Editor Authority (2)
[―Unique Skill: "Editor Authority" activated. (1/3)]
[―Time Remaining / Limit:
00:00:14 / 00:00:15]
Isiel froze mid-step. The big boy froze mid-lunge. Even the cat and the fluttering curtains halted in midair, the folds of fabric puffed out as if caught by an invisible wind.
Then, layered over the frozen scene, a bundle of ragged, half-torn pages appeared, fanning open in front of Cleio.
The paper was brittle—like it had been written and rewritten too many times. Beneath the bold black text, faint erased letters shimmered through in overlapping layers.
He couldn't recognize the script, yet somehow, he could read it. On the top page, the title stood out clearly: The Prince of Albion Kingdom—a final draft Cleio had never seen before.
The last paragraph described exactly what he was going through at that moment—his confrontation, the magic circle, the chaos.
After that, the pages were blank—scratched out, half-erased, fragile scraps where text had once been.
"So this is what it means to edit the manuscript directly? That's what the 'Editor Authority' does!?"
[―Time Remaining / Limit:
00:00:07 / 00:00:15]
There was no time to hesitate. The countdown ticked away.
A pen had appeared in his hand without him realizing. Cleio looked from it to the messy manuscript—and moved.
"Let's hope Korean proofreader marks mean the same thing here!!!"
He selected the paragraph describing the magic activation—the whole scene—and slashed a bold delete mark across it. The pen spilled blue ink laced with gold dust.
[―The Author accepts the Editor's revision.]
[―The paragraph has been edited.]
The text vanished—disappearing from the manuscript, and from the world itself.
At once, the world shifted.
The walls, floor, ceiling, and furniture lost their texture, becoming tangled black outlines. Then, as if every word constructing reality had been erased, everything turned pure white.
For an instant, Cleio felt himself cast adrift in the empty space between words.
Then—
The familiar living room returned. Isiel. The cat. Reality snapped back into place.
BANG—!
"Cleio Aser! Get out here right now!"
The same big boy stormed in again, charging toward Cleio, rage written all over his face.
But now—
—the incident had been rolled back. About one paragraph's worth of time.
Cleio's stomach dropped.
This world was a manuscript.
And when a line of the manuscript was revised,
the world itself was rewritten.
The terrifying immediacy of that realization left him almost numb.
And above all—
"Since when are authors this obedient to editors?!"
There was no time to marvel further. The furious boy was already in his face.
"You know how much crap I went through because you jumped into that river? I tried to be nice, and this is what I get!"
Cleio darted behind Isiel like his life depended on it.
"Help me!"
Isiel's reaction was lightning-fast. Grabbing her training sword by the sheath, she stepped in front of Cleio and intercepted the charging boy with effortless precision.
"I don't know what's going on, but swinging fists first isn't the answer."
"Ughhh—!"
A quick blow from the sheathed sword sent the boy sprawling to the floor, groaning.
Cleio, still dizzy from the nauseating aftershock of reality's rewrite, lost strength in his legs and slumped down as well.
Two boys down, one girl still standing—the living room was a wreck.
Sliding her sword back into place, Isiel looked down at Cleio.
"You okay, Cleio?"
"I've been saying I'm not okay…."
His body was hot and slick with sweat. Isiel frowned, caught off guard, and caught him as he swayed. He felt light—almost weightless—in her arms.
"Tch. What kind of boy keels over this easily? Hey, wake up! You weakling."
Her words were sharp, but her tone trembled slightly.
"Was she the one who carried me last time, too…?"
A faint scent of fresh roses drifted around him—familiar, somehow comforting. Enfolded in her slender but steady arms, Cleio let his eyes close and drifted into unconsciousness.
Cleio slept like the dead for two days.
On the third, he managed to get up—but still felt languid. He washed up, ate whatever was given to him, then went back to lazing about.
Every now and then, between waking and sleep, he thought about the "Editor Authority."
He'd considered trying it again—but the limits were unclear, and with only three uses per chapter, he decided to hold off.
