Yara walked silently through the wilderness, the skyline stretching behind her like a broken dream. Ancient stone bridges bent over rivers that smelled faintly of magic, and skyscraper ruins loomed like the skeletons of extinct beasts. She had traveled for days. Crossed forests and rivers, traversed jungles where the plants whispered in forgotten languages, ventured into wastelands dotted with rusted mechanized husks. Every step was purposeful. Every kill precise.
She killed for words. Information. Rumors. Shards of data on a being too vast to grasp—the Narrator. A godlike entity beyond flesh, writing and erasing existence at whim. They said he lived in every story; his puppets were clones of his power. They said he watched through screens of his own making, that his laughter could warp realities.
She didn't care if those who spilled secrets called her inhuman. With her rifle and her silence, she made them call her Nightmare Zero—a shadow with no face, a whisper in ruin, a murderer who gave no mercy.
And tonight, she walked the dirt roads of old villages that had sunk beneath the weight of this merged world. Fantasy castles floated in the distance, arcane storms brewed overhead, and the sound of churning mecha gears echoed from far-off hills. Every road she took led to one destination: the church. Rumor said the Pope—and not a religious leader but someone scholars whispered was called the Pope of Emi Lost Chronicles—had knowledge. Fragments of codex, scribbled notes of how to intercept the Narrator's pseudo-omniscience.
She saw bodies as she approached small hamlets: bodies of scribes, monks, and information dealers. Most had their throats slit, others had single bullet holes in foreheads, but all bore the same mark—her black sniper fire.
No one called for forgiveness. They choked on blood and whispers. "They don't call her a girl anymore." "Monster." "Not human." "Not a being at all."
She never answered.
At dusk, she found a traveler in a small inn just off the road. He had brown eyes, wore leather armor mixed with cybernetic implants. He was a chronicler of sorts—traded secrets for rations. Yara didn't enter fully. She perched outside on the ledge of a shattered window, rifle raised.
The man drank ale, muttering under his breath: "Alright alright geez. The Pope… he's not holy. He's not divine. He's just smart. He wrote my name in a ledger today—it said: seeker, soon to be lost. I asked why. He smiled. Said your kind… the Narrator watches those beyond him. Wants them for chaos. I think it means you."
Yara's finger tightened on the trigger. She didn't blink.
One shot.
His skull fractured in a quiet pop.
She stepped off the ledge and disappeared into the night.
Days turned into nights. She crossed forests built of broken magic, the air thick with spores that whispered forgotten prologues in every breath. Each village she passed was lifeless. Ruins strewn with scrolls and digital tablets, burned out screens still blinking in code no one would trace back.
She found another chronicler—a woman with a mechanical arm scribbling in a leather-bound notebook. Yara stepped silently behind, pressed the barrel to the back of her head.
"Tell me about the church," Yara's rifle rested cold between them.
The woman whispered, terrified: "Highlands town—Montreux. Ancient church at its center. They call the Pope a guardian of story-lines. He keeps the archives alive. Valuable lore about the Narrator's origins—how to break his narrative. He's revered… but everyone's scared."
Yara nodded once, and the chronicler cascaded to the floor with a single shot.
Another step forward. Another whisper collected. Another town located.
The world looked different now. She walked through charred woodlands, the air shimmered with forgotten spells. On the horizon, rainbow arcs tore through low-hanging clouds—residual echoes of monolithic manga dragons that had vanished generations ago. Ruins of mecha warehouses stood crossed with faerie trees. Occasionally she paused. Grabbed detail: wind readings, direction of texture glitch in air, soot residue that smelled of burnt parchment. Every data point active.
No emotion. Just resolve.
Memory came in scratches—like cracked code in her mind. Her father's face, blurry as the one she nearly forgotten. A man writing manga late at night. His hair dark, eyes tired. His fingers stained with ink. Pages draped over the desk. Original artboards pinned to cork. A child's hand reaching for a warm pencil.
