Lineage of the Pen

The ink on the parchment trembled.

Elric stood in the middle of the Hidden Library, surrounded by books that were older than entire civilizations. The Quill of Genesis floated above an altar, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. It wasn't just a writing instrument—it was alive, and it was watching him.

He'd learned by now that nothing in this world was ordinary. Every artifact, every name, every page—everything was part of a story, and stories in this realm could twist fate, break rules, or even rewrite reality.

The moment his fingers touched the Quill, something awakened deep within him. Not just power—but memory. Not his, but from the ones who came before him.

A rush of images flooded his mind: a warrior cloaked in shadows writing the downfall of gods, a girl with silver eyes sketching an empire into existence, a boy who erased his own name from the script to become invisible to fate itself.

They were Authors—wielders of the Penblood Lineage.

And now... Elric was one of them.

He staggered back, gasping, holding his chest as if the ink had burned its way into his veins.

"This isn't just a weapon," Elric whispered, his voice shaking. "It's a curse. And a responsibility."

From the shadows, the Librarian appeared—tall, hooded, face unreadable, voice like rustling pages.

"You have inherited the blood of Narrators. With it comes dominion over plot and character. But every pen stroke is a choice—and every choice has a price."

Elric glanced at the floating tome that had once called itself "The Eternal Cycle." It now followed him like a loyal dog, opening pages when he willed, revealing mechanics, skills, and timelines.

"But I didn't write this story," Elric said. "I just read it."

"And now, you rewrite it," the Librarian replied. "This world responds to intent. The pen you wield does not simply ink—it commands."

Elric's mind was spinning. He finally understood why everything felt so familiar. The subtle references. The foreshadowing. The characters behaving like archetypes. This was the world from the novel he once read.

He wasn't just inside the story.

He was now becoming the co-author.

Suddenly, the pages of the book turned violently, stopping at a chapter labeled: The Chariot of Ruin.

A familiar name emerged: Kael Draven.

Elric's eyes widened. That was the name of the antagonist from Volume Four—the man who had destroyed cities with a flick of his gauntleted hand, who was prophesied to bring about the Third Collapse.

"But Kael Draven isn't supposed to appear until Chapter 90..." Elric muttered.

The book's page glitched.

The text shimmered, then rewrote itself:

Due to interference in narrative causality, Kael Draven will now arrive in Chapter 12.

Elric felt the blood drain from his face.

"This is all because I used the Pen," he whispered. "I've broken the flow of the story."

"Indeed," the Librarian said calmly. "You accelerated the chain of fate. And now, the plot adapts."

Elric stepped back. His hand clenched the Pen tighter. "Then I'll have to prepare. If Kael's coming early, I won't survive unless I evolve again."

The Librarian extended a scroll.

"A fragment from your ancestral origin. Study it. Master it. Your next evolution lies not in strength, but in structure."

As Elric unrolled the scroll, symbols danced across the parchment. They weren't runes or magic scripts. They were narrative commands: metaphors wrapped in plot devices, allegories binding skills to theme.

[Trait Acquired: Plot Immunity – Lv. 1]You resist minor narrative twists that alter your fate. Plot armor intensifies based on reader engagement.

[Skill Acquired: Author's Reversal]Once per arc, you may undo a death by rewriting the consequence into a dream, prophecy, or alternative memory.

[New Stat Unlocked: Word Count]The longer your contribution to the world's story, the stronger your existence becomes.

"Is this… breaking the fourth wall?" Elric asked in disbelief.

"No," the Librarian replied. "You've already broken it. Now, you are writing from beyond it."

Later that night, Elric sat in the moonlit chamber atop the library tower. The stars blinked like curious eyes, as if they were also watching the story unfold.

He scribbled in his notebook—his real one, not the magical tome—trying to plan what came next. The early arrival of Kael meant the other supporting characters would also arrive early. Allies he hadn't met yet. Betrayers he hadn't suspected. Arcs that hadn't matured.

Every word he wrote, the world seemed to listen.

He wrote:

"Kael arrives in a broken carriage, dragged by iron beasts. His rage is not yet full—he is still searching for the Sword of Denial."

And somewhere far off, a chariot thundered across the shattered plains, pulled by mechanical golems. A man with fire in his eyes looked at the stars.

"Who dares alter my entry?" Kael snarled. "This… is not my scene."

Back in the library, Elric felt the pressure mount. His heart pounded, not with fear—but with narrative tension.

Every chapter, every moment now felt deliberate.

No random encounters.

No coincidences.

He was inside a book… but also crafting it as he walked.

And deep inside, something awakened—an instinct not of a reader, but a writer.

He knew how arcs worked.

He knew how tension built.

And he knew one rule above all:

The author always leaves a way out.

He had to find it.

As dawn broke, a silhouette entered the library—a girl with ash-grey hair, eyes like ink blots, and a blade that looked like a broken pen.

"Who are you?" Elric asked.

"I'm the Editor," she said. "And you're writing too fast. The story is cracking."

He gulped.

She smiled.

"Let's fix it—together."