When Li Qi stepped out of the "Story Exchange," sunlight fell on her shoulder—real and warm, untouched by any program's polish.
The city moved forward in a slow but orderly rhythm. The Fragmented City no longer relied on her—or perhaps, it had never truly needed a "Chief Scriptwriter" at all.
For the first time, she realized her "divine seat" had already crumbled the moment these characters awakened.
She was neither the protagonist nor the judge.
And now, at last, she could return to this world she had once written—derailed long ago—not as a god, but simply as a person.
[The Autonomy Committee]
"We're drafting the first Consensus Act of the Fragmented City," Wen Heng said, guiding her through the doors of the council chamber.
This was a self-organized institution formed by the characters themselves. They called it the Autonomy Committee.
The meeting was composed of representatives from different stories—Wen Heng and Shen Yan, once male leads; Gu Ze, once a villain; and even background NPCs: a convenience store clerk, a taxi driver, a character once destined to die for dramatic effect.
No one was given priority based on "script weight."
They sat around a large round table and debated three questions:
Should the Chief Scriptwriter be allowed to participate in future plot developments?
Should old storylines be allowed to replay in the city?
Should a memory rewrite mechanism be established—giving each character a chance to "rewrite" their past?
This was the critical step in determining whether they could truly escape being ruled by the script.
"We want freedom—but not the freedom to endlessly reboot ourselves," Shen Yan said calmly. "Otherwise, we fall into yet another illusory loop—a trap set by the writer."
"But we can't reject all rewrites either," Gu Ze added coldly, "Some of us were created as sinners. Some never even got the right to truly 'live.'"
The convenience store girl stood up, voice trembling:
"I was just a 'dying passerby'... only there to make the female lead cry. But I had a family. I had dreams... I want to live again—not for anyone, just for myself."
The hall fell into silence.
Li Qi sat in the corner, saying nothing, yet her heart trembled.
One of the tragedies she had casually written to push the plot forward... had actually given a "background character" the will and dignity to speak out.
[The Unprecedented Proposal]
"I have a suggestion."
Wen Heng turned to Li Qi—for the first time, acknowledging her true identity in front of all the characters.
"We allow the Chief Scriptwriter to participate—but only as a chronicler. She no longer holds the power to dictate any outcomes. She may faithfully record each character's choices and journey—but she may not alter the result."
The proposal stirred immediate controversy.
"That's like inviting our former god to sit in the audience, watching how we perform our own lives."
"Can she really resist interfering?"
"Isn't she used to rewriting fate?"
Gu Ze sneered but didn't object.
"If she can keep her pen still, I'd like to see how long she lasts."
Li Qi said nothing—only nodded slowly.
She finally understood: the so-called "narrative tension" she once pursued had come at the cost of countless real, emotional lives.
"I accept," she said. "From today on, I will no longer dictate. I will only record."
She put away the pen that had once scripted countless destinies, replacing it with a "record book" devoid of control.
For the first time, the characters seemed to breathe freely.
[A Question from the Unnamed]
After the meeting, a stranger stopped her.
His name was Wei Yun—an obscure side-villain she barely remembered. He had only three scenes in the script, and was ultimately deleted due to being "too uninteresting."
"Do you remember me?" His eyes were sharp.
Li Qi shook her head, ashamed.
"I used to think you wanted a good story," she said. "So I let you die cleanly. I didn't expect you'd still be alive."
"I don't want a clean death," Wei Yun replied. "I want to know—when you erased me, was it because my story was useless? Or was it because the way I lived didn't match your settings?"
Her heart jolted.
She had once thought of characters as tools—each one serving the main plot, every scene built for the climax.
But now they were alive. They could express themselves. Question her. Protest.
She finally realized: she wasn't the architect of fate. She was its former invader.
"You can write yourself again," she told Wei Yun.
"I won't write anymore," he said calmly. "But I'll walk forward."
"Not to be seen—just to be me."
[Fragmented City, First Night]
As night fell, the city lit up.
Those who had suffered in silence—or worse, were forgotten—began shaping lives of their own within the Fragmented City.
Someone opened a music bar.Someone painted the picture they were never allowed to finish.Someone reunited with the lover who was "fated to die"—but this time, they were both free.
Li Qi stood on a rooftop, watching the city glow.
She was no longer a god, no longer the owner of the script.
She was just an observer, trying to understand what "creation" had really meant all along.
She was recording—and reflecting:
If characters can truly write their own stories…Then what becomes of the so-called "author"?