"No, no, no—I can't let this happen."
There had to be a way out.
Being stuck in this dimension with her was nothing short of a nightmare.
"I'll go insane if I have to listen to her whining and crying every single day."
This place—Nihility Collapse—was a void of meaning, a realm where even time seemed reluctant to flow.
How Hastora ended up here was a mystery. A glitch in fate, perhaps? A consequence of his Nonconformity?
He couldn't say for sure. But that didn't matter now. What mattered was escaping this hell.
"Elyshara, you've been here for... five thousand years, right?" Hastora asked, his arms pulling away from their reluctant embrace.
"Uh... Umm, yes. Why are you asking?"
"No reason. I'm just trying to confirm something."
Elyshara tilted her head, confused. "Confirm what?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
"…A way out."
Her body stiffened, eyes widening. "You mean… you know how to escape?" she leaned in, hope flickering in her gaze.
"Maybe. But I need to test something first."
From his coat, Hastora retrieved a strange device—a crude orb-like artifact glowing faintly. It was something he'd forged for the sole purpose of piercing through the veil into Fogthrone.
"Channel your mana into this artifact," he said, extending it to her.
"…Huh?"
"Hey! Why are you just standing there?"
"This thing… is it even an artifact?"
"Yes. One I created. No one else knows it exists."
She blinked, still skeptical. A glowing ball of light was the last thing she expected to be an arcane device. But with a resigned sigh, she reached out.
"…Alright. I'll do it."
Mana flowed from her fingertips. The orb flared with a prismatic glow, swirling with radiant energy—until, without warning, the very air above them tore open.
Something stepped through.
"…Who are you?"
The being that emerged wore ink-drenched robes, its shadow flickering in and out of existence like reality itself couldn't decide whether it belonged.
Eyes blacker than void—voids with no light, no soul, no meaning. Each step it took silenced the world, devouring sound and magic alike. Drops of black ink dripped from its cloak, vanishing before they touched the ground.
'What… is that thing?'
'I don't remember ever writing something like that. Is it… an anomaly?'
Ding!
> [Warning!]
[Unknown Entity Approaching!]
[Chance of Victory: 0%]
[Note: Do not attempt to engage.]
"...!!"
Hastora's entire body froze. His muscles locked, his breath caught. Every instinct screamed danger.
He felt it—this entity wasn't just powerful. It was a disaster made flesh.
He swallowed hard, fear gripping his throat.
What in the actual hell is this thing…?
The creature stopped a few steps before them, emanating raw, inescapable death.
Trembling, Hastora forced himself to respond.
"I—I'm Hastora Vallois…"
Every word was carefully measured. One wrong move could mean erasure.
The being tilted its head. "Hastora Vallois? That name… means nothing to me."
Of course not.
Hastora wasn't meant to exist in this world.
His presence alone had already warped the story's course—but even he didn't fully realize that.
"I—I just arrived here. I died… and the next thing I knew, I woke up in this place."
"…I see. But how? How did you arrive here?" The being's tone shifted, body tense.
No one—absolutely no one—should be able to enter Nihility Collapse.
This was an anomaly. A place even the world itself forgot.
"You… Are you an anomaly? What species are you? Speak!"
A piercing voice cracked through the silence. A single lie—one hesitation—and Hastora knew he'd die. Again.
But wait…
'I'm already dead. So canI… die again?'
That didn't matter. He had to lie. If this being learned he was a transmigrator…
"Anomaly? I—I don't know what that means. I'm just a low-tier human," he said, feigning confusion.
A lie, of course.
He leaned on the one advantage he had—his human-like appearance.
Revealing himself as a Nonconformity would be catastrophic.
He was prepared for this risk.
'First,I need to know more about this being...'
'Analyze.'
> [Analyzing target…]
[Analysis Complete.]
[Name: [REDACTED]
]Title: Null Scribe]
[Age: ??]
[Race: ??]
[EP: ??]
[Note: Entity cannot be fully analyzed. Incomplete data.]
Null Scribe…?
Now he remembered.
The Null Scribe—a being who could write, erase, or alter existential narrative. Not just stories. Reality itself.
They didn't write with pens, but with will—and their ink wrote existence, meaning, and fate.
He'd once written a fragment about a creature like this. But it was never finished. A silhouette in the void of imagination.
And now, it stood before him.
Terrifyingly real.
"Human, huh? It appears… you're not lying."
The Null Scribe's voice was calm again.
It worked…
Now came the hardest part.
Escape.
If this creature could rewrite reality, perhaps it could get them out. But…
Was he brave enough to ask?
Even a single misstep could mean complete annihilation.
Hastora inhaled deeply, summoning all the courage he could muster into a single breath.
"I… I beg of you. Sir—could you… help us leave this dimension?"
The Null Scribe studied him, gaze cold and vast.
That stare alone felt like an execution waiting to happen.
But Hastora didn't flinch. Not now.
Then, the being raised a hand, enshrouded in pure black energy.
