After an afternoon weighed down by unease and ill omens, the group had finally gathered in Arsh's study—a cramped room with walls covered in ancient world maps, occult engravings, and artifacts that looked as though they had never belonged to this Earth.
The atmosphere was different now.
The dim overhead light flickered weakly, as if reluctant to illuminate what was about to unfold.
Even the birds outside had gone silent.
Time no longer flowed; it hung… or twisted.
Chloe, who had been restraining her curiosity all day, sat tensely. Her eyes fixed on Arsh as he moved slowly toward an aged wooden cabinet.
"Arsh, where's the book?" she asked, her voice dry—like a whisper pulled from the edge of a nightmare.
Without a word, Arsh opened the cabinet, its wood older than the house that held it. With deliberate care, he pulled out Sefer Mezuyaf—the dust-laden book that seemed to throb faintly in his arms, as if it held a heartbeat of its own.
"Here it is," he murmured, reluctantly handing it to Chloe.
The moment she opened the first page, the temperature in the room dropped sharply—like the cold breath of something old, melting into the whispers of unread words.
On the first page was written:
"האם אתה בטוח שהאל שאתה סוגד לו לא נברא על ידי ישות גבוהה בהרבה?"
"Are you certain that the god you worship was not created by something far greater?"
Silence.
Even the ticking of time seemed to halt.
"Of course," Yoru replied, trying to lighten the mood. "If you weren't sure, why worship it?"
His tone tried to be casual, but his eyes refused to meet the page.
"Chill, Yoru. It's just the first page," Von said, placing a firm but uneasy hand on his shoulder.
"Keep reading, Chloe," whispered Aria. Her curiosity had begun to freeze into a brittle anxiety.
Chloe, hand slightly trembling, turned the page.
"העולם בו אתם חיים לצד משהו אינסופי, כדור הארץ או מה שנקרא מציאות, הוא עולמם של הקוראים והכותבים."
"The world you live in coexists with something infinite. Earth, or what you call reality, is the domain of readers and writers."
"The world of readers and writers?" Arsh muttered, as though the phrase wasn't a metaphor—but a threat.
Von nodded suddenly, as though he understood something he never wished to.
"I know what it means," he whispered.
All eyes turned toward him.
"The world of readers and writers… it means our world—humans. We write fiction, read stories, watch films, imagine unreal worlds. A place where imagination and reality walk hand in hand. Maybe… we're not the center of anything. Maybe we're just fragments... narratives within a greater narrative."
Silence fell once more.
Reality itself began to feel like a hollow echo.
"Chloe, please," Arsh said softly. "Continue."
She nodded and read the second half of the page:
"ניתן לגשת לעולם הבדיוני דרך ישות המחזיקה מחברת בדיונית, המכילה גם בדיה מוגבלת וגם בלתי מוגבלת."
"The fictional realm can be accessed through an entity holding a fictional notebook, containing both limited and limitless fictions."
"Fiction?" Aria whispered, her eyes wide. "You mean... imaginary worlds?"
"Maybe worlds like anime, novels, donghua—things made by humans. But it's more than that…" Von murmured, walking slowly in a circle around the room.
Then he spoke words softer than breath.
Words that would seal their fate:
"That world contains all fiction—or more accurately, it is a notebook of fiction held by an unknown entity.
It holds all fiction—no matter how powerful, how infinite, how omnipotent, how transcendent, how absolute.
Even those who claim to surpass all fiction—those who claim to erase it back to unresistable, unopposable nothingness, who defy all defense—they too are merely fragments of fiction, scribbled into the pages of this entity's notebook."
In that moment, the Earth beneath them seemed to crack—without sound, without light.
Arsh vanished.
Not in a flash.
Not in noise.
He simply... ceased.
As if moved from one page to another by an invisible pen.
"Arsh is gone!" Yoru cried out in panic.
"This has to be related to the book!" Aria shouted, almost in tears.
"Stay calm," Von said, though his voice trembled. "Chloe... turn the next page. Quickly."
Her hands now cold as ice, Chloe opened to the third inscription:
"הנבחרים ידעו ויחקרו, והלא נבחרים פשוט ישתקו"
"Those who are chosen will know and investigate. The unchosen... will remain silent."
Chloe collapsed to the floor.
Her eyes vacant.
