Kim Dokja stepped through Azure Door and the humid air of the jungles vanished, replaced by the soft, dry scent of ancient paper and the hum of a story that never stopped being told.
"Klein?" Dokja called out. "Anybody?"
His voice echoed into the infinite aisles of the Ancient Library.
There was no answer.
He walked through the towering bookcases, his boots silent on the mahogany floor.
The Fourth Wall was unusually still, its usual snarky scrolling text replaced by a deep, expectant silence.
He rounded a corner near the section of "301-399" and froze.
Two figures stood there.
They were his parents—Lee Sook-young and his father—looking exactly as they had in his rarest, softest memories.
For a heartbeat, Dokja's breath hitched.
The "Scenario Interpreter" within him flared, looking for the trap.
Then, he saw the way "his father" was awkwardly adjusting a top hat that wasn't there, and "his mother" was suppressing a mischievous grin.
"That's pathetic," Dokja said, his voice flat but tinged with a strange relief.
The illusion shimmered.
The figures melted away, revealing Gehrman Sparrow, whose body was now solid and free of silver cracks, and the teenager in the fedora.
"I told you it would be funny," the boy in the fedora said, swaying his legs as he sat atop a rolling library ladder.
Dokja looked at the boy.
This time, the boy didn't feel like a phantom or a fragment of the Wall.
"So," Dokja asked, his eyes narrowing. "Have you finally remembered who you are?"
The teenager tilted his fedora, a shadow falling over his eyes.
"Yes."
As the word left his lips, the Library groaned.
Deep within Dokja's soul, the [Most Ancient Good] and [Most Ancient Evil] stories—the two warring giants—began to tremble.
They hadn't reacted like this since the day they recognized Dokja as their master.
Now, they weren't rebelling; they were bowing.
"The renovation is almost complete," the boy said, hopping down. "Follow me."
They walked through an archway that shouldn't have been there and entered a space that looked like a cozy, dimly lit Italian café.
The scent of roasted beans and vanilla filled the air.
"Since when does this place have a café?" Dokja asked, bewildered.
"I made a little renovation," the boy replied, gesturing to a table.
They sat.
The boy poured three cups of tea out of nowhere.
Dokja took a sip.
It was tasteless—like drinking warm, distilled water—but it carried a profound sense of tranquility.
"Even though it's tasteless, it's tranquil," the boy sighed, leaning back. "I remembered, Dokja. When I blocked the attack from the Mother Tree of Desire that was aimed at you... the impact...My old stories gained a new life. They woke up from a long slumber."
The boy looked Dokja in the eye.
"I am the First Demon King, Baal. I am the one they called Jesus Christ, head of Eden. I reached the final scenario. And in an alternate timeline, I was the King of Stories who watched the ■■."
Dokja stared, the tea cooling in his hand.
He had known the boy was extraordinary, but the truth was far more staggering.
The entity protecting him all this time was the cornerstone of Star Stream.
King of Stories. Dokkaebi King.
Dokja murmurred those two words.
Then a question slipped from his lips.
"Why?" Dokja asked.
He looked at Dokja in confusion.
"Why did you protect me?"
The teenager rubbed his chin, looking momentarily human and vulnerable.
"I haven't reached the depths yet. I only remember fragments of my previous life... lives. But I think... Soon, I will."
Suddenly, Dokja stood up and hugged the boy.
It was a sharp, uncharacteristic movement.
Normally, Kim Dokja was a man of walls and distance.
But the function he had installed to merge the opposing forces inside him had changed his emotional landscape. He was no longer a cold observer.
"Thank you," Dokja whispered, his voice thick. "Thank you for protecting me for so long. For everything."
Klein Moretti cleared his throat, a faint blush of awkwardness on his face.
"I'm still here, you know."
Dokja pulled back, sheepishly adjusting his coat.
"Right. Sorry. Klein... how's your state?"
The boy in the fedora answered for him.
"He's stable, but fragile. I'm suppressing the will of the Celestial Worthy that's awakening inside him. If he leaves the Library, the process will renew. The imprint of a Great Old One is like a stain on the soul—it never truly disappears."