I assume my Dad is a Manga Artist.
The memory fractured. She forced it down. Keep focus.
Towns became sparser, emptier—but one remained: wooden homes clung to cliffs. A town swallowed by the tide of merged time. An old stone church stood at its heart, shattered spire leaning toward a sky twitching in and out of fiction.
At dusk, Yara arrived.
Her silhouette cut against broken stained glass—colored shards of manga panels swirling in the wind. The church's doors were massive wooden arcs carved with story scenes—heroes fighting dragons, knights giving sacrifices, monks copying scriptures, mecha assembled by stealthy engineers… all merging in twisted harmony.
They were faded now, tarnished by rust and age. But Yara traced them with her eyes. Every panel a story. Every figure a possible fragment of the Narrator's empire.
She stepped inside.
Darkness greeted her. Moonlight flickered through broken glass and illuminated dust motes drifting like tiny galaxies. Pew benches were toppled, timber shattered. Ancient codex and discarded comic volumes littered the floor. The air buzzed with old power.
She pulled a grenade from her belt—stick grenade with arcane runes. Not to blow, but to signal. Brief light. A marker. A warning to whoever waited inside.
No answer.
The silence pressed her ears. She moved forward. Rifle at ready.
Steps echoed.
Far in the back, near a pulpit carved of stone runes and symbol-framed panels, a figure stood. Not the Pope… yet.
But a guard. A massive figure. Clad in bishop-like armor fused with metal plates and runic lines. His face hidden behind a stylized helmet—an angel's mask, chipped at the edges. He held a lantern in one hand and a spear-barrel in the other.
He didn't speak. He only waited.
Yara aimed.
He lunged.
She fired.
He fell—but not fast. He tumbled, rose again, armor pieces slid off, blood and oil leaking where metal and flesh fused. He leveled the spear.
Yara fired again.
He died.
The lantern's glass shattered. The light vanished.
Yara paused by the pulpit.
Here was a ledger. A book bound in dark leather. Heavy. Ancient. The cover read: "Pope & Guardian of Real Unknown."
Her fingers hovered. But she didn't open it.
She stood silent.
She was closer now.
But the Pope wouldn't be here tonight.
She backed away.
Never spoke.
Never hesitated.
She walked away from the church, past the pews, past the ruins, past the people that continued to taunt her for being a Monster and that they are happy with such world like this.
She exited the church, moving toward the skeleton of the town. A single street, lined with broken lamp posts flickering with digital glow and candlelight. Closed doors. Empty windows.
At the edge, she stopped. The town lay silent. But at the far end, the old stone fountain carved with images of virgin sacrifice and sacred dragons stood as witness.
Distant voices whispered: "Nightmare Zero... Creature... Go back to hell."
She stepped forward into the street.
Her breath was steady. A moment of calm.
The town waited.
And Yara raised her rifle.
The hunt would continue at dawn.
The church stood colder now.
The shattered windows no longer whistled from the wind. The ruined pews remained, dust settled thicker. Moonlight fell sharper across the ruined altar, like judgment cast in glass fragments. The air reeked of old parchment, rusted blood, and mold. Something had shifted in this place since her last visit.
Yara—Nightmare Zero—returned in silence. Her boots struck the stone floor, echoes bouncing like distant gunshots. Her sniper rifle was slung behind her shoulder, the barrel gleaming faintly under flickering candlelight that shouldn't have existed. She had come back not for answers—answers were luxuries she no longer believed in—but for a name.
The Pope.
Rumors said he had returned. Whispers across fading villages told of a man guarding forgotten truths, a guardian to fiction made flesh. They said he was mad. They said he was kind. They said he knew the Narrator.
She would decide what to believe—after her rifle decided his worth.
And then—he appeared.
