The room fell silent again after Hunter stopped moving. The lantern in the corner swayed gently, its dim light reluctant to pierce the thickening darkness. Frey sat on the floor, trembling, his fingers still clutching the pen that pulsed like a living vein.
He stared at the blank sheet upon the table. Each page appeared out of nothingness, summoned from the void. And each time he wrote, the world changed. He began to realize that this pen was not merely a curse, but a door—a door to something that should never be opened.
The whisper returned, sharper, more piercing.
"Write the past. Write what has been erased."
Frey clenched his teeth. "The past? What do you mean?"
No answer came, only the pen's pulse growing stronger. His fingers moved on their own, writing words he had not planned.
"I see shadows of the past."
As the ink touched the paper, the room trembled. Shadows on the wall shattered, forming fragments of black light. From within, visions emerged—broken images spinning like shards of glass.
Frey saw himself, younger, seated at a wooden table with a woman of black hair. She smiled, writing in a worn book. Yet her face was blurred, as though black ink concealed her identity.
"Who are you?" Frey whispered, his eyes wet.
The woman looked at him. Her smile cracked, her eyes hollow. From her lips came a sound not of human voice.
"You should not exist."
Frey staggered back. "No… this isn't real…"
But the fragments kept spinning. He saw an old house, flames consuming it, screams echoing. He saw himself running through a dark corridor, clutching the same worn book. He saw the silver-masked shadow—Hunter—emerging from the fog, dripping black ink.
Frey shut his eyes, trying to stop the visions. But the pen kept writing, forcing him.
"The fragments of the past open."
The visions sharpened. He saw a man, his face indistinct, standing before an altar. The man held the same pen, writing into the air. Each word summoned shadows, creatures crawling from the dark.
Frey screamed. "Stop! I don't want to see this!"
But the whisper grew louder.
"The past is the key. Without the past, you are nothing."
Hunter stepped forward, approaching the table. He did not speak, but ink dripped from his eyes onto the paper. The ink spread, forming faint words:
"Your Chronicle is not yours. It belongs to the pen."
Frey stared at Hunter, his breath heavy. "Are you… part of my past?"
Hunter gave no answer. But the shadows on the wall quivered, shaping into an ancient symbol. The symbol glowed black, pulsing like a heart.
Frey wrote again, unwillingly:
"The symbol opens."
The symbol shattered, releasing black light that engulfed the room. From within came voices—screams, whispers, broken prayers. Frey covered his ears, but the sound pierced his mind.
He saw himself again, this time older, standing before the same altar. He wrote with the pen, his face empty, his eyes dripping ink.
Frey collapsed, trembling. "That… that's me?"
The whisper answered.
"Fragments of the past are fragments of the future. You are the Chronicle that should not exist."
Tears streamed down Frey's face. He began to understand: every word he wrote not only reshaped the world, but also unearthed pieces of himself that had been erased. Past and future alike were bound to this pen.
Hunter stood before him, silent, waiting. The lantern died. Darkness consumed everything.
And in the midst of the void, the voice returned:
"Write the next fragment. Or let yourself vanish."