"Page 999 of 1000."
"Descent complete. Calamity Threshold surpassed."
"Execute Final Protocol: Genesis Collapse."
The voice wasn't human.
It echoed across the skies in a thousand fractured tongues—low, emotionless, recursive. It sounded like a prayer half-spoken by a dying god, stitched together by wires and black mist. Children heard it in their dreams, mothers in their wombs, priests in their broken faith. No one could agree on what language it used. But they all understood what it meant.
The world was ending.
Not with a bang. Not with fire.
But with a memory.
---
Lyon Asteris stood at the edge of the Tower of Ash—the last bastion of humanity's resistance. Below him, the world roiled in screaming light. The sky had opened, peeling back like burnt parchment. Cities folded into themselves, rivers twisted in reverse, and stars—oh, the stars—wept. They spiraled toward Earth, crashing in comet trails like bleeding angels falling from heaven.
Lyon's body was broken.
Blood pooled in the cracks of the sigils carved into his chest. The Calamity Codex hovered above his head, rotating like a miniature black sun. Pages fluttered in the void, inscribed with moving ink that didn't obey physics. They weren't bound by paper anymore—just laws. Old laws. Forgotten ones.
The Codex had opened itself fully now.
And every page screamed "Obey."
He clenched his jaw. One eye was blind from battle. His sword had long since shattered—its remnants embedded in the charred ground beside him. Around him, the corpses of heroes, gods, and monsters painted the ruins. And yet, none of it felt final. It felt... inevitable.
"Is this all I was?" he whispered to no one. "A vessel. A name to be used."
He looked at his hand. The Mark of the Calamity still glowed, its tendrils threading down his wrist like molten veins. Every time he blinked, he saw the number again.
999.
He had followed 998 orders from the Codex. He had done what it told him, slaughtered what it asked, devoured what it demanded. He had summoned death, broken kingdoms, shattered stars, and razed faith.
But the final page? He refused to read it.
Because it would end everything. And not just physically.
It would erase memory.
Erase the very truth of what humanity once was. Who they had become. What they had failed to protect.
---
"You hesitated," said a voice behind him. Familiar. Gentle. Cruel.
He turned.
Seraphine Dyer.
Alive. Still breathing. Hair slick with ash, her hands trembling as she held a blade forged from unholy prayers. Her armor was cracked, eyes hollow, lips chapped and bleeding—but she stood. Somehow, she always stood.
"You could've ended it all painlessly," she said, stepping closer. "Let the Codex finish its command. The world would reset again. Clean. No memory of this suffering."
Lyon's voice cracked. "I remember. That's enough."
Seraphine's gaze softened. "Is it?"
She lowered her blade.
"There's nothing left to save, Lyon. Just press your palm to the page. You won't feel anything. And next time—maybe we get it right."
He stared at her. Then at the sky. Then at the book.
He'd believed that once, too. That the Codex was a blessing. A chance to redo mistakes. A chance to erase sins. A gift from a god long dead. But now, all he saw was control. A recursive hell. A page that never stopped writing, even when the world begged for silence.
"This time," Lyon said, "we do something different."
Seraphine tilted her head. "What?"
He smiled—cracked lips curving weakly through blood.
"We don't turn the page."
---
The Codex flared.
Its black flame whipped into the sky like an inverted sun. Reality buckled. A system error echoed:
> "Deviation Detected."
"Last Heir Rejects Final Protocol."
"Consequences: Unknown."
"Initiating Forced Reset Override."
The world screamed.
And then—
Everything shattered.
---
Thirteen Years Before
Lyon Asteris woke up in his bed.
His sheets were soaked with sweat. The air outside was cold and still. Birds chirped.
The sky was whole.
There was no Codex.
No System.
No apocalypse.
Just his quiet village. Just an ordinary morning. Just a boy with a mark on his hand that shouldn't exist.
He stared at it—still there. Still glowing faintly red. And somewhere, in the back of his head, a voice whispered:
> "One last chance. Rewrite the Codex. Or die again."
Lyon didn't know how.
He didn't remember everything.
But he knew one thing:
The world had ended.
And this time… he wouldn't let it happen again.
---