JD_Suthir

Synopsis:

When the world is too peaceful, you just know something’s about to get f**ked up.

I thought I was just stuck in another boring day, trapped in the monotony of life. But then—boom—reality shattered. And before I could even curse the heavens, I realized… this world had become the fantasy novel I read long ago out of pure boredom.

Only now, I’m living in it.

The characters, the monsters, the kingdoms—they’re all real. But something’s off. The ending I remember? Gone. Twisted. Rewritten. And the new version?

It wants me to become the Demon God.

The Reader Who Became the Ending

We stood beneath the new Trial Seat, rising like a monolith of forgotten endings. It hovered slightly above the shattered platforms of the Crownreach Bastion, suspended not by physics but by meaning. The throne pulsed faintly, not with light, but with possibility.

Unlike the others before it, this throne didn't shimmer with divine gold or crackle with residual glory. It was unfinished—half-formed, like someone had started carving a story into its bones and stopped halfway through.

> "The next stage," Kairoz said, his voice soft but absolute, "...is not about who can kill." "It's about who can carry the weight of remembrance."

Names appeared one by one. Mine. Kira's. Sethrin's. Two more—unknown, faceless entries sealed in glyphs too old to be spoken aloud.

[SYSTEM NOTICE: JUDGMENT TRIAL COMMENCING]

Goal: Survive the throne's memory purge and define your truth.

Jiwoon placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was strong, but his fingers trembled.

"You don't have to carry this alone."

"I do," I said. "Because it started with me. And if it ends... it should end with me too."

She just looked up at the blank throne and whispered:

> "Then write something worth bleeding for."

It wasn't a battlefield. It was a library.

Endless. Ceilingless. Walls made of stacked recollections. Shelves crafted from forgotten regrets.

Each book bore no title. No text. Only symbols. Raw feelings. Moments. Sins and joys condensed into sigils.

Inside were the deaths I caused by hesitating.

Every time I waited to act. Every breath too long. Every word unspoken. Names. Faces. Consequences.

My blood. Their blood. All of it mine to remember.

Sethrin clawed at the walls, laughing and bleeding, his fingernails shredded, voice manic with fear.

Kira stood perfectly still. His eyes closed. His lips moving slowly like he was reciting a name—a name I could not hear, but felt. Something sacred. Or lost.

The two unknowns? They didn't scream. They just vanished.

One blinked out like ink soaked by rain. The other collapsed into letters and scattered across the shelves—a life reduced to punctuation.

But the library was not a place. It was a judgment.

Pages began circling me. Not from the books—from me.

Each line I'd ever spoken. Every thought I'd buried. The things I regretted. The moments I rewrote too often.

My arms collapsed. My legs twisted.

Blood poured from my ears and eyes, not red—but black ink.

The throne's voice. Not shouted. Whispered. Spoken like a judge tired of waiting for someone honest enough to speak.

> "Say it," it demanded, "or vanish like the others."

Jiwoon. Smiling through cracked ribs, holding the line when no one else would.

Ereze. Whispering her brother's name before every kill, like a prayer against becoming a monster.

> I am not a hero, I whispered. Not a savior. Not a chosen one.

> I'm just the last one willing to remember what everyone else tried to forget.

A sound like paper tearing from the inside out. A chorus of inked agony.

I was kneeling beneath the throne once more.

My skin cracked. My veins filled with static. My mind teetered on the edge of oblivion. But I was alive.

Kira stood across from me. His clothes burned. His breath labored. But his eyes were clear.

There was no need to. Because the truth was already carved into the floor beneath us:

Chapter 56: Judgment of the Thrones