The Book That Writes Itself

The Divine Folio pulsed once.

Not with light.

But with will.

And then, everything changed.

Lin Feng blinked.

He was no longer standing in the storm-wracked core of the Folio.

He was on a road.

An ordinary dirt road, lined with wildflowers and whispering trees.

The sky was blue. The wind smelled like home.

Except…

Nothing felt fixed.

His own footsteps didn't echo until he decided they should. A cloud drifted lazily overhead—then reversed, because he thought about it doing so.

"What is this place?" he murmured.

A voice answered from behind.

"It is the world you chose to make."

A figure emerged.

Not a god. Not a monster.

A simple man in a brown robe, ink-stained fingers, holding a book with no cover.

"I am the Narrator," he said. "The first reader of the book that writes itself."

"I didn't write this," Lin Feng said.

"No," the Narrator agreed. "You wrote the permission for it to exist."

Lin Feng looked around. "Where are the others? Ruoxi, Yue Lian?"

"Wherever their stories carry them," said the Narrator. "This is not a world of control. It is a world of choice."

"So what now?" Lin Feng asked.

"Now," the Narrator said, "the world writes itself."

He opened the book.

On one page, Lin Feng kissed Ruoxi.

On another, he died alone at sea.

On a third, he was never born—but his legend still spread.

"You exist in every possibility now," said the Narrator. "The cost of freeing all stories… is losing control over your own."

Lin Feng hesitated.

"I did this to save reality. Not to erase myself."

The Narrator nodded. "Then earn your page back. Live boldly enough that the story cannot ignore you."

In a marketplace made of shifting tents and memories, Lin Feng found Ruoxi.

She blinked.

"You're here too?"

"I think so. Maybe."

She punched his shoulder. "You better be. I was about to rewrite you back myself."

Yue Lian appeared behind a spice stall. "So, this is what freedom feels like?"

Lin Feng smiled.

"Not freedom. A blank page."

But not all welcomed the change.

From the cracks of discarded realities came the Ghost of Final Drafts—a being made from stories that were erased by the new world.

"I was canon," it hissed. "I mattered."

It attacked villages, eating possibility.

Lin Feng and his team intervened.

He could no longer use the Pen. No longer call on Void Laws.

He fought with instinct.

With loyalty.

With truth.

And won.

But barely.

The ghost left behind one torn sentence:

"Even stories erased remember how to hate."

Lin Feng now walks a path without prophecy.

Every action he takes becomes a line. Every choice, a word.

There is no script.

Only intention.

He is not a Sovereign anymore.

Not a writer.

Just a man.

And the world? It follows—not him, but his will.

Because in a realm where no story is set in stone, one man's determination can still leave ink behind.

And the book writes on.

To be continue...