Aiden took one step beyond the Eighth Gate—and the world broke.
Not with sound.
But with silence so deep, it devoured thought.
One moment, he stood on sacred ground laced with eternity's whispers.
The next, he stood nowhere.
A realm between all realms.
An arena made not of stone, earth, or metal—but of pure narrative energy.
Stories bled into the air.
Fragments of gods' last words floated like dust motes.
Ideas screamed in slow motion, battling for shape and substance.
This was the Writer's Arena—a battlefield forged for one purpose:
To test whether a will could overwrite reality itself.
The sky wasn't sky.
It was pages.
Endless sheets of parchment, some burned, others blank, many filled with names—crossed out.
Some names were his.
Some he didn't recognize.
Some… were waiting for him to become them.
Beneath his feet, the "ground" shifted with every thought he had.
When he remembered a forest, grass sprouted.
