They stood on a battlefield with no edges.
No ground.
No sky.
Just a shifting page of reality, its margins quivering beneath the weight of too many revisions. Words bled into existence around them—some weaponized, some weeping. Whole paragraphs flared like wounds across the horizon, each stitched into place by the will of a hostile hand.
The Narrator had begun its final composition.
And the Blank Sky Pact stood in its margins.
Ready to strike.
Aiden's first step rewrote the laws beneath his feet.
No longer bound by inertia, he soared upward—only there was no "up," not in a space governed by meaning rather than mass. The Sword of Becoming vibrated in his grasp, its edge thinning until it could sever metaphors. He swung at a sentence that twisted toward him—a declarative attack, meant to define him.
"Aiden fell, his resolve breaking like glass."
He countered with a rewrite.
"Aiden rose, his defiance sharper than the void."
The line shattered.
Words died.
