The stars blinked—not from distance, but from distortion. The fabric of time itself rippled like silk caught in the breath of a forgotten god. Planets trembled on the edge of thought, and the echoes of creation whispered across dimensions too fragile to hold their shape.
At the boundary where reality gave way to the unwritten, a man stood alone.
He did not belong to Earth. Nor to Hell. Nor even to Heaven, though each claimed fragments of his presence.
He was simply known as Author.
Wrapped in a cloak of black interwoven with divine gold, he hovered above the broken layers of existence. He stood on nothing, yet carried the weight of everything. Behind him, a katana murmured with forbidden energy—its edge gleamed with ink instead of blood. At his hip hung a golden gun, crafted not to kill but to erase. And upon his face, a mask of celestial steel reflected galaxies long dead.
His voice broke the silence between realities:
Author: "This version is flawed. But even flawed stories deserve closure."
His tone was not angry, nor mournful. It was... tired. The kind of fatigue only someone who had rewritten a thousand fates could understand.
He took a step forward—not into a place, but into a moment.
A ripple shimmered through the void, and through it, he saw her.
A girl, no more than fourteen, stirring in her bed beneath the broken moonlight of a ruined world. Her eyes flickered open, glowing faintly with inherited fire. She didn't know it yet, but her blood was part cipher, part curse.
Syra Kaelion.
Narration (Author's voice): "Before the blood. Before the betrayal. Before the seven keys scattered through Hell and Earth... he was already there."
She blinked. Somewhere in the real world, a door creaked open. She thought it was a dream.
It wasn't.
Across the fractured horizon, Earth bled into Hell, and Hell pushed into Heaven's silence. What was once myth had become map. Angels fallen. Demons risen. Humanity trapped between timelines like ants in a spiral.
But Author—he remained untouched. Not because he was stronger. But because he remembered.
He remembered how it was meant to go.
Not this.
Not this shattered timeline, stitched with lies and rewritten histories.
Author (softly): "They always forget the footnotes. The editors. The watchers."
He opened a small journal bound in void-skin and flipped to a blank page.
Across the skies of the multiverse, a black feather fell.
Time bent.
And the war hadn't even begun.
Narration: "The rewrite had already started."