The Scribes of What Might Be

Somewhere beyond the edge of destiny, in a realm not anchored to any one timeline, a quill moved across a page. It scratched not with ink, but with possibility.

This was the Scriptorium of What Might Be—a hall built not from stone or starlight, but from futures that hadn't yet happened.

And every one of those futures had a name written at its heart:

Lin Feng.

---

The morning after their confrontation with Aeskar, Lin Feng sat alone by the campfire. Ruoxi and Yue Lian slept nearby, exhausted but whole.

He had not slept.

A silver thread hung in the air before him. It shimmered faintly, moving not in the wind—but in response to thought.

It was a summons.

Not from a person. Not from the Void. But from the story itself.

"Come," the thread whispered. "Come see what was never written."

Lin Feng stood.

And followed it.

---

He passed into a rift between moments. One blink he stood beneath trees. The next, he was in a cathedral of glowing parchment.

Thousands—no, millions—of scrolls floated in slow orbit around a central dais. They spun and shifted like galaxies made of lore.

At the center stood a being cloaked in quills. Not robes—actual writing instruments, bound into fabric.

The being looked up.

"You are early," it said. "But then again, so is every Sovereign who finds us."

"You're one of the Void's avatars?" Lin Feng asked.

"No. I am its scribe. Its humble recorder."

"And this place?"

"Here we write the futures that never were. And occasionally… the ones still to come."

---

The Scribe gestures.

A scroll unfurls before Lin Feng. It shows:

Lin Feng becoming Emperor of the Nine Planes.

Lin Feng falling to corruption and ruling as the Void Tyrant.

Lin Feng dying to protect a single village child, unknown to history.

"Every step you take opens a thousand paths," the Scribe said. "Most vanish. Some survive. But all of them are watched."

"By who?"

The Scribe paused.

"By those who wish to edit you."

---

The chamber darkened.

Scrolls began to tear themselves apart midair.

A dozen figures emerged. Each had Lin Feng's face—but none were him. One had black wings. One had golden flame for hair. One had no eyes.

They were dressed in robes of unwritten script, constantly shifting.

"We are the Editors," they said. "We are the futures that want to become the present."

The Scribe stepped back. "You should not be here."

One of the Editors—flame-headed—grinned. "But we were always written."

They turned to Lin Feng.

"Kill the Scribe. Let us write you better."

---

They struck first.

One Editor unleashed "Flame of Fulfilled Hubris"—burning a reality where Lin Feng had failed.

Another used "Ink of Rewritten Loyalty"—trying to replace Yue Lian and Ruoxi in his mind.

Lin Feng resisted, barely.

He activated "Void Law: Sovereign Line"—drawing all versions of himself into a line of clarity.

The Editors screamed.

"Who gave you that technique?!"

Lin Feng smirked. "I did."

They surged again. Ten against one. Their power wasn't just force—it was validity. The ability to overwrite events like editors on a page.

But Lin Feng had learned.

He didn't fight as the Sovereign.

He fought as the Author.

---

He tore a scroll from the air. One labeled: "The Day Lin Feng Fell."

And rewrote it.

With his blood.

It burned.

The Scribe gasped. "You authored a memory?!"

Lin Feng's voice shook. "No more being written by others."

He activated "Absolute Rewrite."

Reality trembled.

The Editors staggered.

One dissolved, unable to survive in a reality that had been rewritten.

Two more turned and fled into void corridors.

The rest attacked in desperation.

Lin Feng met them with rewritten fate:

"Ruoxi never left." She appeared beside him, blade flashing.

"Yue Lian never doubted." She arrived, fist blazing.

They fought back to back.

And won.

---

The Scribe stepped forward, kneeling.

"You have claimed authorship," it said. "You are no longer merely the subject. You are the quill."

It held out a single pen—made of black glass and bound in memory.

"With this, you may write three truths," the Scribe said. "But choose carefully. Each truth becomes real—and cannot be undone."

Lin Feng took the pen.

And behind him, a thousand scrolls burned with his name.

To be continue...