The blue path welcomed Carter with a sudden rush of cold air. As he stepped into it, the world warped behind him, sealing the others away. No sound. No footsteps. Only the faint hum of glowing script beneath his feet.
The path was lined with pages—literal pages, floating in the air like moths. Some drifted close to his face, and as his eyes passed over them, he saw his own past written in elegant calligraphy.
> "He spoke truth wrapped in fiction, wielding his stories like shields…"
He reached out instinctively, and one of the pages clung to his palm. A surge of memory returned:
He was a boy in a tower of books. Always listening, always watching. The others laughed while he wrote. Not because he was weak, but because he saw more. And the moment he wrote it down… it became real.
A voice echoed through the pages.
> "You abandoned your gift when it scared you. But the gift never left you."
Carter walked faster.
The corridor widened into a massive chamber, shaped like a quill's point, lit only by flickering candles. At the center stood a massive tome—The Inkblade Codex—resting atop a pedestal made of whispering skulls.
A cloaked figure waited beside it. His face was covered, but Carter felt the presence: strong, familiar… mirrored.
"You're me," Carter said.
The figure nodded. "The version of you that never stopped writing. The one who embraced the truth that your words could shape reality."
The reflection raised a sword—not of steel, but of black, swirling ink. It dripped with sentences not yet written.
"The Codex must be rewritten. But only by a hand that bleeds the truth."
The sword flew toward Carter.
---
He dodged, barely. The blade hissed as it cut through the air, and where it struck, reality warped—stones turned to sentences, air became stanzas.
This wasn't just a fight. This was a duel of authorship.
Carter conjured a defense instinctively—words from his memory spilling into shields. One formed mid-air: "He shall not be erased."
The next blow came faster, a sweeping cut that shattered Carter's shield. His twin was faster, sharper—he moved like a story that knew its ending.
But Carter didn't stop.
He wrote in the air with his fingertips, calling on everything he'd forgotten. Regret. Hope. Grief. Love. Words took shape:
> "I do not fight to control the Codex. I fight to remember it."
His words struck back. A pulse of white ink burst from his palm, knocking the twin backward.
"You learned," the reflection said, lowering his blade.
Carter approached slowly.
"I'm not here to kill you," he said. "I'm here to become you."
The reflection smiled. "Then take it."
The Inkblade floated between them.
As Carter reached for it, it pricked his finger—and the drop of blood that fell into its hilt turned the blade into pure script.
The Codex opened.
A page fluttered forward and burned with glowing letters:
> Chapter 1 rewritten. Truth reclaimed.
The chamber dissolved around him. And Carter stood alone once more—sword in hand, heart steady, gaze forward.
The path behind him reopened.
---
Meanwhile, in the mirror realm, the Codex's ink shifted. One of four locks clicked open.
And far away, a shadow stirred—watching, smiling.
> "One awakens. The others must follow… before I consume them whole."