['Main Author' has been changed.]
Just before the escape, Orlie said:
[As long as my head is intact, I can manage]
No matter how much I tried to detach my emotions and focus on the task at hand, in the end, I was still human, and the "sawing" process wasn't always smooth.
Therefore, after removing the leg for the first time, I asked in order to distract myself even a little bit.
[What do you mean by it being fixable? It wouldn't matter anyway if it's just a borrowed corpse…]
Orlie willingly opened his mouth for my sake.
[If we were to measure by distance, a writer is the farthest presence from the stage. After the final period is placed on the story, the writer has done their part.]
Once the script is complete, the writer's role essentially ends there.
[We are beings who should remain hidden, and even if revealed, we should not be.]
He explained slowly.
[But when the script was discarded halfway, I chose to make myself part of the story to handle the situation. To make myself a character.]
And once he borrowed the body of a character, became recorded as a character, and became part of the stage…
They are bound by the rules as both writers and characters.
'They don't die when they're formless.'
Stab, burn, drown—it doesn't matter; they don't die. But once they take form, mimic humanity, and then absorb the weight to become a
They meet their end as ashes scattered to the wind.
When a character's narrative culminates in death, the one who took on that role exits the stage.
Isn't that a natural rule?
"Okay. What should we do now?"
[Main Author: Okay, what should we do now?]
Sub-writer 1, Godric, speaks in the name of the Main Author.
At some point, the world turned a shade of grey. The warmth that had been tightly holding me from behind, from Leonardo, faded, leaving only coldness, no different from a marble sculpture.
Only Godric remained, his figure holding vivid colour in this pale world. He declares clearly:
"First, we must continue the story."
"What title would be fitting? Let's think about it together as a commemoration."
Ah. I realized. Even if they try the "rollback," the note has already ended.
'It can't be undone.'
"I'm disappointed it turned out this way. Everything I had prepared until now is rendered useless. Naturally, the third act ends, and you become the victor of the hunt, joining my elite guard. When that fool, Leovald, chases after you to the capital… we could have wrapped it all up nicely."
He walks through the grey world and gently lifts my chin with his fingertips.
"I told you that if you make foolish choices, you must pay the price."
Godric's red eyes shimmered with delight.
I ask in a daze.
"…Why to you?"
With Orlie's death, the Assistant Writer also exits the stage.
That, I can just about understand. But I couldn't comprehend why the weight left behind by his death shifted to Sub-writer 1, not the Main Author.
Muttering in my confusion, Godric kindly answers.
"Isn't it hard to trust someone who has already failed once? I don't mean to undermine the effort… but look, the curtain call is drawing near, the stage is falling apart bit by bit, and you're just stubbornly holding on."
His fingers lightly trace my cheek.
"Trying to seat Leovald in the protagonist's spot is nothing more than Butier's ambition. On the other hand, I have a slightly different, but far more reliable method."
If the stage were a living being, what kind of desire would it have?
Would it have a special affection for all the stories unfolding upon it?
Would it favour certain characters and have preferences?
If not…
"…"
Once, I unknowingly accepted an audition with a predetermined supporting role, and was offered a small part instead. A colleague who had just joined the troupe was furious, telling me to refuse it outright.
But I accepted.
After travelling for hours, waiting for even more, I recited a line I had memorized the night before and simply left, feeling empty.
Why did I do such a foolish thing?
Isn't it natural to accept?
'Whatever happens, I just hope someone notices me.'
Didn't I already say that a hungry person doesn't hesitate between bread and meat?
An unknown actor doesn't deliberate over whether to accept a role or not. That's a luxury. The desires of those with no face or name are more primal and simple.
Under the goal-oriented desire of wanting to be known, of not wanting to be buried in the sea of stars. Some will sink, be forgotten, and only a few will be discovered, in the midst of a battlefield obscured by effort and luck, hidden behind those words.
"Ah. This will do. What do you think? Isn't it more fitting?"
Following that, the content of the note began to fill in. Unlike the previous chapter, which had been only a single line.
Take 1. The Old Fortress of the Vernis Mountains (Day/Outside).
Surrounded by nobles and the royal guards, Leonardo's group stands on the brink of escape. However, just as they are about to flee, the plan collapses, and in the ensuing chaos, malicious forces invade.
In the narrative, the thick fortifications surrounding the outpost are suddenly replaced with worn and dilapidated ones. Through the loosely opened gaps, the ominous afterimages of these invaders flicker.
