Silence followed them into the white.
After the battle, Lucien and Sera walked for what felt like days, though time meant nothing here. The ground beneath them was made of paper, soft and creased. Every step left faint letters behind—words neither of them recognized.
Lucien, Sera murmured, her voice barely a whisper inside his mind, why do we keep walking?
"Because the world hasn't stopped writing," he said quietly. "As long as there are echoes, there's still a story to follow."
He looked up. The sky above them wasn't sky at all—it was an endless library ceiling made of half-finished sentences, every one frozen mid-word.
'Once upon a—''He never said—''The promise was—'
They floated there like broken prayers, suspended forever.
Sera's light dimmed slightly. "All these… forgotten stories. Do you think they feel pain?"
Lucien stopped walking. "I think they feel something worse—silence."
They reached a plain filled with torn pages fluttering like ghosts. Some whispered fragments of their own endings as the wind passed through them.
'She waited by the river until…''The hero never came back from…''I loved you, even when…'
Each line trailed off, fading before completion.
Lucien knelt beside one, brushing his hand over the words. They shimmered faintly, like a dying heartbeat.
Don't touch them too long, Sera warned. Their sadness bleeds.
He smiled faintly. "You sound like me now."
Maybe you're finally learning to listen.
He chuckled softly, but the sound didn't reach his eyes. "All these echoes… Each one is a life that never finished. A soul that lost its ending."
Just like us.
Lucien looked at the glowing flower in his hand. "We're different. We can still write."
Can we? Or are we just rewriting the same page, again and again, pretending it's new?
Her question lingered between them like smoke.
Hours—or perhaps moments—passed. Lucien felt the world begin to shift again. The torn pages around them rose into the air, forming a spiral that led upward.
At the center of the spiral stood a faint, translucent figure. A woman made entirely of letters, her form flickering like an unfinished paragraph.
Lucien froze. "An Echo…"
The figure tilted her head, voice soft and hollow. "I remember the word love. But not who said it."
Sera whispered, She's one of the lost. Be careful.
Lucien stepped closer. "Do you remember your story?"
The Echo smiled sadly. "A girl waited by a door that never opened. When the writer forgot her, I stayed. I waited until even my name vanished."
Lucien's throat tightened. "You didn't deserve to be forgotten."
The Echo's eyes shimmered. "None of us do. That's why we whisper—to remind the world we were here."
She lifted a trembling hand, pointing toward the horizon where the white sky had begun to darken. "He listens to the whispers too. The one you seek. The Shadow Author."
"Evan."
The Echo nodded. "He collects echoes. Every unfinished soul becomes a part of his ink. He believes that if every story ends under his pen, the silence will finally stop."
Sera's voice trembled. He wants to erase difference itself… to make all stories one.
Lucien stared at the distant black horizon. "Then he's not saving anything. He's killing choice."
The Echo smiled faintly. "He thinks he's saving mercy. In a world without endings, no one ever dies."
Lucien's heart twisted. "No one ever lives, either."
The Echo's form flickered again, fragments of her body dissolving into stray sentences. "You carry light," she whispered. "That's rare here. Don't lose it."
Lucien hesitated. "Can we help you?"
"You already have."
Her final smile lingered as her body scattered into words, each one drifting upward and vanishing into the library sky.
For a moment, Lucien felt weightless.
Sera spoke softly. You pitied her.
"She deserved to be remembered."
So do you.
He blinked. "What?"
When this ends—whatever happens—you'll fade too. You know that, right?
He looked down at his hands. The edges of his fingers already wavered faintly, like half-drawn lines. "Maybe. But if the world lives, that's enough."
You really are hopeless, she said gently. And that's why you'll win.
They kept walking until the air changed again. The floor beneath them grew reflective, showing distorted versions of their faces. The reflections whispered words Lucien hadn't spoken aloud:
"You are not real.""You stole my death.""You were supposed to be the villain."
Lucien clenched his fists. "They're his words. Evan's."
He's testing you, Sera said. Trying to see if you still believe in yourself.
"I don't need belief," Lucien muttered. "I just need to keep writing."
He drew his pen-blade and carved a single glowing line across the mirrored ground. The reflections shattered instantly, scattering into ink and light.
The world that lives is more real than the one that waits.
The sentence lingered in the air for a moment before dissolving.
At last they reached a gate. It was made entirely of floating punctuation—commas, question marks, exclamation points—spinning in slow, rhythmic motion.
Lucien stepped closer. "What is this?"
The entrance to the Deep Layer, Sera whispered. Beyond it, there's no guarantee of self. Even words lose meaning there.
Lucien took a breath. "That's where he's hiding."
Lucien…
He turned toward the glow in his hand. "Yes?"
Promise me something.
"Anything."
If I fade inside, don't stop. Keep writing. Even if it hurts.
He smiled faintly, eyes soft. "Sera, we're past promises. We're paragraphs of the same page now."
The gate pulsed once, as if responding to his words, and slowly opened.
Beyond it, only darkness—pure, endless, and silent.
Lucien tightened his grip on the pen-blade. "Ready?"
Always.
Together, they stepped through.