The universe screamed.
Not in sound, but in absence—as if entire galaxies had tried to cry out and were swallowed mid-breath.
The Null Choir's song reverberated across the Drift, collapsing low-tier realities like pages torn from an unfinished book. Each pulse of anti-harmony consumed not only matter, but meaning. Heroes, villains, histories—all devoured into silent extinction.
And still, the Choir sang.
The Helix Storm was barely holding together. Its shielding tech had no defense against philosophical assault. The hull groaned—not from pressure, but from being unwritten.
"We need to fall back," Lira urged. "Retreat to a core realm. Stabilize what we can. We can't face this head-on."
Elara clenched her fists. "If we retreat, they'll follow. This isn't a war we can win by running."
Korr slammed a fist into a bulkhead. "Then what? Sing back louder?"
Astra, pale and dazed, suddenly gasped. Her eyes glowed with drifting starlight—raw chronoflux pouring through her. "There's one chance," she whispered. "A place deeper than the Choir. A realm older than endings."
Elara turned sharply. "What are you saying?"
Astra met her gaze. "We find the origin. The First Word. The birthplace of narrative. Every multiverse was spun from it. Every song begins there."
Korr blinked. "You're suggesting we out-narrate the Null Choir?"
Astra nodded slowly. "Yes. Their song ends stories. But we can wield something more powerful—the story that began all others."
It sounded impossible.
Which made it their only option.
Using the Drift Core, Lira began configuring a jump—not to coordinates, but to a conceptual origin point, buried within the deepest strata of the multiverse's root code.
"You're asking me to punch through existence and land in a myth," she muttered. "This is either going to rewrite everything… or kill us in every possible version."
Korr grinned. "Well, at least I'll die interesting."
The ship jumped.
No light.
No motion.
Just a moment of nothing—absolute and total—followed by everything.
They emerged in a realm beyond scope.
It had no shape, no color. Yet it thrummed with presence. Reality here was still wet with creation. Words floated freely—disconnected ideas, unfinished thoughts, dreams unspoken. They coalesced into symbols and shimmered like stars.
A figure approached.
Humanoid in silhouette, yet faceless. Cloaked in shifting glyphs. It radiated ancient familiarity.
A voice echoed—not in sound, but in thought.
"You seek to preserve story."
Elara stepped forward. "Yes. The Null Choir is ending everything. We need to fight back."
"You are not warriors. You are authors."
The being stretched out its hand. From the void, it summoned a blade—not metal, but concept. A weapon forged from the First Word itself. A symbol of beginnings. Creation.
"Then write your resistance."
The blade floated to Elara's hand.
The moment her fingers closed around it, visions rushed through her. Every tale ever told. Every version of herself. Every reality. The multiverse didn't exist because it had to—but because someone dared to imagine it.
Korr blinked. "What the hell is that?"
Lira stared. "It's a Storyblade. A primal artifact."
Astra trembled. "We're not just fighting back. We're rewriting the end."
The Helix Storm powered up.
Behind them, the Choir howled louder.
But this time, they would answer.
Not with silence.
With story.