Chapter 9 - Chapter 1.9: Corridor of Memories

𝟏.𝟗: Corridor of memories

Cassie's perspective

𝐈 didn't hesitate to take Nylos' hand this time.

The transition that followed was unlike anything I'd ever felt. One moment, I was bracing for another magic show, gripping his hand for dear life—and the next, the world around us dissolved like ink in water.

When I opened my eyes again, the air felt cold and shallow.

We were standing in a vast, pitch-black corridor, quiet as a graveyard. The space stretched on endlessly, and far ahead, a single door stood lonesome in the distance.

There were no walls in the traditional sense—just a dense, infinite void, much like the one I'd passed through before entering Laos' door.

But unlike that place, this darkness wasn't entirely devoid of light. Here, it shimmered faintly with scattered beams of color. I couldn't name them at first, but then realization struck.

These were… memories.

Glowing, holographic echoes hovered like stardust in motion, illuminating the otherwise dim corridor.

Scenes flickered to life around me: a grand ballroom lit in gold, a woman with tear-streaked cheeks staring into a towering mirror, a sword clutched in a trembling, bloodstained hand.

As I walked forward, each memory played out in haunting detail before dissolving back into the dark, only to be replaced by the next.

The woman in those scenes… she felt strangely familiar. Her face, those moments—they stirred something in me, like half-remembered dreams slipping through my fingers.

I could hear the cogs turning in my mind, louder with every step, until everything clicked at once.

Holy sh☆t. It was her.

Elysia de Valmont.

My breath caught as another scene bloomed before me: a younger Elysia, maybe sixteen, standing barefoot on a balcony, her silvery-white hair tossed by the wind. She looked so real, I could almost reach out and touch her.

Nylos, I whispered, not taking my eyes off her. What's she doing here? She's from a novel I used to obsess over. These are her memories. I remember these scenes.

I turned to him, disbelief rising in my chest. What are a fictional character's memories doing in here? Is this some kind of joke?

And then the worst thought struck me.

My voice cracked. Wait… don't tell me I'm getting reborn as her?

Nylos' expression softened, but the weight behind his nod was unmistakable. "She's your new vessel. Yes."

I froze. No way. No way in hell. What are you talking about? She's not even real!

Panic lodged itself in my throat. Nylos, I thought you were giving me a chance to be reborn in my world—not as some made-up character from an unknown author!

I took a step back, heart thudding. This makes zero sense. I demand an explanation.

Nylos didn't answer right away.

For a long moment, the corridor felt still—eerily still. The memories shimmered and shifted around us, but he remained silent, his scarlet eyes fixed on them. Gold flickered at their center like drifting fairy dust.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

"You're right," he said. "Elysia was created by an author in your world. But once her story was imagined… once her world took root in your heart and in the hearts of others—it gained substance beyond fiction."

He raised a hand, and one of the holograms—Elysia dancing beneath a rainy sky—floated toward him. He smiled gently at it.

"I don't choose just any stories, Cassandra. I choose the ones that left an imprint on the soul I'm guiding. Stories that meant something to them." He turned to me. "Because those worlds, those characters… they don't just disappear when the book closes."

"They exist, independent of your realm. You think they're fictional because you saw them on a page. But to me—and to gods who see beyond your world's boundaries—those stories are entire dimensions."

My lips parted, but I couldn't find words.

"Why do you think I chose this story?" he continued, stepping toward another memory—Elysia, older now, cradling a small bundle, kissing the tiny face nestled within. "Because you already know parts of it. You've lived in that world through its pages. You understand its rules, its people… and most importantly, its tragedies."

He looked at me again, eyes steady and grave.

"And that means you have a chance to change it."

But how? I whispered, incredulous. How are you able to turn stories into reality?

There was a pause—then a quiet, powerful answer.

"Because I'm the son of the Sun god," he said. "The god of creation."

"I inherited a fraction of his power—the ability to breathe life into things once imagined. Not vast realms like Helion, but smaller, isolated, self-contained worlds. The kind authors create. I can make them real."

He walked past another echo—Elysia collapsing in a garden of wilting roses, clutching a bloodstained letter—and exhaled softly.

"These stories become sanctuaries for the souls I guide. With them in their hearts… they're given a second chance. A chance to rewrite a fate they already know."

He turned to face me fully, his expression unreadable.

"Cassandra, you know how Elysia's story ends. You remember what she lost. Why she fell."

I swallowed hard. That's the thing. I didn't know. I didn't know why she had to die—why her own son murdered her.

The book stopped updating after chapter 150. That was shortly after Elysia was sentenced to death in front of the whole empire. It wasn't like I had access to the author's drafts. I couldn't predict what came after that point.

I was as clueless as every other reader.

And Cassian was an unpredictable psychopath. Just the thought of being related to him chilled me to the bone.

I forced my voice to stay firm. You're right about one thing. I do know how her story ends. She dies. Miserably.

But that was just her story. In case you don't know, Elysia wasn't even the protagonist. Cassian and his female lead were. The story continued without her.

"I know," Nylos said softly. His crimson eyes dimmed with sympathy. "But you have the power to change all of it. That's why you were chosen."

What do you even mean by that, Nylos? It felt like he was trying to tell me something he couldn't say aloud.

Another memory lit up beside me: Elysia, kneeling in a cathedral, her face hollow with grief, sobbing quietly into her hands.

I felt my heart sink.

I couldn't do this. She… she was just like me. She lived a life full of pain. And I wasn't trying to step back into misery—I was trying to escape it.