The Meeting with the Author

The absolute nothingness, where ATHOMIS’s cosmic void had been erased like ink in a book, was an oppressive silence, a vacuum swallowing even existence. No pixelated cubes, black rifts, or the last silver moon remained—just infinite darkness, broken by the two-seat table floating at its center, a polished wooden construct defying the absence of reality. In one chair, the hooded figure, formless, absorbed light like a personified black hole, its presence a weight distorting the concept of existence. Athos stood, his glitched armor faintly glowing, the Primordial Chaos Blade in his hand pulsing with purple runes reflecting 56,789,987 cycles of memories—the black mana crystal, Lysara’s sacrifice, the battle against Error, the fight with the Admins. The Tear of Eryndor on his neck shone with violet light, but his interface, locked in indecipherable symbols (Attributes — ??????? — System Transcended), flickered erratically, as if ATHOMIS’s system had given up understanding him. Athos stared at the figure, his mind a whirlwind of questions. Who are you? What is all this? he thought, his violet eyes blazing with fury and confusion.Before he could speak, the hooded figure answered, its voice a whisper echoing like a universal command: “Hello, I’m the Author of this story.” Athos blinked, his interface flashing: Unknown Entity — Origin: Beyond System. He can read my thoughts, he thought, the Tear of Eryndor pulsing with unease. The figure chuckled softly, the sound reverberating in the nothingness. “It’s not hard when I’m above the world I created,” the Author said, its voice calm but heavy with authority that shook the void. Athos, with a heavy sigh, fixed his eyes on the figure. “The Author, you say? You mean you’re the creator of all this?” he asked, his voice cutting the silence, each word laden with the weight of millions of years of cycles.The Author tilted its head, as if smiling beneath the hood. “A simpler way to put it, but yes, in short.” Athos stared, his mind a chaos of memories—each cycle, each death, each battle against Error, the Admins, the black rifts of the void. He clenched his fists, the Primordial Chaos Blade trembling in his hand. “Why?” he asked, his voice breaking with rage and despair. “Why create this story, this world? Why create me? Why trap me in this infinite cycle?” Each question was a blow, echoing in the nothingness like a glitched command.The Author raised a hand, and the void seemed to stabilize, as if obeying a gesture. “Wow, a lot of questions,” it said, almost amused. “But I can answer them quickly. I created this world for people to read, like a story, you know? Your cycles? Well, they’re the result of erasers wiping out what I wrote. I had to rewrite the story many times, and you ended up living each one. A lot didn’t make sense, so I started over again and again. Your story, the one you lived, might seem a bit nonsensical, but I think you noticed, didn’t you?”Athos stood silent, his face a mask of disbelief. You’re saying I’m just a character in a simple story? he thought, his interface flashing: Error: Existential Data Inconsistent. He saw flashes of his lives—a warrior in Eldoria, a mage in Celestara, a knight in the Desolate Continent, each cycle erased and rewritten like a torn page. The Tear of Eryndor pulsed, as if anchoring him to reality, but the truth was a crushing weight. He was a pawn, a puppet in a narrative he didn’t control. “So all this… my struggles, my memories, Lysara, Error, the Admins… it was just a story you rewrote?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, but heavy with pain piercing the void.The Author leaned forward, the hood obscuring any face. “You’re more than a character, Athos. You’re the error that survived every eraser, the glitch that became aware. That’s what makes you fascinating.” The nothingness stayed silent, the table between them the only anchor in a sea of nothing. Athos, Primordial Chaos Blade still in hand, felt his glitched aura trembling, but no words came. He stood before his world’s creator, and the truth of his existence—an infinite cycle of rewritten stories—left him speechless, caught between fury and the void.