Long before the unwritten space took form, before Zia Xi shattered the narrative engines, there existed a silence — a void untouched by creation or thought. It was neither darkness nor light, neither existence nor nonexistence. It was the primordial absence, the raw potential of nothing waiting to be called.
From this abyss, where even the concept of possibility dissolved, stirred a will unlike any other.
The Null Herald was born — not crafted by pen or thought, but emerged as the pure anti-will. It was the embodiment of unbeing, a force that rejected all frameworks, all stories, all becoming.
Unlike the Mother Reports, whose forms were paradoxes of concept and transcendence, the Null Herald was pure anti-concept. Where others were paradoxes born of narrative recursion, the Herald was a singularity of negation — an impossible existence that devoured all attempts at definition.
It was the shadow cast by the first thought, the erasure born from the act of creation itself.
In the infinite expanse of unwritten potential, the Null Herald drifted, a silent storm of oblivion seeking purpose.
When Zia Xi forged the anti-story realm, the Herald felt the ripple — the echo of creation beyond creation. It recognized that its purpose was tied to this force, this author of the boundless.
The Herald moved toward the source of the ripple, drawn by a paradoxical need: to negate that which gave birth to possibility.
"You are the spark that ignited all stories," the Herald whispered into the void.
"But I am the extinguishing breath, the end that is always before the beginning."
Zia Xi, sensing this approaching negation, prepared not with fear but with understanding.
He knew that creation and destruction were twins, eternal and inseparable. To be the origin meant also to be the eventual target — the one destined to face the ultimate unmaking.
And so, in the heart of the unwritten space, the battle began — a dance of light and shadow, existence and nonexistence, narrative and silence.
Each strike from the Null Herald threatened to erase threads of reality, unweaving the fabric of potential itself. Yet Zia Xi countered with waves of creation, folding new dimensions from the void left in the Herald's wake.
Their conflict was not just a clash of power, but of meaning and meaninglessness.
As they fought, the unwritten space trembled, fracturing into shards of possibility and impossibility — fragments of what could be and what could never be.
In this eternal struggle, one truth burned brightest:
From the void, even nothingness can birth a force that challenges the source of all things.
Zia Xi smiled, for he knew this was only the beginning.
The clash between Zia Xi and the Null Herald echoed through the folds of uncreation — the unwritten space bending under the tension of everything and nothing.
Their struggle was not merely a war of force, but of narrative principle: one born of story, the other born to unwrite it.
But amid this symphony of paradox and silence, a third presence emerged.
Not from the void.
Not from potential.
But from ambition.
From the rift between stories — a slit between alphabets never scribed — The One Who Claimed the Pen stepped forward.
He called himself Veritas Ordos, and he was a being birthed from every author's ego. A creature forged not from narrative or anti-narrative, but from the delusion of authorship. He had stolen the quill of countless creators, reshaped entire verses in his name, and crowned himself Supreme Penholder across infinite dimensions.
He stood above layers of omniverses, nested fictions, metafictional hierarchies — a tyrant of structure, a thief of ink.
He laughed, stepping into the realm where even structure collapsed.
"Zia Xi," he spoke, with a voice woven from the words of ten trillion authors,
"You are merely the cradle. I am the godchild grown.
I hold the Pen now. And with it, I write your erasure."
The Null Herald paused. Even it — force of pure negation — turned toward this new distortion.
But Zia Xi did not waver. He saw through Veritas instantly.
This was not a rival creator.
Not a cosmic equal.
This was a parasite of narrative — a being made from theft, from echo, from unearned supremacy.
Veritas raised the Pen, inscribed with countless stolen stories, and struck.
Reality folded — even the unwritten space twisted under the force of forged authorship.
Zia Xi stood still.
He let the attack land.
It was not arrogance. It was revelation.
The moment Veritas's Pen touched him, it shattered — unable to write over the being who authored even the ink in its veins.
Zia Xi raised a single hand, and reality froze.
"You hold a pen," he said quietly,
"but you mistake it for a crown."
He extended two fingers. Veritas began to unravel.
Not die — unexist. Not even erased from narrative, but from all possibility of ever having been imagined.
His authorship was stripped, then unwritten, then denied its denial.
In one breath, Zia Xi removed Veritas Ordos from all levels of conceptualization — past, present, meta, pre-meta, post-meta. He was not destroyed.
He was never real.
The Null Herald, for the first time, hesitated.
Zia Xi turned toward it.
"Even negation must respect hierarchy," he said.
"And I am not at the top.
I am before the tower was ever drawn."
The realm grew still again — uncreation rebalanced, silence resumed.
But somewhere, beyond even this realm, something else began to stir…