"Can't I use my [Annihilation] or Klein's [Grafting] to erase it?" Dokja asked.
Klein shook his head.
"It's an indestructible psyche. You can't destroy a concept that predates the world. But..."
The boy in the fedora leaned forward.
"I have a plan. We can use the powers of Evernight to force that will into an eternal slumber. Just like the Fourth Wall is suppressing it now."
"It's very risky," Klein added, his eyes sharp. "But it's the only way I can walk under the sun again."
***
The Shadow of the Sunken Epoch had ended.
Paris was no longer a twisted oil painting; it was a city bathed in the scent of night vanilla and cool, moonlight air.
Instead of a moon in the sky hung a gigantic island.
Reincarnation Island.
The Evernight Goddess had descended, her veil of concealment erasing the Hostel ritual and the remains of Tree of Shadows as if they had never existed.
But the silence was broken by a scream of pure, unadulterated grief.
"NO! RACHEL!"
Shin Jonghak fell to his knees in the middle of a street that was now perfectly normal, yet felt like a graveyard.
Around him multiple heroes, incarnations and official Beyonders stood.
He began to hit the cobblestones with his bare fists, the impact cracking the stone.
A wrinkled hand reached down and caught his wrist.
"She was a hero, young man," Oh Jaejin said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of ten stars. "She wouldn't want you to break your hands on the ground she just saved."
Jonghak stopped.
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and terrifying.
"Sad?" He let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. "I'm not sad. I'm angry."
He spun around.
In the shadow of a nearby monument stood Red Angel Medici, calmly wiping the blood from his black armor.
The Red Angel had what he wanted—the Sequence 1 characteristic was his.
He had used them.
He had used Rachel.
"It was you," Jonghak hissed. "You used us for your ritual. You let her die to reach your throne."
Medici didn't deny it.
He reflected the moonlight off his blade and laughed.
"Yes. I used you. That is what Kings do, boy."
[The Physique 'Intermittent Explosive Disorder' has reached its limit!]
[Evolution Condition Met: 'Aegis of the Sunken King'!]
[Physical Stats are boosted by 300%!]
Jonghak exploded.
He became a blur of black magic and golden light, his spear lunging with a fury that forced Medici to retreat for the first time.
The flames of the Red Angel were incinerated by the sheer heat of Jonghak's mana—a power that burned away the very concept of "Flame".
No one knew why Star Will allowed it.
Probability was obviously lacking. But everyone just stood and watched.
The two clashed, a storm of iron and blood that threatened to wake the city from its forced slumber.
Jung Heewon moved to intervene, her sword glowing, but Oh Jaejin stepped between them.
"Let the young people work it out," the 10-star mage commented, a dry smile on his face. "In the old days, we were just like them. It's healthy."
As the clash intensified, the air suddenly folded.
A man appeared in the center of the street, adjusting a crystal monocle.
He wore a high-collared coat and a pointed top hat.
That's why Star Will allowed it.
There was enough Probability from the very beginning.
"So," Amon said, tilting his head. "Medici... did your plan work out?"
Medici snarled, trying to swing at the God of Error, but Amon simply chuckled.
"Oh? Did I interrupt? I'm so sorry."
Before anyone could react, Amon reached out. The space around Medici folded.
With a casual flick of his fingers, Amon [Stole] Medici's distance.
In an instant, the Red Angel appeared slung over Amon's shoulder like a sack of grain, his purple flames flickering weakly as Amon's authority suppressed him.
"Stop!" Jonghak roared, lunging with his spear.
Amon looked at Jonghak and blinked in surprise.
He tried to "Steal" the spear, but the weapon's black mana flared, burning the theft away before it could take root.
"Interesting," Amon smiled, the moonlight glinting off his monocle. "I cannot steal anything around you. Your mana..."
Amon tipped his hat.
"I'll be taking this one. If you want him back I'll be waiting in South America. Brazil is lovely this time of year."
Shin Jonghak unleashed a Crescent Moon Slash with every ounce of his new power, a strike that could have cleaved a mountain.
But the blade passed through empty air.
Amon and Medici were gone.