The Cave of Writings. Part 1

Darkness closed around Wild like the jaws of a beast swallowing him whole. One moment he stood amid the ruins of the estate, clutching the amulet, gazing at the puppet and Tekra beneath the rubble; the next, everything vanished. No roar of collapsing walls, no lightning splitting the sky, no voice of the puppet promising salvation. Only darkness—dense, impenetrable, pressing against his chest like wet stone. He felt no ground beneath his feet, heard no sound of his own breath, yet he knew he was moving—or being carried, like a leaf swept by the wind.

Then the darkness quivered, and he found himself in a cave. Light erupted abruptly, faint yet sharp, emanating from countless flickers lining the walls of a long corridor. They weren't ordinary torches—each flame burned a different hue: blue, red, green, gold—and within their glow danced mana, alive and pulsing like blood in veins. Wild stood, his frail legs trembling under his body's weight, his mind still clinging to those final moments: Tekra under the debris, her blood, the puppet's grin. He took a step forward, and the weight of what had happened crashed over him—not physically, but emotionally, heavy as the realization of his own helplessness.

The corridor stretched endlessly, its walls carved from black stone, smooth yet cold as ice. Along them, in niches and ledges, stood books—hundreds, thousands, an infinite row of tomes whose spines gleamed in the flickering light. Wild approached, his trembling fingers brushing one. The title was etched in golden letters: Chronicles of Eldoran. Beside it sat Songs of the Lunar Verge, Laws of the Targassian Plains. Cities, regions, entire worlds he'd never heard of, yet they felt real, alive, captured within these pages. He ran his hand farther and noticed quills—not ordinary, but magical, hovering above the shelves. One blazed red, radiating heat; another shimmered with ice; a third quivered, wreathed in a vortex of air. Mana flowed from them, intertwining with the flames, weaving a symphony of elements that filled the air with energy and mystery.

Wild pressed on, his footsteps echoing in the void. Each book, each quill whispered of something greater—fates, stories, power he could claim. But with every step, the weight in his chest grew. He recalled his novellas from his past life—useless, unwanted, drowning in dust. These books were different, majestic, yet something about them mirrored his own attempts at writing. Were they, too, futile? Or were they what he could create if he weren't weak, if he weren't a freak? The philosophy of his existence reared its head again: what if all he did was a shadow of others' masterpieces, a reflection of what he'd never achieve?

The corridor ended, and before him rose an obelisk—tall, black, carved from the same stone as the walls, its surface etched with runes glowing faintly crimson. At its base stood a throne—massive, roughly hewn, as if torn from the earth's depths. Upon it sat something. The figure was cloaked in darkness matching the cave, but it exuded an aura—not mere strength, but something draining, overwhelming, like the scent of death laced with a promise of life. Mana pulsed from it in waves, heavy, almost tangible, and with each ripple, Wild felt fear and dread tighten around his heart. This was no mere being—it was a source, a center, something that could be a god, a puppet, or the Author of the Apocalypse himself.

He halted, his frail body quaking, his gaze darting between the throne and the books. The amulet in his pocket warmed, pulsing in sync with the figure's aura. Wild wanted to speak, to ask where he was, who this was, what had become of Tekra, but his throat clenched under the same invisible grip that had choked him at the estate. He rasped, his voice a pitiful rustle like leaves in the wind, but the figure stirred. The cloak shifted, and two eyes—red as the blood of the dream-god—fixed on him from beneath the hood.

The silence grew unbearable. Wild felt his mind splinter under that stare—torn between his past, where he'd died, his present, where he'd lost his sister, and a future looming before him in the form of this throne. He wanted to flee, but his legs wouldn't obey. He wanted to scream, but his voice failed. He wanted to understand, but understanding was too vast, too heavy for his small, useless soul. Yet he took a step forward—not out of courage, but because he didn't know what else to do.

The figure remained still, but its aura thickened, enveloping him like fog. Wild felt the mana within him—weak, trembling—respond to it, an echo answering a call. He wasn't here by chance. The amulet had brought him here, the puppet had led him here, his own resolve—or lack thereof—had drawn him here. But why? To write? To burn? Or to become part of these books, these quills, this terrifying grandeur?

He stood before the throne, his raspy breath the only sound in the cave, waiting—not for an answer, but for an end. Or a beginning.