"We… we're not the chosen. Only Arsh. Only he can read further. Only he can walk beyond.
We… we are merely watchers in a tale far larger than the universe."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Only silence remained.
And far beyond the window, the sky seemed to crack—just for a second—like spilled ink across the canvas of reality.
The story… had only begun.
A false book, more real than truth itself.
Sefer Mezuyaf was no mere book.
It was a key.
Or perhaps... an escape.
Arsh awoke—not from sleep, but from reality itself.
As if the world he once knew had been rolled away like brittle parchment, replaced by something language could not describe.
He stood in the rift between dimensions—a place without direction, without time, without laws of nature.
Everything around him was constructed from words, phrases, and paragraphs floating in a gravityless sea—forming a landscape of pure narrative.
"This world... isn't physical," Arsh whispered to himself, his voice echoing off the grammatical structures of the sky.
"This world is composed of fictional narratives—even meta-fiction. I see stories, walking on their own.
The ones within them cannot see me… but I can see them," he murmured, his eyes widening as he watched characters interact in tales he had never read, never heard, but somehow… intimately knew.
He saw countless worlds.
Colors with no name.
Dimensions beyond description.
Every story—every variation—stretched out like a shoreless ocean of transcendent numbers.
"Every fiction that exists or ever will… is uncountable," Arsh muttered, nearly possessed.
"These narratives… they go beyond numbers. They are ℵ₀, ℵ₁, ℵ₂, ℵ₃… up to ℵ∞.
Infinite—and beyond even that..."
Then a voice emerged—not in air, but in consciousness.
It did not speak—it was simply known.
"Humans, compared to true reality, are nothing... mere ripples of an unknown pen."
"All fiction lies beneath me. It doesn't matter how grand, how powerful, how absolute.
Even those said to be beyond all systems and structures... even they are fiction.
And I am above them."
"No matter how far they rise to escape me... they remain fiction.
Even if they are called God.
For what is unreal… must always bow to what is real."
Suddenly, reality fractured.
A cataclysm of thought and form exploded through the narrative realm.
Not a battle of bodies, but of concepts.
A war between Prologue and Epilogue.
Two entities beyond description—beginning and end—collided.
They shattered narrative boundaries, devoured fictions and meta-fictions, and tore apart the very structure of existence that had yet to be written.
Arsh, insignificant and unseen, hid in a place that had no name—not even "place."
He was not part of the scene.
He was an error in the story.
An anomaly.
And then…
He was pulled from the notebook.
Folded. Absorbed. Torn through the final page by an incomprehensible force.
He opened his eyes.
And saw it:
A black shape.
Vast.
Formless.
It had no eyes, but he knew it was looking at him.
Not with sight… but with will.
"W-Who are you?" Arsh stammered.
"I am the False Author," the voice replied—each word collapsing Arsh's understanding of causality.
"What do you mean... I'm not supposed to be here?" he asked, trembling, curiosity fraying into madness.
"This is a world of fiction… even meta-fiction.
Those who claim to be beyond fiction, even authors who believe they are free of narrative…
are still part of my notebook."
"Every page contains ℵ₀ to ℵ₁, ℵ₂, ℵ₃… up to ℵ∞.
And the number of pages… is ℵ∞."
Despite his terror, Arsh asked:
"Can I ask… one more question?"
"Ask, mortal. I have more time than your entire reality combined."
"The battle inside your notebook… who are they?"
"They are two primordial entities: Prologue and Epilogue.
Cosmic rivals who will battle until the end of endings.
Their conflict is not mere destruction—it is erasure.
They are the beginning and closure of all stories...
Even the story of the end itself."
Arsh was silent.
One question remained, rising above his fear:
"Am I… truly trapped here?
Is there no way back?"
The False Author was quiet.
Then he lifted a hand—or something like one.
A gate appeared.
Not of light.
Not of shadow.
But of something unwritten.
"You may pass through," said the False Author.
"But this is only the first step.
The world beyond… is older, greater, and higher than anything you can comprehend.
I can only bring you this far."
Arsh gazed into the gate.
Inside, there was no color… no dark… only something that awaited a name.
"Thank you… for helping me," he whispered.
And without looking back,
he stepped forward.
And thus,
he left.
Toward a world with no end.
Toward a story that has not yet begun.
To be continued...