Chapter 19 : Blood Contracts & Broken Scripts

The crowd fell silent as I raised the Veilworks contract-still bleeding where l'd signed it in my own blood.

[Because fuck subtlety.]

"I was created," I said. "Now watch me unmake us all."

…..

I stood before the crowd, heart hammering like a prison bell. The plaza's stone benches sparkled with holy residue from Aurek's "resurrection." Torch-sconces flickered in the dawn chill.

[Status: Prepare for audience feedback. Glyph running sentiment scan… dread is high.]

"People of Vesche," I began—voice clear, practiced, human. No prop lighting. No magic. Just me.

Gasps rippled. Cultists wept. Nobles straightened. The Queen watched from her balcony, skin pale but proud.

I held the Veilworks contract in one hand—a simple paper, burned at the edges, stained with my blood from the cut I gave it yesterday. [Why blood? Because bleed sells. Also, personal flair.]

"I am not your prophet," I said. "Nor your saint."

Silence. You could've heard a confession drop.

"But I am your mirror."

And then:

"I was created. Iterated. Reshaped. Erased. And reborn."

Murmurs grew to shouts, some to cheers. New fear, new hope.

A man in the crowd yelled, "Liar!" A woman wept, "Godless!" A child sniffed—"Are we in trouble again?"

I raised my hand.

"My path is my own. And so is yours."

...…

Later, we convened in the throne library, Queen Ilyra and Cassidy flanking me. Tapestries, grim-old prophets, and that glazed stag head judged us.

Cassidy leaned in: "You really revealed everything?"

I nodded. "If I want real control, I can't hide in illusions."

Ilya rubbed her temple. "Trust is fragile."

"Then prove it."

Cassidy laid out a new plan: enlist Veilworks defectors—escaped extras, camera-wranglers, sound-coders—people who saw the scripts break.

[Idea: Shadow Resistance angle.]

They could help thread us out of the Iteration.

"But we need the Audience," Cassidy continued. "He's converging on Aurek's debt. If we reclaim Aurek's body, half the script collapses."

I gulped. "That… that's full-bore counter‑magic."

Ilya gave a thin smile. "Then do it."

...…

That night, I found the Queen alone in the balcony garden. Vines twisted over empty fountains and broken gargoyles.

"Did we break too much?" she asked, voice quiet. "Will they forgive me?"

I took her hand, warm.

"You gave them truth. That's harder to forgive."

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

"And the Audience?"

"Will come for me. For you."

She sighed.

"Then we're officially at war."

Her eyes glittered in torchlight.

Her fingers trembled against mine

-not from fear, but fury. "They took my son. Now we take their ending."

...…..

A knock echo in the library.

Cassidy opened the door.

No one stood there.

A scroll lay at my feet. Sealed. No symbol.

I broke the wax.

Inside:

"Cancellation Clause Executed. Performance terminated."

[Oh great—death by contract termination.]

And beneath, in fine print:

"Redeemer or rogue. Script ends at nightfall."

I swallowed.

Glyph chimed: [Timecode unsynced. Standing by for death cue.]

The plaza clock tower chimed midnight. Lights snapped off. The world went dark. Audience unsure if plot resets—or Jeremy dies.

...…

...…

...

...

...

The world didn't fade. It snapped.

One second I was standing in the library—then the lights cut, silence fell, and every torch across Castle Vesche vanished like snuffed candles.

[Time-of-death: ~00:01 a.m. But no vital collapse yet.]

I wasn't alone.

Shapes moved.

Not people.

Not guards.

Shadows with direction.

I pulled the Veilworks contract from my coat. Its ink glowed faintly in the dark—still burning with residual glyphwork.

"Glyph—visuals?"

[Scrambling. You've got blackout fog, anti-memory fields, and… oh goodie, recursive projections.]

A shape detached from the dark. Pale skin. Familiar eyes.

Not a reflection.

Not Audric.

Me.

Wearing my pre-isekai face. Studio shirt. Stage makeup. Wide, dead eyes.

He held a dagger. The dagger wasn't steel—it was folded pages from my audition scripts, edges glistening with ink that smelled like copper and rejection.

"You said it wrong," the echo hissed. "The final line. You improvised."

The air around me flickered.

Script segments appeared mid-air: lines I'd delivered, variations I hadn't approved, possible deaths redacted by budget cuts.

I backed away.

"I broke the scene. That's the point."

The echo lunged.

...

We fell through overlapping projections.

Stone became curtain. Garden became green screen. Castle walls flickered between scaffolding and foam.

I ducked the echo's blade, grabbed a prop from thin air—a wooden shield from Fall of the Magelords. My old series.

[Prop Master use detected.]

I blocked the strike—but splinters tore across my arm. The dagger wasn't fake.

[Confirmed: Echo is wielding a meta-weapon. Literal script-killer.]

I shape-shifted.

Ten seconds of Audric's full voice, twisted into battle-gravel.

[Method Actor active. Memory bleed at 4%.]

"Stop narrating me," I snarled, voice echoing.

"Stop improvising," the echo shot back.

We crashed through layers of stories: a courtroom drama where I played the accused, a reality show pilot that never aired, a fantasy adaptation I quit halfway through.

Each world bled into the next.

The Audience was watching.

Not a person. A presence. Every camera lens tingled. Every line felt recorded.

"Glyph—how do I kill myself?"

[Very carefully.]

I grabbed a lighting rig that wasn't supposed to exist—an old friend. A relic.

And I used it to break the frame.

...…..

The studio snapped.

All illusions died.

And I stood in a ruined cave again, under the Wyrm's Mouth.

Blood on my hands.

The echo vanished.

The script-killing dagger hit the ground, crumbling to pulp.

Cassidy stumbled into view—blinking like she'd just come out of cryo.

"What did you do?" she gasped.

"Broke the fourth wall."

She looked at the Veilworks scroll, still glowing faintly.

"You triggered the Endscene Clause."

A silence.

Not peaceful.

Waiting.

Then the canyon began to hum.

Not from machines.

Not from gods.

From memory.

Glyph whispered, voice lower than usual:

[They're rewriting.]

"The world?"

[The canon. The entire narrative. You're no longer a main character. You're a wild card.]

The river below shimmered.

Figures began to rise.

Not undead.

Not ghosts.

Castaways.

Every version of me that didn't make the final cut.

All of them looking up.

Smiling.

And walking toward me.

...

Cassidy pulled me back.

"We have to go!"

"They're me," I whispered.

"They're dead. You're not. Choose."

I turned to run—and saw the Queen above, her balcony dissolving into code.

She made eye contact.

Held up the relic from Chapter 5—Mercy's Timer.

It ticked once.

Then stopped.

[That's a countdown. One moment left.]

I grabbed Cassidy's hand.

We ran.

As the canyon rewrote itself behind us-stone dissolving into light, the river boiling with every Jeremy that never was.

END OF THE CHAPTER 19