Ready to replace the characters at any moment, nameless and role-less beings tangle together, forming a mass. Like a wave poised to surge and engulf the entire area at any given moment.
Godric's narration didn't stop.
They become trapped at the old fortress, the snowstorm intensifies quickly, and the situation descends into one where reinforcement is impossible.
Bit by bit, the narrative of Butier, who had been subtly placed around the protagonist, Leovald, begins to unravel.
As the grey world shifts subtly with Godric's words, it feels as though his Submission is inevitably beginning to affect the stage itself.
After completing the narrative of Take 1, Godric clapped his hands as if giving a cue to signal the next action.
Immediately, colour and sound returned to the world. For me, who had been immersed in a grey world, the sensory shift felt almost violent. The silence dissipated, replaced by screams and chaos. The pale, monochrome landscape lifted, and blood began to spray wildly before my eyes.
And everything unfolded exactly as the story had been written.
"The fortifications are collapsing!"
As the fortifications surrounding the outpost crumbled, those invaders began pouring from the direction Leonardo had been attempting to escape.
The term "flooding" doesn't even begin to cover it. Floods are meant to recede at some point, but the black, sticky mass rushing in, staining the earth, would not easily vanish from this land.
The scene that always appears in my nightmares was unfolding right before my eyes.
Leonardo immediately turned and retreated, as the direction of the cold wind against his face shifted dramatically. I held Leonardo tight, whispering to him.
"…We're surrounded, aren't we?"
Without a word, he nodded and tightened his arms around my waist.
Behind us, Godric and his royal guards, along with the nobles under the influence of Submission.
In front of us, those invaders who had successfully breached the fortifications were closing in.
There was no escape route left, so Leonardo gently lowered me to the ground. Before he let go of my hand, he squeezed it tightly for a brief second, and that moment seemed to stretch on slowly.
Then, he took a deep breath and unsheathed his sword.
The snowstorm falling from the sky and the invaders rushing to cover the land blurred the lines of black and white in the snowy landscape, but Leonardo's sword cut through it all with a clean slash.
The force of the wind from his blade sent snowflakes flying upwards, and the end of those creeping, tendril-like heads that had been inching forward scattered into pieces.
Even in the midst of such chaos, he was slowly creating an opening.
I stood behind Leonardo, watching the oncoming figures. The nobles, their eyes flashing with a red hue in the snow. Without any real weapons, I grabbed the long chain that connected to my ankle.
If they charged, I intended to strangle them with it.
The cold chain made my palm sticky with sweat, which quickly froze and clung to my skin.
The truth was, my heart was pounding wildly. Ever since I realized that Godric had become the main author, I hadn't been able to keep my mind steady for even a moment.
And yet, even now, I wondered.
'Why… isn't it connecting?'
If my guess was right, this should be the moment. The one holding 37% of the authority.
A crunching sound in the snow.
Through the flurry of snow and ash, a disaster in human form strides forward. Nothing stood in Godric's way.
Because nothing could stand in his way anymore.
His long blonde hair sways with the wind, as if dancing. Godric raises his hand, holding his sword, gently lifting it.
"Well, you should've chosen me."
Just before he could strike, his afterimage had already faded, leaving only his voice—a distant echo that grew nearer.
At that moment, Leonardo, who had suddenly leapt from behind me, collided directly with him.
Bang!
The clash of steel against steel resounded like thunder. The reverberation of the swords made my ears ring. The gap in strength gradually became evident. Contrary to expectations, Godric, holding the dragonbone sword with both hands, pressed down, resisting Leonardo's sword.
But despite their situation, the expressions of the two were the opposite.
Godric's lips curled into a smirk.
"Even if you change your body, your temperament stays the same."
"…"
"No. There's one difference."
Shink!
The black blade of the dragonbone sword slides beneath, the obsidian-like edge slipping toward the hilt. The steel that was shaved off from the blade glittered, sending a piercing light that seemed to threaten my eyes.
"You're out of options."
In that instant, Godric, who had been lowering his posture as if to withstand the weight of the greatsword, snatched the dragonbone sword from a fallen noble's grip and swung it toward Leonardo's heart.
Clunk!
[Sub-writer 1: Do you think I'll just let you have it your way?]
However, as the silver-lit archbishop's staff flicked his hand away, the blade slightly veered off course and grazed Leonardo's side. Dark crimson blood soaked the earth.
Before he knew it, Butier had approached to just a few paces away, his silvery white hair fluttering as he stared at Godric with a gaze full of hatred.