Dawn never came.
For the first time since I arrived in Eclipsia, the sky didn't change hues. There was no light or shadow, only a grayish tint spreading like a dirty cloth across the world. It wasn't fog. It was interference.
The system—that invisible fabric of rules, destinies, missions, and prewritten dialogues—was beginning to collapse.
And we, Sera and I, were the viruses that had triggered it.
—
We walked in silence through what used to be a forest. Now, the trees were frozen mid-growth: branches half-formed, leaves trembling as if unsure whether to exist or not. Some animals hung motionless in the air, stuck in static poses, like still-life remnants of a forgotten tale.
Sera wore the medallion around her neck. It no longer glowed… but it pulsed. Every now and then, a subtle throb coursed through her skin, making her close her eyes, as if she was hearing something I couldn't.
"Does it say anything to you?" I asked without stopping.
"Not in words," she said, and gave a sad smile. "It's like remembering a dream I haven't had yet."
—
The anomaly led us to a clearing where time seemed to have given up. In the center was an impossible structure: a circle of broken columns, each made of materials from different eras—stone, polished metal, liquid crystal, petrified wood.
And in the center, floating, was an object that didn't belong to this world.
A theatrical mask, split in two. One side smiling, the other weeping. Neither complete.
The moment I stepped into the circle, I saw it.
Not a vision. Not a possible future.
It was like a cascade of realities, an electric shock of narratives rejected by the system. In an instant, I saw more versions of myself than I could count: one who had died during the initial ceremony, another who had sided with the Merchant, one who had killed Sera… and one who had saved her at the cost of becoming a monster.
But in all of them, one thing remained constant: at some point… I stopped being an Extra.
—
I fell to my knees. Not from pain, but from the vertigo of understanding.
The system was never a perfect prison. It was full of holes, erased lines, and recycled scripts. Because Eclipsia wasn't a world. It was an experiment.
A narrative labyrinth where they studied how many times a story could repeat… before breaking.
And I…
"I'm the mistake," I muttered. "The glitch."
Sera stepped closer and took my hand. She said nothing. She didn't need to.
In that moment, the floating mask rotated… and a voice emerged from it. No tone. No gender.
It simply said:
—Renegade Protocol activated. Future Fragment granted.
And a new object fell into my hands.
A book. Untitled. No author.
But as I opened it, something chilled my blood.
It was my handwriting.
And the story it told… hadn't happened yet.
—
Then I understood.
The system, upon breaking, couldn't destroy us.
So it would do the only thing it could to regain control.
It would let us choose…
…how we wanted to be destroyed.