The dark core still floated in the center of the chamber, wrapped in living chains that writhed like nervous tentacles. From the moment Sera touched it, the air changed: it was no longer just magic, or code, or even an anomaly.
It was will.
And it was listening.
—"Did you feel it?" —Sera whispered.
I nodded. But I hadn't just felt it.
I had heard my own voice inside the Terminal's voice. As if a future version of myself had given the command. As if what was about to begin had already happened… in another timeline. One that had perhaps been erased.
The crystal glowed again, and with a metallic click, the chains retracted, dropping a small object: a medallion shaped like an eclipsed moon.
Sera caught it mid-air, and as soon as her fingers touched it, a pattern of lines appeared on her skin —living runes, glowing in shades between violet and obsidian.
—"What is this…?" —she murmured, touching her arm cautiously.
—"It's a key." —I said, not knowing how I knew. But I did.
A key that opened doors that were never meant to exist.
—
We left the tower soon after. Night had returned, though we hadn't felt time pass. The triple moon was in a waning phase, an omen that something was unraveling.
The world had started to flicker.
Literally.
Leaves fell and froze mid-air for fractions of a second. Rocks trembled and duplicated like visual glitches. Even our own shadows seemed to move with a slight delay, as if we were out of sync with the correct timeline.
Sera and I walked in silence for hours, following a new pull emanating from the medallion. We didn't know where it led… but we knew we couldn't stay in a place where the story was collapsing on itself.
—
We camped beside a stream that flowed backwards.
Yes. The water returned to its source, defying gravity, as if the world was trying to rewind its own tape.
While Sera slept, I sat by the fire, reading the last pages of "S."'s journal. Some of them were no longer written. They had literally vanished, leaving blank lines and flickering margins.
But one sentence remained, written in ink that seemed to resist even the universe's rewriting:
> "If you touch the core, you're no longer a piece.
Now you are a player."
—
And then I felt the tremor.
Not physical. Not magical.
Narrative.
The "system" had tried to correct us, sending distorted messages in the trees, repeating phrases in dreams. But now…
Now the story itself was begging me to stop.
—Critical deviation detected.—
—No return possible.—
—Do you wish to continue as Renegade?—
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't answer with sarcasm. Or with fear.
I answered with faith.
—Yes. Yes, I wish to continue.
Because being an Extra… was a lie.
Being a Hero… was a prison.
But being a Renegade…
> Was to be free.