From the back of the ruined sanctuary, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. Cloaked in worn ecclesiastical robes, armor plating etched with sigils glinting beneath the fabric, his presence was colder than the room itself. His arms bore weaponized chains—six curved blades hung like pendulums, attached to him like shackles of divine judgment.
The Pope.
He regarded her. Calmly. Until his eyes met her face.
"…So you're the Nightmare Zero, huh."
He stepped forward, slowly, without aggression.
But something in his gaze shifted. From challenge—into disbelief.
His brow twitched. His lips parted. His voice dropped into a whisper.
Wait..
"…Yara?"
The name cracked across the chamber like a shot.
Yara's hands moved in a blur. Her rifle was drawn in under half a second. The barrel pointed straight at his forehead, unmoving. Her finger hovered over the trigger. Her breath didn't change. Her dead eyes locked on his—black voids rimmed in faint memory.
The Pope didn't flinch.
Instead, he smiled softly… and detached the chain blades from his arms. They clattered against the stone like broken promises. He raised his hands, open. Non-threatening.
"Still quick," he said. "Still sharp. Just like your Mo—"
He paused, voice catching in his throat.
"…You're really alive."
Yara didn't blink.
He stared into her, as if trying to dig through the silence.
"Do you still… remember me? Yara."
She didn't respond. But her hand trembled—barely.
Something flickered in her vision.
A hallway. Rain on windows. A child's drawing taped to a wooden door. A man kneeling beside her, handing her a toy sniper rifle with a chuckle. A voice, laughing: "You'll be the scariest heroine in all the mangas one day, you'll see."
Her head throbbed.
A pulse of agony slammed through her temples. Her eyes narrowed, and her breath hitched—but her aim never wavered.
The Pope stepped forward, slowly. Arms still raised. His voice quiet.
"…It's me. Takeshi. Your unc—"
She moved.
One step.
Her boot slammed against the stone floor as she closed the gap between them. In one brutal motion, she shoved the muzzle of her rifle into his mouth. It scraped against his teeth. He stopped moving. His lips bled from the sudden strike. She looked into his eyes, gaze colder than death.
Takeshi didn't resist. His eyes… they only welled with something unspoken.
He tasted metal and memory. Her silence was louder than any scream. Her stance was solid, surgical, unstoppable.
But inside her head… cracks formed.
Memories she couldn't verify. A name she hadn't remembered until now. A warm blanket. A man arguing with someone over manga panels. Someone patting her head when she couldn't sleep.
And a girl. A girl staring at a mirror, brushing long hair. The same girl she saw in her reflection. Before the world merged. Before she was weaponized by pain.
Before Nightmare Zero.
Takeshi slowly pulled his head back, removing the muzzle from his mouth. But she didn't lower the weapon. It still hovered inches from his eyes.
He didn't plead. He didn't beg. He simply whispered:
"You were never meant to be in this world. That bastard… that thing—it rewrote you. You weren't a pawn. You were real. The only real one."
Her hand twitched again. The rifle rattled.
"You think you're a monster," he said, his voice cracking. "You're not. You're what's left of truth inside fiction. He made you forget. I'm sorry I wasn't there when it happened. But if I don't tell you now, no one else will."
She didn't move.
The shadows deepened behind her. A tremor shook the candlelight. Somewhere beyond this place, the Narrator laughed—but only faintly. Watching. Listening.
"…I don't expect you to forgive me. Or believe me," Takeshi said. "But if you kill me… just know—I tried."
She didn't pull the trigger.
But she didn't walk away, either.
Her silence was thicker than blood.
And then—her grip loosened. Just slightly.
She pulled the rifle back. Not to forgive. Not to trust. But to process.
Takeshi exhaling, relief in his breath—but knowing, in the depths of his heart, that this was only the beginning.
Because Yara was remembering.
And the Narrator… was watching.
"Hmm.. Good enough, I'm surprised he was here as well. Such a mistake.. *******"
"...I'll Erase some of his memories I suppose."
---
End of Chapter Twenty-one.