"I admire your composure, even in front of me. I'll help you leave. But… protect Elyshara."
Elyshara?
Hastora turned toward her, eyes wide with surprise.
Who… is she, really?
But before the thought could settle, shadowy energy surged around them both. Their bodies blurred, then faded—
—erased from the dimension.
---
Fogthrone
"Aaaaa!"
Elyshara jolted upright, gasping, her face pale with panic. Her hands clutched her head as if confirming it still existed.
"I—I'm alive?"
Fogthrone – Eastern District, Abandoned Gate Hub
"A—Am I still alive...?"
Elyshara's voice trembled as she clutched her head, her breaths coming in sharp, frantic bursts. Her eyes darted around, wide with confusion. The oppressive void, the suffocating silence of Nihility Collapse—gone. Instead, there was the familiar staleness of a ruined chamber, half-buried under ash and stone.
"Where... where are we?"
She turned to look beside her.
Hastora sat silently, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His crimson eyes stared blankly ahead, unfocused—as if still trapped in the memory of that creature.
"The gate hub... we're back in Fogthrone," he muttered. "Or at least, a forgotten fragment of it."
The space was broken, with fractured pillars rising like jagged teeth and broken runes flickering dimly across the cracked floor. It was a ghost of what it once was—long abandoned, erased from the city's records.
Elyshara swallowed hard. "I—I don't remember this place..."
"You weren't supposed to. This area was sealed after the War of Collapse... No one's stepped foot here in centuries."
A heavy silence fell between them, but it was not empty. It buzzed with unspoken questions and the residue of death that still clung to their skin like oil.
And then, finally—
"Who was that?" Elyshara asked, voice no louder than a whisper.
Hastora exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping.
"A Null Scribe..." he said, as if the words themselves were poison. "A being that exists outside of narrative causality. Not bound by time. Not bound by laws. It writes... and what it writes becomes real."
Elyshara paled.
"...And it let us go?"
Hastora gave a dry laugh. "It told me to protect you. That's why we're still breathing."
She blinked in confusion. "Protect... me? Why?"
"That's what I want to know," he said darkly. "Because that thing... it doesn't care about mortals. For it to intervene at all means you're either dangerous… or vital."
Their eyes met. Hers were filled with uncertainty.
His were filled with wariness.
Before either of them could speak again, the artifact—the strange orb of refracted light—flickered once, then shattered with a hiss, releasing a faint pulse of energy.
It was dead.
That was their only escape route... and it had just self-terminated.
"Tch. We can't use the same method again," Hastora muttered, standing up. "We'll have to find another Gate."
Elyshara slowly rose to her feet, brushing dust from her cloak. "Do you think it's watching us?"
"I know it is." He didn't even hesitate. "The Null Scribe might've left us for now—but its eyes... its narrative... might still follow."
He took one last look around the crumbled ruins, his mind already racing. The fact that he'd been thrown into Nihility Collapse wasn't a coincidence.
Someone had rewritten the path of causality.
Someone—or something—wanted him off the board.
Which meant one thing:
He was getting close.
"Let's go," he said, voice low.
"Where?" Elyshara asked, quietly following behind.
"To find the truth," he replied. "And to make sure the one who tried to erase me realizes—"
He turned, and the crimson gleam in his eyes sharpened, like blades forged in vengeance.
"—that I don't vanish so easily."
Their steps echoed softly through the forgotten hallway, where fractured glyphs floated like dying embers and the air tasted faintly of old iron and ash.
Elyshara moved closer to Hastora's side, her body still tense, every shadow now a threat. The silence here wasn't comforting—it was expectant.
Then, they saw it.
A chamber revealed itself at the end of the corridor, its walls curved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly beneath layers of dust. But it wasn't the architecture that seized their attention—
—it was the table at the center of the room.
A black-iron table, etched with intricate lines and circular runes, stood as though untouched by time. Atop it lay a thick tome.
No… not just a tome.
A Grimoire.
It radiated with a presence—one that felt at once ancient and awake.
Hastora narrowed his eyes.
"That's not just any book," he muttered.
Elyshara's voice quivered. "Is that… what the Null Scribe meant for us to find?"
The Grimoire pulsed once in response, as though acknowledging her words. Its cover was made of leather too dark to be natural, almost alive in its texture. A symbol burned faintly on the surface: an eye within a circle of broken chains.
Hastora stepped closer, carefully. His instincts were screaming, but his curiosity was louder.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the cover, a surge of memories—not his own—flooded his vision.
Desolate plains drenched in red sky. Worlds eaten by silence. Names forgotten even by the stars.
And a whisper, not in sound, but in intent:
"Record what should not be known. Read what should not exist."
"You, who stand outside the Thread, may now bear Witness."
He jerked his hand back, eyes wide—but the book didn't move. It waited.
Like it wanted to be opened.
Elyshara, pale, asked, "What did you see?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, his gaze remained locked on the Grimoire. On the eye that now watched back.
To be continued in the next chapter…