Lord of the Foresaken

The sky of Arden Gate was splitting again.

The three shadows that had walked from the Second Fissure leaned closer. They did not stride. They did not advance. They simply were—present everywhere, touching every breath, every heartbeat. Their gaze pressed down, heavy as oceans, cold as the grave.

Lio stood in the square, ink dripping from his arms, claws black and curved. He breathed like a beast, chest heaving, his laughter broken into growls. He had fought through duplicates until the ground itself was a swamp of shredded letters. The town survived only because he forced it to remain, rewriting with blood and pain.

But hunger gnawed him. Every strike fed him, every scream fueled him. The boy who had once clung to his name was gone. What remained was something darker—an echo of will sharpened into bloodlust.

And somewhere far above, the Eleven debated.

The chamber of the Originless shook with their voices. Eleven seats filled, though one remained forever empty—the twelfth who had refused to define the Inkless Realm.

"We must seal the fissure," said the glass woman, shards of her body trembling with urgency. "If we don't, the Narrativeless will spread beyond the Inkless. They will rewrite everything."

The storm-haired man frowned, water dripping from his hands like rain. "We tried before. Seals bend the law of causality. These things ignore causality. What binds others does not bind them."

"We cannot sit idle!" shouted the fire-knuckled Originless. Sparks crackled across his skin. "Our shame has returned. We must burn it out."

The shadow of books whispered as pages turned without wind. "Then we will try again. Even if the law fails, even if the seal breaks, we must resist. To do nothing is worse."

One by one, the Eleven raised their hands. Power flowed, old and heavy, carved from the first words ever written.

The Seal would be tried again.

The fissure above Arden Gate trembled.

Symbols fell from the sky—ancient glyphs that burned into the air, interlocking into a web of light. Circles formed, lines cut across the void, sigils spiraled inward like chains of fire. The Eleven poured their strength into it, calling on laws older than kingdoms, older than suns.

Lio stopped mid-strike, blinking up at the sky as symbols bled across it.

"What is this?" he growled, claws twitching. "You think you can cage them?"

The townsfolk didn't see the seal. They only saw the shadows bend above them, lines of fire closing like jaws. For a moment, hope flickered—even as history trembled beneath their feet.

The duplicates screeched, their hollow mouths vomiting letters as they thrashed. The abyss itself quivered.

The Seal closed.

For one heartbeat, the three shadows were inside.

For one heartbeat, reality held its breath.

And then—

They stepped forward.

Not through the cracks. Not against the chains. They simply chose not to acknowledge them.

The seal shattered. Sigils burst into smoke. Lines bent into nonsense. Glyphs crumbled into ash.

The Eleven gasped in their chamber, their power unraveling like threads pulled from cloth.

"They phase through," the glass woman whispered. "As if nothing we build matters."

The storm-haired one slammed his fists into the water floor. "Because to them, nothing does. The law is a suggestion. They are free of it."

Lio laughed, low and sharp. "Of course they are. You made them a door. Did you think a lock would matter?"

He flexed his claws. The hunger in him deepened. Their failure was his fuel. He wanted to fight—not just the duplicates, not just the shadows. He wanted the Originless themselves.

In the Consensus Room, alarms ripped through minds. Data streams collapsed, entire sectors blanking from maps. Dr. Okafor screamed as her Analysis Engine fractured, sparks bursting across her hologram.

"Seal attempt… failed," she gasped. "The constructs mean nothing to them. They walk through as if the laws of reality are… optional."

General Morrison slammed his hands on the table. "Then what the hell can stop them?"

No one answered.

Because no one knew.

The town flickered harder.

The baker's oven collapsed into nothing. Maren's herbs dissolved mid-air, vanishing between one breath and the next. Kito clung to the wall only for the wall to vanish, dropping him into silence—then reappearing just in time to catch him again.

The people lived in loops, rewriting and erasing with each step.

And Lio stood in the center, drenched in ink, laughing louder. His claws dug into the earth, pulling up black rivers of letters. His fire had become hunger, his hunger had become rage.

He looked up at the three shadows.

"You can't be sealed," he said. "You can't be caged. But maybe…" His smile stretched wide, too wide. "Maybe you can be fed."

He lunged at the nearest duplicate, tearing it apart, inhaling the ash. His veins pulsed black. His eyes burned red. His body grew heavier, stronger, less human.

He no longer fought to defend. He fought to devour.

And the abyss cheered.

In the chamber of Eleven, silence crushed them.

The fire-knuckled Originless snarled. "We failed. Again."

The glass woman lowered her head. "The Inkless Realm itself is the flaw. While it remains, they will never be bound."

The book-shadow whispered, voice dry. "Then we must choose. Seal the realm itself, erase the bridge, erase the boy—or let the fissures consume everything."

No one spoke.

Because each knew the truth: the bridge was no longer only a victim.

He was becoming something worse.

Lio roared. His voice shook Arden Gate, shook the fissure, shook even the chamber where the Eleven debated.

"You wanted a bridge," he bellowed. "Now you have a blade. And I will cut you all."

His laughter turned savage, echoing across worlds. He tore through another wave of duplicates, ink gushing across the square. The shadows above leaned closer, their presence thick enough to choke.

But Lio didn't care. The hunger drowned everything. He wanted more. More blood. More ink. More names to burn.

And in his chest, guilt and fury merged into one thought:

If the Originless made this, then the Originless will bleed for it.

The Eleven shivered in their chamber.

Because they knew he was right.

Because they knew he was coming.

The fissure widened again. The Narrativeless stepped deeper, phasing through every construct. Arden Gate screamed as history tore.

And in the town square, Lio crouched low, claws dripping, teeth bared, veins black, eyes burning red.

He wasn't just resisting anymore. He wasn't just surviving.

He was hunting.

The boy was gone.

What rose from the Inkless Realm was something else.

And as the town flickered, as the shadows loomed, as the Eleven trembled, Lio whispered a promise that felt like prophecy:

"Not enough blood."

The fissure screamed open wider.

And something larger than even the Narrativeless began to stir.