The silence had receded, but it left behind a strange tension—woven from suspended shadow and dust frozen in the air. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Before him stood the old Writer—a hunched figure draped in a toga from another age. His eyes resembled scorched parchment, as if he had read too many forbidden truths. In his hands, he held the Codex—not like a book, but like a living heart, gently pulsing, vibrating with expectation.
— Do you think it's just a collection of dead memories? he asked in a voice cracked by centuries, rasping like bleeding stone. No. It is the beginning and the end. The tool, the abyss, and the epiphany.
He opened the Codex slowly. Some pages were blank, others scribbled with forgotten symbols. On one, a mountain collapsed endlessly, caught in a loop. On another, a name appeared—only to dissolve again, as if the world refused to remember it.
— Each page is a world. Each line, a pact. Write, and the world will obey. But always—always—you will pay the price.
He extended an obsidian brush. The ink that oozed from it seemed alive.
— This is not a tool. It is a judge. It only traces what you are ready to lose.
The hero hesitated. His hand trembled. So did his breath. Inside him, something screamed in fear. He wasn't sure he was ready. Not sure he was still himself.
— What must I sacrifice? he whispered.
The old man smiled softly, like someone watching another teeter on the edge of an abyss.
— What you have too much of. What defines you. What you love. You'll see—the ink always chooses rightly.
The hero took the brush.
The contact was icy. The ink flowed like venom, and his hand suddenly felt heavy. When he touched the blank page, a dull pain exploded in his skull—a terrible pressure, as if something alive was being torn from within. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.
A memory surged forth—laughter. An embrace. A woman, in a garden. His mother? A lover? A sister, perhaps? Then… nothing. The void. The absence. He knew he had lost something precious. But what? The memory was gone.
His legs buckled. He fell to his knees.
On the page, slowly, a glove of shadow took shape. It was black, deep, woven from an impossible material. The hero reached out and touched it. It was real. Cold. Powerful.
And something within him had just died.
— The object exists, said Malach. And the memory will never return.
The hero rose unsteadily. His throat was tight. His eyes searched for meaning, for answers. He wanted to cry, but even his tears had abandoned him.
— And if I empty myself? he asked, his voice hoarse.
— Then you will become either a god... or a puppet.
Then, like a verdict, Malach placed the Codex before him. His features were more blurred now, almost liquid, as though even his body was becoming a forgotten memory.
— Do you think you've been betrayed? That you fell from the stars for a reason? This is not a nightmare. It is a warning. You will not reclaim your name through vengeance. You will find it through the ink.
The hero looked up.
— Who are you… truly?
The old man stepped closer, his movements rustling like withered feathers brushing the ground.
— I was once called Malach. The Writer who never knew how to stop.
And he vanished. Without sound. Without light.
Behind him, a storm broke.
Of pages.
No wind. No rain. Only pages, torn from worlds no one could understand.
The Codex still pulsed, gently. A voiceless rumble echoed between its lines.
Something was coming.
The hero clutched the glove of shadow to his chest. It beat. Like a second heart.
And for the first time since his fall, he didn't feel an answer.
He felt a weapon.
And a price to pay.