The book lay open before them, blank and endless. Its pages shimmered with unrealized futures, the parchment soft like breath, the ink yet unwritten. Lin Sheng's fingers hovered over it, trembling. This was not a tome of recording—it was a tome of creation.
The Archivist stood still, a candle given flesh, watching not with eyes but with timeless awareness.
"You may not write alone," it said.
At its gesture, the infinite library split. Great stairways unfolded in every direction, and on each stair, a figure stepped forth. Ascendants from ancient cycles, from failed rebellions, from shattered sects and corrupted paradises. Some bore eyes of light, others faces of sorrow, many cloaked in silence.
Fei'er whispered, "They're… waiting for him."
Mira nodded. "They've all tried to rewrite the rules. They all failed."
The Archivist gestured once more, and the stairway of ink coalesced into a throne made not of power—but of pen.
"You ended one Sovereign. But now you risk becoming the next," it said. "To lead a new cycle is to tempt becoming its jailor."
Lin Sheng didn't sit.
He stepped past the throne and into the blank pages.
The book responded. Each step he took etched words into existence:
—"Let all cycles remain choices, not chains."
—"Let realms be ruled by consent, not doctrine."
—"Let Ascension be earned, not assigned."
Each line became law—not by force, but by resonance. The Realms began to shift, subtly, around his decisions.
Then came a scream.
From a shadowy alcove, a hand of pitch-black clawed its way through the veil of unwritten history. A figure emerged, half-formed, stitched together from fragments of rejected timelines and twisted truths.
It was a failed Sovereign. Not one who had ruled, but one denied the chance.
"I was to be the Flame," it snarled. "I was prophesied in a dozen realms. And you, a mortal from Earth, rewrote what was never yours to touch!"
Lin Sheng did not flinch. "The prophecy failed you, not I."
The creature struck. Its body was a weapon—blades of fate, limbs of false endings. Lin Sheng leapt into battle, wielding nothing but the echoes of the Accord. Hope flickered within him, fragile but alive.
Fei'er drew her celestial spear. Mira summoned paradox to shield them. Jin Rui shattered probability with sheer presence.
The battle raged across the Library. Scrolls burned. Books bled. Forgotten memories cried out. More failed Sovereigns awoke, drawn to the unraveling.
And in the middle of chaos, Lin Sheng stood his ground.
He looked to the throne—still empty. Still waiting.
The Archivist's voice boomed: "To lead the new cycle, one must claim not power, but responsibility. If you do not write this world, another will."
He hesitated. If he sat, he would begin a new Sovereignty. But if he walked away, the void would be filled by tyrants worse than those who came before.
He turned to Fei'er. "What do we do?"
She answered with a tear and a nod. "Write. But leave space for others."
He sat.
The throne did not bind him. It breathed.
The book did not seal. It expanded.
And the Sovereignfall truly ended.
A new chapter began.
To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Six – "Inheritance of Flame and Ink"