Darkness.
Thick, swallowing, absolute. Klein had experienced many forms of it—shadows that lurked behind reality, the abyss of death, the suffocating weight of nightmares—but this was different. This darkness was blank. It was not absence, but something worse.
It was unwritten.
Klein felt as if he were falling, but there was no sensation of movement, no rush of air, no end. His thoughts stretched thin, unraveling like ink on a water-damaged page.
A voice, layered and formless, echoed in the abyss.
"You do not understand your own name."
Klein gritted his teeth.
"Then tell me what it means."
No response.
Instead, something shifted. A flicker of light—a faint, flickering candle in the endless void. He reached for it, willing his thoughts to hold steady, forcing himself to be.
The light took shape.
A desk. A chair. A single sheet of parchment, resting in the center. A name was written on it in precise, flowing ink.
"Klein Moretti."
But the ink was smudged. The letters twisted, as if resisting their own meaning.
Klein stared at it, feeling a deep unease settle in his chest.
This was wrong.
He was Klein Moretti. He had been Zhou Mingrui. But now…
"You are neither," the voice whispered.
The ink on the page began to shift. The letters rearranged themselves, forming words Klein could not comprehend—symbols that had no place in human language.
His pulse quickened.
"What does this mean?" he demanded.
"It means you have yet to be written."
The words sent a chill down his spine. His hands clenched into fists, but when he looked down, his fingers were blurred at the edges, dissolving like ink soaking into parchment.
"No." He forced himself to breathe. "I exist."
The darkness around him pulsed. The table, the chair, the parchment—they trembled, unstable, as if his very willpower was keeping them together.
"Tell me who I am."
For a moment, silence.
Then, the whisper returned.
"You are a question."
The parchment before him burned, ink twisting into shifting shapes. He watched as it cycled through names, identities, fates—each one erased the moment it was formed.
"You are unfinished."
Klein's mind reeled. His thoughts fought against the implication.
"That's not true. I have memories, I have experiences—I've lived, I've died—"
"And yet, the ink does not dry."
The parchment cracked. The illusion of stability shattered, and suddenly Klein was falling again—
No.
He reached out, grasping at the void, and this time, he refused to fall.
He pushed back.
The darkness shattered.
Klein gasped as he hit solid ground.
His head throbbed. His vision swam. The scent of ink and old paper clung to his senses.
He was back.
But where?
His surroundings slowly came into focus. A vast library stretched before him, its shelves curving endlessly into the distance. Books pulsed with faint light, their covers stitched with symbols that shifted when he tried to read them.
The Archive of the Unwritten.
Again.
Klein exhaled sharply, pushing himself upright.
"You're back," a voice said.
He turned.
Yeaia stood nearby, their mismatched eyes watching him with something unreadable. Their form flickered at the edges, shifting between clarity and translucency.
"How long was I gone?" Klein asked.
Yeaia tilted their head.
"You never left."
Klein's blood ran cold.
"That's not possible. I—" He cut himself off.
He had fallen into the void. Had confronted the nameless figure. Had seen the shifting name on the parchment. Had remembered.
But now he was here. Again.
Klein's fingers curled against his palm.
"How many times has this happened?"
Yeaia didn't answer right away. Instead, they gestured toward the vast expanse of the Archive.
"What do you remember?"
Klein hesitated. Then, he spoke.
"I remember… a figure. Something outside the dream. Something watching."
Yeaia's expression darkened.
"Then you're closer than before."
Klein exhaled. He felt his heartbeat, steady but heavy. He had been here before—he knew he had. But something was different this time.
"What is it?" Yeaia asked.
Klein closed his eyes for a second, focusing.
"The ink wasn't dry."
That phrase. That simple, unsettling truth.
"And what does that mean?"
Klein opened his eyes.
"It means I'm not supposed to be done yet."
Yeaia gave him a long, measured look. Then, slowly, they smiled.
"Then let's find out why."
The Archive around them trembled. Books whispered. Pages turned on their own.
The story was not yet finished.
And Klein Moretti still had a name to claim.
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End of Chapter 82
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