The Script of Oblivion

In a world where words shape reality, it takes just a pen to condemn an empire.



Or save it.



He woke up on the ashes of a gutted theater, in the perfect silence of the end of a forgotten act. Around him, the charred seats stared at the stage like the empty eye sockets of an audience that had vanished. He knew neither who he was nor why his body bore the marks of an ancient burn. He knew only one thing: he had already been killed once.



A memory exploded in his skull—a place suspended between stars and darkness, a weaving of threads shining like a moving constellation, a voice whispering to him:



"You were not meant to see the end... You were meant to write it."



He was neither prophet nor savior.



He believed he was the hero.

He was only the ink.



In the ruins of a dystopian civilization where each nation claims the right to rewrite humanity, where factions hunt down the bearers of the Codex like heretics or living weapons, a nameless man seeks the truth. Not for revenge—but to understand why the entire world found it good to make him disappear.



And as the shadows of the powerful advance their pawns, as the gods themselves tear each other apart to survive in a universe that rejects them, one thing is certain:



Someone is already holding the pen.



And they fully intend to finish the script.