Final: The author and his actors

30 minutes. No, 20 now. Just twenty minutes before it happens. Before she changes. Before the demon takes over.

“I need to do something…” Marcus muttered, glancing at Illya, who stood near the Unity Crystal.

Others were busy — solving the riddle, fighting, trying to gain ground. But Marcus… somehow knew. He couldn’t explain it — he shouldn’t have this kind of knowledge about the future.

But he knew.

In twenty minutes, she’d stop being herself.

In thirty — she’d be gone. Consumed.

He had to act.

“Caltei,” he called over his shoulder to his mysterious companion. “Please don’t go near the silver-haired girl. Just… trust me. For your own safety.”

Caltei narrowed her eyes, watching him silently. Cold as ever. But somewhere in her gaze — a spark of curiosity.

Marcus quickened his pace.

Illya stood before the crystal, staring into the barrier. Then, a voice rang out through the arena:

> “A mage and a warrior stood before the abyss.

One held the word, the other held steel.

The mage raised a hand — and the world bowed.

The warrior stepped forward — and silence was broken.

One creates, but is not protected.

One destroys, but cannot explain.

When they are equal, order is born.

Tell me:

What makes magic a blade, and a blade magic?

What is weakness alone, but strength when combined?

What defines balance between sword and spell?”

The words echoed, not just in the air — but through the soul.

“Illya!” Marcus called out. “Are you okay? Dizzy? Feeling… off somehow?”

Illya turned, confused.

“What…? You’re scaring me. Aren’t we opponents? Or do you… wait—”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Don’t tell me you’re…”

“No! Not like that!” Marcus waved his hands frantically. “Just… are you feeling any kind of rage? A shadow inside? Something that’s not you but wants to take over?”

“…What kind of joke is this? Trying to mess with my head?”

Marcus clenched his fists. “How do I explain something I’m not supposed to know?” he thought desperately. Ten minutes left. That’s all. And then she would—

His thoughts spiraled. Panic swelled. Logic broke. Fear rose.

But in her eyes — he saw someone worth saving.

And then—

“I’m the author…”

The words of the System echoed in his mind:

> “They are actors. You… are the Writer.”

“System!” he shouted mentally. “How many times can I use ‘Writer’?!”

> System: Twice.

But… do you have the mana for it?

“Show me my stats!”

[Status Window Opened]

Strength: 30 +8

Agility: 23 +4

Endurance: 40

Willpower: 34

Intellect: 55 +11

Clarity: 15

> System: You’ve grown.

But after the last arc, your clarity dropped. Emotional damage. Remember?

“…Where’s my mana?”

> System (lazy tone): Oh, you noticed? Here:

Mana: 250 / 300

Aura: 110 / 110

Skills: [Writer], [Written History]

Passives: [—]

Gifts: [Loading…]

“Gifts…?” Marcus blinked.

> [Update! Because of rare system usage (<10%), bonus granted: +200 Mana.]

“Perfect!” he exhaled. “This might work.”

Illya still watched him, both confused and a little worried.

> System (dry): “Wow, how convenient. A gift just when you needed it. Classic plot device. You're living a cliché.”

But Marcus wasn’t listening. He wasn’t trying to survive.

He was trying to save her. Even if it meant leaning into clichés.

“Illya. Please. Just stand still. Relax. Close your eyes. I… I need to do something.”

She hesitated, then sighed and nodded.

“…Fine. But if you try anything weird — I will break your nose.”

Marcus smiled faintly.

“Promise. I’ll be proper.”

“WRITER.”

His hand rose. Magic surged into the air, forming letters glowing with mana.

Illya’s eyes widened — this was new. Unknown.

> [Illya calms. Demonic transformation begins, but she still retains her mind.

Outside the arena, Instructor Irma Delar decides to enter the stage.]

Mana: 270 / 500

> System:

“Clever. You didn’t stop the transformation — you postponed it. You’re learning. I like that.”

Illya winced. Her hands clutched her head.

“…S-something… something’s whispering… ‘Kill them… kill them all…’”

Marcus stepped between her and the others. He knew time was short.

But now, he was no longer just a spectator.

He was the author.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “If anything goes wrong… I’ll rewrite it.”

For once, his voice was steady.

And filled with real resolve.

---

Outside the arena...

“I wonder what’s going on inside,” Irma said, a note of concern hidden in her calm tone.

“Always so impatient,” chuckled Professor Knights, sipping his tea.

“Well… let’s see what your stars are really made of.”