The rectangular mark on the back of his hand had glowed vividly after use—bright blue lines shot through with metallic gold, not quite tattoo or burn, but something otherworldly etched into his skin.
"It's fading now, thank goodness. I had no idea how I'd hide it if it stayed that bright."
As thoughts wavered between What should I do… and Ah, whatever, drowsiness crept in again.
And Cleio fell asleep once more.
On the fourth day—Friday afternoon.
When Cleio finally awoke, he felt his body light and clear, as though the long fever had finally burned out of him.
The one sitting at his bedside was his housemate, Nebo Yarvi.
The big boy who had swung a fist at him just days earlier now looked like a scolded puppy, his former bravado completely gone. His expression was all guilt and discomfort as he bowed his head again and again.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, I get it."
"I was really wrong."
"I said I get it."
"Really? You're forgiving me?"
"…Sure."
Cleio's face showed a faintly dark smile—his tone ambiguous enough that it could've been forgiveness or just dismissal.
Nebo's face was a mess of yellowing bruises across his cheekbones and forehead—undoubtedly Isiel's handiwork.
"Right. The law's far away, but fists are close."
Judging from Nebo's meekness, someone must've given him quite the lecture while Cleio was sick—something along the lines of 'Don't bully the weak.'
"When the top-ranked student and undefeated examiner of the academy is involved, even the big guys get scared. Thanks to her, things should be easier for a while."
Still wary, Nebo shifted in his seat, glancing at Cleio like he was treading on thin ice. He clearly wasn't sure what kind of relationship Cleio had with Isiel, and didn't dare to risk offending him again.
"He's probably afraid I'll go tell on him to that scary girl."
"…I even fed that damn—uh, that fierce cat of yours."
"Thanks."
"Meooow (It was chicken every time. I am not satisfied.)"
"Behemoth says thanks too."
"That thing's name was Behemoth?"
"Yeah. I call him Mot for short."
"'Mot' as in moron? What kind of dumb name is that—"
"Meooowwrk!"
"Ow! Stop hitting me, you little monster!"
Smack! Smack!
Behemoth lashed out with his paw again, and Nebo yelped in pain.
After a storm of dust, thuds, and scuffling, the two finally stopped fighting.
Nebo, his conscience now somewhat lighter, dragged a chair back to Cleio's bedside with a more relaxed expression.
"So… did you really lose your memory?"
"I told you, yeah."
"Man. Unbelievable."
"Right? Hard to believe. Anyway, who dragged you into all that trouble after I fell in the river?"
Cleio smiled—a smooth, professional smile, the kind polished by years of office politics. It sent a chill down Nebo's spine.
"Yikes. Why's he suddenly so scary?"
"N-no, really! Headmaster Zebedi called me in, but it was just a misunderstanding. It's all cleared up now."
"I see."
Nebo scratched his head and looked away toward the window. The boy he'd shared a dorm with for months suddenly felt like a stranger.
Cleio's frail health had often kept him bedridden during the day—it had always been easy to assume he was just pretending to be sick to avoid classes.
A timid kid who avoided crowds and wandered in quiet corners.
The baronet's son weighed down by expectations and unable to quit the academy because of his family's massive donations.
The weakling who finally snapped and jumped into the river, throwing the whole school into chaos.
And now, that same boy sat up straight, looking him in the eye without hesitation.
Cleio spoke in a calm, measured tone.
"Nebo, you busy this afternoon?"
"Yeah. Professor Fehite told us to practice the linking movements assignment."
"Mind skipping practice just for today?"
"…Why would I do that?"
"I need to go to the bank. It'd be nice to have someone show me around. Miss Lyuba said I should ask you."
Nebo's face twisted in pure reluctance, but the mention of Isiel and Lyuba made him hesitate. Finally, he nodded with a sigh.
"Fine. I'll come."
"Thanks, Nebo."
"You know… it's not just your memory. You're like a completely different person."