, panting, lungs burning.
But behind him—still—the guards gave chase.
Morris gasped for air, running with every ounce of strength he had. He knew—if he stopped now—
everything he had done would be for nothing.
He sprinted toward the cliff's edge.
No way forward. No way out.
The guards were closing in.
"NO! DON'T DO IT!" one shouted.
Morris's hands trembled as he pulled InkBlood from his pocket, and a quill.
He opened the book to its final page, glancing once at the men rushing toward him.
"STOP! PLEASE—WE'RE NOT HERE TO H—"
He no longer heard them.
Their voices dulled into silence.
With a flick of his wrist, Morris wrote, clear and sharp, across the center of the last page:
Thalen Morris.
The ink sank into the parchment.
He closed the book.
And smiled.
Finally—he would see his mother again.
Every memory, every nightmare, every weight he had carried…
Gone.
He threw InkBlood over the edge.
The book tumbled into the chasm below, vanishing into the sea.
The guards reached out, screaming:
"DON'T—"
"STOP—"
"WHY—"
"PLEASE—"
But it was too late.
Morris leaned backward—
and fell.
His body began to unravel in the air.
His skin peeled away, floating like ash.
Eyelids, fingers—gone.
Piece by piece, he dissolved.
Until all that remained
was bone.
He felt no pain.
He didn't care.
PDUM.
His skeleton hit the water with a thunderous splash.
And so,
this was the end
of Thalen Morris.