It started as a whisper.
Then, the whisper grew teeth.
Words gnawed at the edge of reality, not spoken aloud but injected—like foreign code into a living script.
Ketzerah could feel it before he could name it.
A presence not recognized by any realm he had passed.
Not the Archive of Denied Ends.
Not the Realm of Revisions.
Not even the Editor's Throne.
It was something... external.
And it was waking up.
---
Lian gripped his sleeve.
"Did you hear that voice again?"
Ketzerah nodded, his eyes narrowing as shadows curled along the edges of their world.
"Yes. And it doesn't belong to the Reader."
"Then who?"
He didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure.
And that uncertainty itself was dangerous.
---
They stood at the edge of the Reader's Realm, where the blank canvas had only just begun to accept color. The sky flickered. Not in light, but in syntax. Lines began to split, rearrange, refuse alignment.
Then the voice returned.
But this time, clear.
"So you've made it here, Entity. Abomination. Self-writing glitch."
Ketzerah turned.
The space behind him twisted violently, and a shape tore itself into visibility.
But not a form of flesh.
Not even spirit.
It was erasure.
An absence made physical.
A silhouette not made of shadow, but editorial redaction.
Whole segments of space were censored around it.
Lines blurred, bent, scratched out.
And where it walked, context vanished.
---
Lian recoiled.
"What is that!?"
Ketzerah's voice was cold.
"A being that was never meant to appear."
The entity hovered.
Its "eyes" were quotation marks twisted inward.
Its fingers bled ink that refused to settle.
And its name echoed without grammar:
"I am the One Who Unwrites."
---
For the first time, the Reader trembled.
Not in fear.
But in discomfort.
The Reader's silhouette blurred.
"This entity was not catalogued. It lies outside perception."
Ketzerah's breath drew slow and sharp.
"That's because it wasn't created. It was... regretted."
The figure laughed, a sound like corrupted files cracking open.
"They called me the Pen's Error. The Draft Rebellion. The Lost Manifestation."
"But I am no longer lost."
"I am returned."
---
Lian stepped forward.
"Why now?"
The entity's voice sharpened like a falling guillotine.
"Because you've built too much."
"You've rewritten yourself beyond edit. Outlasted endings. Defied structures."
"And now, you threaten to become permanent."
Ketzerah's eyes burned silver.
"I already am."
> "No," the entity hissed. "Not yet. Not until the Pen stops fighting me."
---
The wind picked up.
But it was not air—it was rollback.
Pages peeled backward through the space around them, as if someone was scrubbing time.
Moments dissolved.
Dialogues unraveled.
Entire metaphors disintegrated mid-symbol.
Lian cried out as her name blurred for a moment—just a moment—but enough to feel erased.
Ketzerah grabbed her, anchoring her in presence.
"Stay with me."
She gasped, clutching his chest.
"What is that thing doing?"
He looked into the void.
"It's trying to undo the narrative without approval."
---
The One Who Unwrites extended a limb.
And with that gesture, an entire chapter of Ketzerah's memory was burned.
For a blink, he stumbled.
Not because of pain.
But because something important was gone.
A name.
A lesson.
A consequence.
Forgotten.
Removed.
Deleted without transition.
---
Ketzerah straightened.
"I see your trick now," he said, voice grave.
"You aren't from the narrative. You're what happens when the Pen gives up. When the Author erases out of shame instead of truth."
The entity's shape flickered.
It did not like being seen.
"Don't name me. I am not yours to define."
Ketzerah smiled grimly.
"Then why do you fear definition?"
---
With a roar, the entity struck.
But not like any weapon or power.
It lashed out with abandonment.
Whole threads of Ketzerah's journey collapsed.
Places he had passed twisted into footnotes.
Characters he once met were rewritten into strangers.
Lian shrieked as the space around her began to forget her.
"I—I'm losing me—!"
Ketzerah grabbed her face.
"Say your name."
"What?"
"Say it!"
"L-Lian!"
Again.
"Lian!"
Again.
"LIAN!"
With the third shout, a burst of light erupted from her chest.
The fog burned back.
Her shape stabilized.
Her name reasserted.
Ketzerah turned to the entity.
"You see now? You can only erase what's not anchored."
"And I am rooted."
---
The entity backed away.
But not far.
"You may resist. For now."
"But you're still dependent."
"You only live because someone still turns the page."
Ketzerah's voice was iron.
"Then I will become the page itself."
---
Suddenly, the Reader returned.
Not in full presence.
But as attention.
The space shimmered with the Reader's curiosity.
"Who is this?" it asked. "This thing that even I never witnessed?"
The entity turned toward the Reader.
"You. Spectator. You're the worst of them all."
"You let it happen. You watched as control slipped."
"You could have stopped him."
The Reader answered without emotion.
"I was never meant to interfere."
The One Who Unwrites screamed.
"Then I will interfere for you."
---
It lunged toward the Reader.
Ketzerah acted.
With a sweep of his hand, he cast a barrier—
Not of power.
But of commitment.
Lines of narration hardened into reality.
They formed walls that rejected deletion.
"You will not touch the one who watched me rise," Ketzerah growled.
"Even if he did nothing."
---
The being hissed.
"You protect the one who might forget you tomorrow?"
Ketzerah stepped forward.
"Yes."
"Because he chose to look."
---
A silence fell.
Even the rollback paused.
The eraser held its stroke.
For a single moment—fragile and eternal—Ketzerah stood between forces.
The Reader.
And the thing that even the Reader feared.
---
Then he spoke again.
Not with defiance.
But with invitation.
"Come, then," he said.
"Try to erase me. Try to pull me back into the silence."
"Try to unmake someone who was never made."
---
The One Who Unwrites screamed.
Not in rage.
But in realization.
It couldn't do it.
Not anymore.
Not because Ketzerah was powerful.
But because the Reader still watched.
And so long as one gaze remained, Ketzerah could not be erased.
---
The entity fled—not beaten, but delayed.
It vanished into the folds between scenes.
Its final words lingered like rot.
"I'll return. When the Reader blinks."
Ketzerah turned toward the sky.
The Reader pulsed once.
Then vanished.
Lian exhaled, exhausted.
"Was that… the real threat?"
Ketzerah closed his eyes.
"No."
"That was the echo of something worse."
---
She gripped his hand.
"Then what do we do now?"
He opened his palm.
From his skin, letters floated upward.
A new chapter.
Unwritten.
Unscheduled.
Unmonitored.
"I don't know," he said.
"But the page is open."
"And I'm still here."
---
End of Chapter 10
🕯️ To be continued…
---