Return of the Void Lord

It was found buried beneath the roots of a Memory Tree.

A single parchment, ink faded, yet untouched by time.

The title read:

"The Death of Lin Feng."

No author's name.

No chapter number.

Only the final line: "And so the Sovereign fell—not to a blade, but to a choice."

Lin Feng stared at it in silence.

Then, he whispered:

"…I never wrote this."

In the floating city of Fracture—where laws of storytelling hung in balance—Lin Feng, Ruoxi, and Yue Lian met with the last independent loremasters: the Scholars of Fracture.

They studied pages that had no origin. Pages that appeared unbound, unrequested, but irrevocably real.

"This chapter," said Grand Scholar Zhen, "was not penned. It manifested."

"How?" Yue Lian asked.

"Possibility," Zhen replied. "The Folio has grown so unstable, it now speculates. It writes what might occur… before it happens."

Ruoxi paled. "Then this chapter—it's not prophecy. It's preference."

Zhen nodded. "And the world favors an ending."

Reality had become so narrative-rich, so saturated with rewrites, that the Folio began writing forward.

Not just recording.

But predicting.

If Lin Feng died in the unwritten chapter, and enough people believed it to be true…

It would be.

While they deliberated, assassins struck.

Not Canonborn.

But a new faction: The Scribes of Endings.

They believed no story should linger too long.

"The longer the tale," their leader hissed, "the more meaning it loses. Beauty is brevity."

They wielded Quills of Closure, blades made from punctuation marks: commas that slowed time, ellipses that warped memory, periods that ended spells.

One slashed at Ruoxi—she froze in mid-cast.

Yue Lian dodged a comma-slice and stabbed with her own plotline—but the Scribe vanished.

Lin Feng took a hit from a dash-shaped dagger—his shoulder blurred, then reformed, story-glitched.

He roared and invoked:

Void Law – Break the Sentence.

Time unraveled. The Scribes blinked. And were gone.

After the battle, the Scholars studied the mysterious chapter again.

It had changed.

Now it read:

"Lin Feng fled from the Scribes. He survived—but not whole. The unraveling had begun."

Zhen gasped.

"It's recording you in real time."

Lin Feng clenched his fists. "Then we find its source. We end this chapter before it ends me."

Deep within the Earth of the Unspoken, past five layers of unmanifested realms, stood the Margin Vault—a place where rejected concepts were buried.

They descended together, each step more unreal than the last.

Ruoxi lost her voice for two hours.

Yue Lian's body flickered into third-person.

Lin Feng's thoughts echoed before he spoke them.

Inside the vault, they found a being bound in chains of omission.

A formless entity.

It hissed:

"You seek the source? It was me. I am the Page With No Author. I write when no one else will."

"Why?" Lin Feng demanded.

"Because silence hungered. And you refused to end."

"So I wrote your death."

The Page attacked.

Not with weapons.

But with genre shifts, pacing traps, and theme erosion.

Ruoxi was aged into an epilogue.

Yue Lian's flames turned symbolic, burning meaning not matter.

Lin Feng was dragged into a footnote, fighting for space in his own story.

And then he realized:

He couldn't win by fighting.

He had to reclaim authorship.

Lin Feng drew the Pen of True Choice, the first tool he ever earned in the Divine Folio.

He wrote one line across the sky:

"This is not the end. This is a turn of the page."

The entity screamed.

The vault shook.

The chapter rewrote itself, the final line now reading:

"Lin Feng chose to keep walking."

And the page burned to ash.

Later, on a hill overlooking the sea, Lin Feng watched the stars flicker in uncertain patterns.

"There will be more chapters," he said.

Ruoxi nodded. "More fights."

Yue Lian stretched, groaning. "More weird gods and stupid pens."

They laughed.

And somewhere—between a heartbeat and a word—

the book wrote:

"To be continued."

To be continue...