The air, heavy and tainted, clung to the solitary traveler as they wandered through the ruined city. Each step echoed in the vast emptiness—an eerie resonance of a fallen civilization. The buildings around them stood like carcasses, their shattered facades gaping like wounds in a dying body. Broken windows let in a gray, timid light, abused and mistreated, struggling to escape the suffocating shadow that loomed over everything. The nauseating scent of decay mingled with rusted metal, a bitter perfume whispering that everything here had long been abandoned to its fate.
The traveler had no name. They were neither man nor beast—just a fragment of this world, a wandering shadow without purpose. Their thoughts shattered incessantly, like shards of glass, merging into a void of memory and confusion. Every alley pulled them deeper, every crumbling corridor led further into a place with no logic, no end. They were guided by the Codex, that strange and impenetrable artifact—source of power and pain—pulsing in their hand. Yet their role in this city remained unclear. Oblivion hung over them constantly, like a mist devouring every memory.
But then, that morning, something changed.
Before them stood a building, almost intact compared to its ruined neighbors. A mansion—or what remained of it—still proud in its devastation, like a sentinel guarding a forgotten secret. Though broken, the architecture carried echoes of past grandeur. Its shattered windows filtered in a strange, soft light, as if beckoning the traveler. Something in the air whispered, a silent invitation, a murmur the universe itself seemed to breathe into their bones.
Without thinking, they entered the mansion.
Inside, the atmosphere was cooler—almost unreal. The darkness, however, was alive, twisting and shifting around them. Every room was thick with dust. Faint footprints marked the floor. A hidden door, barely noticeable, waited for them. They pushed it open without hesitation and stepped into a room untouched by time.
A man stood there—motionless.
His face was veiled beneath a hood, but the glow of his eyes pierced through, like dead stars suspended in a bottomless abyss. The Codex, suspended above him, vibrated with a strange energy, as though it possessed a will of its own. The traveler was not alone in this room. They had never been. Something about this encounter suggested a deeper connection—one they couldn't yet comprehend.
The man slowly turned toward the traveler. A thin smile crept onto his lips—but it carried no warmth.
"You've finally awakened," he said. His voice was soft but sharp, like a blade grazing skin. "After all this time... you're here."
The traveler froze. The echo of his words struck their mind like a hammer blow. They were not just a spectator. They were part of the story. A story they hadn't chosen.
"Who are you?" they asked, voice trembling—an echo of their own despair.
The man smiled again. It was a smile without comfort—only ancient and unfathomable knowledge.
"I am the Writer," he answered calmly. "The one who pens the stories you forget. The one who shapes this world as they see fit."
A shiver of dread ran through the traveler. Their legs weakened beneath the weight of the revelation. They were no longer merely lost. They were a puppet in a game they didn't understand.
"You write... all of this?" they stammered, the truth unraveling in their mind. "Why me? Why was I written?"
The Writer nodded slowly, as though the question was childishly simple.
"Because you are the one who will rewrite the world," he replied, his eyes gleaming with a sickly light. "But every rewrite comes at a cost. Every word... every line... is a sacrifice."
The words struck like chains. Rewrite the world? They didn't understand. They were just a shadow, wandering in the dark. Yet here was the power to alter reality itself. But at what cost?
"What sacrifice?" they whispered, almost to themselves.
The Writer's gaze sharpened. His eyes seemed to cut through the traveler's soul.
"Rewriting does not come without consequence. Those who rewrite the world must also erase fragments of it. Souls. Lives. Stories. Everything is exchangeable. But nothing can be erased without leaving a scar."
Silence fell between them like a curtain.
The Codex pulsed violently in the traveler's hand. It felt heavier—almost unbearable. The weight of destiny. Of responsibility. Everything had a price… and they would have to pay it.
"If I rewrite the world," they asked, their voice brittle with fear, "what will my place be?"
The Writer's smile returned, colder than before. He didn't answer right away, as if the question itself transcended words.
"Your place will be that of the architect... or the tyrant," he said at last, in a voice devoid of pity. "It depends on the pen you choose."
The traveler stood still. They had expected nothing, yet now everything had changed. What they would choose next would reshape their fate—and the fate of all existence.
"It is time to choose," the Writer said, turning away. "Choose between the end... and the beginning. Between oblivion... and creation."
The darkness deepened.
And in that silence, the traveler felt the Codex pulsing louder, louder—like a heart. Like a call.
The page remained empty.
It was up to them to write it.