Ethan closed the book slowly, his fingers moving over the ripped edge of God's Final Requiem. His eyes were stuck on the last line of the page, re-reading it again and again, refusing to believe what he'd just read.
And thus, the hero died. His body was broken. His will was broken. The world met the same fate. It was burned and reduced to ashes by the wrath of the Outer Gods.
He was dripping sweat from his eyebrows. His lips began to twist in disbelief.
"That's it?" he said, voice cracked. "That's how it all ends?"
He sat back, blinking, as if a new line might suddenly appear, a line where he hoped the ending would change.
It can't be right. Not after everything that happened until now.
This wasn't how a legend was supposed to end. Not in silence. Not in defeat. Not in despair.
A hollow pain bloomed in his chest, the kind that left him feeling as if someone had reached in and taken out everything he was. For years, this tale had been his priority. Each page, each turn, each moment of fear and awe, he had lived it truly. He had celebrated their triumphs as if they were his own. He had cried for their deaths as if they were alive.
It hadn't merely been a book. It had been a life for him, his everything. He felt complete when he read that book.
But now?
Now it was all finished, and with the worst ending possible.
He glared at the cover, his heart starting to pound as if it couldn't bear the silence. God's Final Requiem wasn't some dime-store novel where the hero is dragged on through chance and favorable outcomes. It had heft. It had anguish. It had honesty. Every move forward left wounds on them. Every battle counted. Nothing was ever easy. Nothing was ever pure.
And now?
Now it had all turned to ash.
The hero was lost. The world was broken. And there was no life left in God's Final Requiem. The Outer Gods had triumphed. The world had been reduced to cinders.
All the blood spilled. All the sacrifices made. All the hope, it was for nothing.
His hand tightened on the book. His knuckles turned pale, fingers trembling as he clenched his jaw.
"This is crap," he snarled. "There had to be another way. There had to be."
He dropped into the chair, his shoulders heavy with everything he couldn't say. He stared up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers. But it was just a plain, motionless ceiling.
What was the point?
What was the point of resisting, of holding on, of perishing, if in the end, nothing was different? If the darkness still won?
His voice was barely more than a whisper, a breath against the storm building inside him.
"If I were in that world… I wouldn't let it end like this. I'd make it better."
He hadn't meant for those words to carry weight.
But they did.
And the world listened.
The air shifted. It thickened. It felt like reality itself was cracking under pressure, like breaking glass.
The room turned eerily still, as if the walls were holding their breath. Shadows twitched at the edges of his vision. The ceiling began to ripple, bending and curling into something other.
"What the hell is going on?"
The book slipped from his grasp. The pages trembled, as if they were afraid, before landing on the floor with a soft thud.
Then,
Pitch-black darkness.