We walked for what felt like hours.
Beyond the ruined main hall, the library grew stranger. The laws of architecture unraveled. Staircases floated sideways. Doors opened into rooms that didn't exist. Shelves bent like vines, and books whispered to each other when we passed.
"This place wasn't in the version I ever imagined," I said.
Veyra's gaze stayed forward. "That's because you never imagined this place. This is the graveyard of stories left unfinished. The library holds every fragment, every character you almost created—and left behind."
A cold wind swept through the corridor. I pulled my coat tighter.
Every time I glanced at the shelves, something looked back. Half-formed silhouettes pressed their hands against the spines of books. Some had missing faces. Others were made of letters that kept rearranging. Abandoned characters.
"Why are they still here?" I asked quietly.
"Because they still want to be written," she whispered.
We entered a vast chamber, dome-shaped, with ink dripping slowly from the ceiling like a leaking heartbeat. Dozens of floating books circled us, each glowing faintly.
"This is where you'll start reclaiming the world," Veyra said. "But it won't be easy."
One of the books floated closer. I reached out—and the moment my hand touched it, a vision exploded in my mind.
A boy with mechanical wings, standing at the edge of a shattered sky.A girl whose heartbeat controlled time.A warrior trapped in a loop, dying to protect someone who never remembers him.
I yanked my hand back, gasping. "These were... old ideas. Stuff I never developed."
Veyra nodded. "They're still alive. And now they're bleeding into this world. The longer the narrative remains unstable, the more these ghosts invade reality."
She pointed to the far end of the chamber.
A massive book floated in a beam of light—larger than the rest, sealed with golden thread.
"The Core Draft," she said. "The first story you ever imagined. If you reclaim that, the narrative may start stabilizing."
I stepped forward—but something growled behind us.
From the shadows emerged a creature—a humanoid beast stitched together with torn paragraphs, its face nothing but black smudges and broken dialogue. Its chest glowed with a familiar mark:
Kael-Zereth's crest.
"He's sent a corruption warden," Veyra said, drawing her blade of pages. "If it touches the Core Draft, it'll erase it completely."
I didn't hesitate.
I raised the Binding Quill, and words burned across the air:
"Let forgotten heroes awaken."
A ripple surged through the floor. From the nearby books, three glowing figures emerged—half-formed characters I once created and never gave names to. Their eyes burned with new purpose.
They didn't speak.
They attacked.
The warden shrieked as they clashed in a storm of light and ink. Veyra fought alongside them, fast and precise.
I ran to the Core Draft, placing my hand on it.
It opened slowly, revealing a single sentence written in my messy handwriting:
"A story about a boy who always gave up—until the day he didn't."
Tears welled in my eyes. "That was me."
The page glowed.
The library trembled.
And in that moment, I understood: reclaiming this world wouldn't just be about defeating Kael-Zereth.
It would mean facing every version of myself I left behind.