Layve

a decaying metropolis that defies logic and space—where skyscrapers bleed shadow and time fractures without warning—three teenagers awaken without memories, tethered to a city that’s alive with secrets. Each one carries a fragment of an ancient power tied to a forgotten war of gods, hearts, and dimensions.

This is a world where the mind shapes matter, where belief can tear through dimensions, and doubt can kill. At the core of the city's chaotic order lies a combat system based on spatial manipulation: bending angles, folding distance, severing continuity—where fights are not just physical, but existential.

Trapped between warring factions, myth-worshipping cults, and sentient artificial architectures, the trio must confront not only monstrous external threats, but their own inner voids. Every alternate version of themselves across infinite realities is a reminder of who they could have been—and what they may yet become.

But the deeper they descend into the city's shifting underlayers, the more blurred the line becomes between illusion and identity. The path to freedom is not through power. It's through believing in who they truly are, in a world that demands they become someone else.

"Believe in Yourself" is a grand, multilayered epic of trauma, destiny, rebellion, and choice, unfolding over thousands of chapters with a cast of 20 core characters, each carrying their own myth, arc, and burden.

Because in a world built to erase you—faith in yourself is the last weapon left.

Ashes of Faith

The deeper they wandered, the more the Library dissolved around them—not into nothingness, but into something far worse: liquid memory.

The walls wept ink. The ceiling sagged with the weight of forgotten stories, droplets of narrative plinking into ever-widening pools on the floor. Plato's boots left ripples that didn't fade—each step's impression remained frozen in the dark water, a trail of suspended moments leading back to a past that no longer existed.

Left was no longer left. A door might open into a memory or dissolve like salt in water. They moved like sinking thoughts—pulled downward by the weight of meaning rather than gravity.

Plato found himself standing in a triangular chamber where the walls weren't walls at all, but currents—swirling eddies of ink and regret that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. Diagrams bled across their surface, timelines dissolving and reforming with each blink:

[Lira's name intersecting three others before being washed away

The word "UNMADE" appearing, then melting like ice in warm water

A perfect circle that wept black tears down the wall]

He wasn't sure when he'd become alone. The water around his ankles was rising.

A voice. Not from the air. From the water itself.

"You shouldn't have come here alone."

The ripples coalesced into a figure—tall, cloaked, its face a shifting surface of flowing text. Words scrolled across its liquid skin like subtitles in a drowned film.

Plato's blade buzzed beneath the surface, the vibration sending concentric circles radiating outward. "I didn't choose to be alone."

The Archivist stepped closer. Its cloak didn't move like fabric—it flowed, a continuous waterfall of black script. "Do you know what I am?"

Water dripped from Plato's chin as he nodded. "An Archivist. One of many."

"The one without a name," it corrected. The water between them thickened, forming floating paragraphs that dissolved before they could be read. "You recorded the Collapse."

The walls surged like a tide, revealing a younger Plato standing on a bridge that crumbled like wet paper, his hand outstretched toward someone the water had already erased.

"You failed her," the Archivist murmured, its voice the sound of rain on a flooded street.

Plato's fists clenched. The water around his wrists swirled angrily. "I didn't mean to."

"Intent doesn't float here," the Archivist replied. A single drop fell from its featureless face, landing with a sound like a clock striking underwater. "Only consequences."

The chamber trembled. Somewhere above, a pipe burst—or maybe it was a memory fracturing. Water cascaded down, carrying with it fragments of voices, half-drowned pleas.

"Why show me this?" Plato demanded, shouting over the sudden downpour.

The Archivist pointed a dripping hand toward the far wall. The water parted like a curtain, revealing a door that hadn't been there moments before. Through it: a glimpse of Lira, standing on the edge of a platform suspended over an abyss of black water.

"Because you're about to do it again."

The chamber filled in seconds—water rising to Plato's waist, then his chest, carrying with it the ink of a thousand unwritten stories. The Archivist dissolved into the deluge, its final words bubbling to the surface:

"Swim or sink. But choose quickly—she's already going under."

Chapter 10