The Path to Divinity—And Its Chains!

Deep within the Scarlet Theatre's residence, a dimly lit corridor led to the darkest room.

A faint candlelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls.

At the center of the room sat a square table, stacked with various books.

Beyond it stood a classical bed, its silhouette barely visible in the gloom.

The bedding rose and fell ever so slightly—someone was asleep in the darkness.

At the table, the Playwright sat, her face illuminated by the trembling candlelight.

And then, suddenly—

She turned her head.

Cold eyes pierced into the darkness, as if sensing something unseen.

A sneer curled onto her rigid, expressionless face.

Something had caught her interest.

Lifting her hand, she summoned what looked like an ordinary quill.

Then, with practiced precision, she began writing in the air—

Not on paper, but in the very fabric of fate itself.

"The Playwright is dead, and we have nothing."