Through one thousand five hundred eighty-three lives, I have finally reached it—
the end of the story.
Beyond here, he should be—
the one dictating destiny..My destiny.
But after coming so far, why does it feel empty? Hopeless, even? Almost as if it's meaningless?
"Does it really matter?"
A voice asked, almost mockingly.
"No," I replied after a pause. "I don't think it does."
"Then step on ahead,"
another voice answered—heavy, resolute, filled with determination.
I could almost see the owner of those voices.
There was no one around me.
Just a sea of nothingness, and the white gate standing before me.
Yet, I heard those voices—the voices of my comrades,
those I had lost across the one thousand five hundred eighty-three lives I'd lived.
Their echoes resonated from somewhere deep within me.
I reached out and slowly opened the gate that stood before me.
I could feel the strain, The pressure felt like it'd break my fingers , as it creaked open.
Beyond it lay a white room, blanketed by the countless moons of the universe , some that existed , some that exist and some that will exist.
In the center, a river of stars flowed gently—
and within that stream stood him.
The Author.
I approached, hand gripping the hilt of my sword,
and unsheathed it in a single motion.
Just then, he threw something at me—
a projectile, an empty ink cartridge.
I froze.
And then, I saw his face. A face ever so familiar..
It was... my face.
"Welcome, my protagonist—myself—
to my, your, humble abode."
I stood motionless.
What was happening?
Was this a joke? Some cruel joke of fate?
"I am the author," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with confidence.
"I am the one you've been searching for. I am you."
Trickery, I thought.
It had to be.
As if reading my mind,
"This is no trick, I assure you. I am the author of your suffering.
And you—" he pointed at me with the ink-stained cartridge "—you shall become me.
See this?" He raised the empty cartridge, almost emotionless.
"I've finally run out of ink. Just moments ago.
I cannot write your story anymore."
He took a step closer, eyes glinting with something I couldn't name.
"Now, it's your turn to write it—for the one thousand five hundred eighty-fourth time."
His grin widened, sharp and cruel.
"You must die."