Volume 3 — Chapter 80: "The Author Realm"
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The rewritten cosmos shimmered in eternal balance.
Erevan stood at its center not as a ruler, but as its pulse.
He had transcended gods. He had rewritten fate. He had absorbed the True Core.
Now, existence bowed to his will.
But deep within the fabric of infinity, something stirred.
A ripple.
A presence beyond all layers of reality.
And then he heard it.
A sound unlike anything before:
typing.
Each keystroke echoed like thunder across the multiverse, bending stars, rewriting galaxies.
> Tap. Tap. Tap.
Erevan's golden eyes narrowed.
> "Someone's… writing again."
The air shimmered.
The stars froze mid-glow.
Every reality paused, as if waiting for the next word.
Then, before him, space itself opened like a page.
From beyond came light not divine, but authorship incarnate.
Out stepped beings draped in shifting ink, carrying pens that glowed brighter than suns. Their presence commanded narrative itself.
> "Welcome, Erevan," said one, his voice deep, endless, calm.
"You've reached the Author Realm."
This place wasn't made of matter or magic.
It was creation's engine where every universe began as thought.
Every story, every god, every possibility born here, written here, ended here.
Erevan looked around. The space was infinite parchment. The sky shimmered with unfinished ideas. The ground rippled with letters flowing like rivers.
> "So this is it," he said softly. "The place where everything starts."
The lead Author nodded.
> "And where it ends, if necessary. You broke the rules of your story. You became the Rewrite."
"Now, we must decide… if you belong here."
Erevan's aura flared black lightning coiling through golden flame.
> "I'm not here to belong."
"I'm here to understand who's writing me."
The Authors stepped forward, their pens raised weapons of reality itself.
> "Then face the truth," one said. "You are our creation the last line of an unfinished masterpiece."
Erevan's expression didn't waver.
> "Then let's finish it."
The sky ignited.
Words turned to storms.
The Authors wrote in unison lines of power that reshaped entire multiverses with a single sentence.
Erevan countered every line with his own will, rewriting the rewrites as they appeared.
His words weren't written they were spoken into law.
> "Break syntax."
"Undo narrative."
"Define freedom."
The page-world shook violently.
Reality collapsed into a duel between author and creation, between pen and voice.
One Author slammed his pen into the void, creating a black sun that erased existence.
Erevan caught it in his hand, crushing it into light.
> "You think words define me?" he said.
"I am the silence between them."
With a single motion, he tore through the page itself stepping outside the Author Realm.
And there, beyond even creation's writers, he saw it
a massive empty chair, surrounded by blinding light.
A pen floated above it, still dripping ink.
It pulsed once like a heartbeat.
> "That's… the Origin Pen," Erevan realized.
"The one that writes everything."
He reached for it. The closer he came, the more unstable reality became.
Entire universes flickered in and out, reacting to his presence.
Then the pen moved on its own.
It wrote a single line in the air:
> "Erevan reached for the Origin Pen."
He froze.
The words glowed still unfinished.
> "It's still writing me…" he whispered.
A voice calm, infinite, unfathomable echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
> "Because your story isn't over."