Prologue

PROLOGUE – THE UNWRITTEN PAGE

I did not create this world to be worshipped.

I wrote it... because no one else was willing to remember it.

For what use is a forgotten world?

What use is the sky, if no one looks up?

What use is time, if no one fears losing it?

So I wrote —

not with my hands, but with my will.

Not with ink, but with wounds.

With the ink flowing from the wounds of time,

I unfolded the untainted pages.

I painted the split sky,

the cracked earth,

and the souls trapped between two destinies —

one written,

one chosen.

I create heroes with shining swords.

Traitors with false smiles.

Kings with crowns that devour their own flesh.

Each is given a place.

Each is given a role.

For a perfect story…

is a story that ends.

Yet always,

from the gaps between the lines I did not write,

something emerges that should not be there.

A stain.

A shadow that absorbs the script’s light.

A voice… that does not wait to be created.

It comes without a name,

without a beginning,

without an end.

Only a desire — to exist,

even in a world that does not acknowledge it.

I did not name it.

I did not create it.

It is not a character, not fate —

it is a guilt that refuses to be forgotten.

It slips into the scene,

steals lines that are not its own,

whispers another story in the middle of the act.

And the act begins to crack.

My characters forget who they are.

The scene bypasses the structure.

The end no longer arrives.

Because while he writes,

I am only a shadow.

A writer who has lost his own story.

And the last page—

it is not I who will write it.

Perhaps it has already been written. In blood. In vengeance.

Or perhaps… not yet.

Because the pen is now in his hands.