Chapter 8 — The Sin You’ve Inherited

The Author watched, faintly amused, as the man fought to remain upright. Simply standing lanced agony through his limbs; each breath snagged halfway, locking his body in knives.

He—nameless, severed even from the faint solace of identity—shifted a foot. At once the cosmos seemed to tremble, and a merciless orchestration of pain crashed through every nerve from skull to fingertip, from spine to trembling toes.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" The author asked.

He tried to speak, but no words would escape his mouth, his vocal cords felt like they were on fire, burning from the inside out.

"Give me... back..." He croaked, each word was like a knife twisting in his throat. The pain was excruciating, but he refused to let it consume him.

The Author chuckled, his laugh was like nails on a chalkboard, grating and harsh, making his ears bleed, the drops trickling down the side of his face, staining his clothes, dripping onto the floor with an echoing thud, splattering like paint, the crimson puddles spreading and growing, their reflection mocking him.

—He was powerless.

"Your cat? Your friends? Your name?" the Author sneered, "You should be thankful that I cannot directly harm you, there. Honestly, if not for the rules of my game, you'd already be dead, and all of this would've ended in a boring anticlimax."

His world was spinning, the colors blending, bleeding together until they were an indistinguishable blur.

"And, here you are...Still playing the martyr, taking the toll that these two friends of yours should've paid. You're really a masochist, aren't you?"

And in his powerlessness, he and the Author made an agreement: to endure the weight of Basim and Jean-Baptiste's suffering. No, it wasn't a pact, it was more of a wager.

Below them, the chessboard became a reflection, showing Basim and Jean-Baptiste, struggling through whatever the Author's machinations had put them through. One, trapped in a cathedral of fear and isolation. The other, lost in a battle against himself, the most dangerous adversary. They had to fight the demons of their past to save their lives.

They had to fight their own selves, to overcome the fears and doubts that plagued their hearts, to conquer their weaknesses, and emerge victorious.

Basim had no issues, of course, but Jean-Baptiste struggled.

This way, Jean-Baptiste was saved, and he endured the pain in his stead.

But it wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough to satisfy the hunger of the beast, and so, it feasted on him, bit after bit, tearing into his soul, devouring his essence, leaving nothing but a broken husk behind.

The Author couldn't harm him here but, he never said anything about the idiot's hurting himself, now, did he? The fool, taking on such a heavy burden. Truly, this was the most entertaining thing the Author had seen in ages. How would this man's life end? What would his friends think when he died here? What would She do? All these possibilities were tantalizing and he wanted to see each of them play out, and more, to watch this weakling struggle against the inevitable.

"You are pathetic. There are so many ways for you to break this curse, to regain the upper hand and get out of this mess. And, yet, here you are, crying and whining about a few bruises. I'm starting to regret this decision, honestly."

"Who's crying?" the Nameless asked, defiantly meeting the Author's gaze.

"You've got quite the look in your eye. You think that just because you're not shedding any tears, you're somehow stronger, better than me? Don't make me laugh. Your eyes betray your true emotions. They're filled with pain, and suffering. The broken shards of your soul are crying out, begging for an end. You're not brave, or strong. Just foolishly stubborn."

The Author was a monster, a parasite, feeding off the misery of others. But, even monsters have their weaknesses. He had to find his, and soon, or it would all be over.

And so, The One Without A Name, endured, driven by a will stronger than his broken body. He took a step, and another, and another, on the vastness that was the board, his steps were small, barely noticeable. The Author followed, watching with amusement as his victim staggered onward. Each movement brought fresh agony, and his mind screamed for relief. Yet, he pressed on, determined to reach the Author.

—Their collective anguish became his own.

In short, the Author was nothing but a cheater, and a liar. He hadn't specified what the Nameless would endure. He had assumed that it would only involve his two friends' suffering, not that of his readers', too. But it didn't matter, he was a fool, but a resolute fool.

The more people would see those lines that the Author wrote, the worse his pain would be, the heavier his load, the louder his screams, the weaker his body. The suffering would grow and fester within him until he was naught but a broken, empty shell.

Each stride was a defiance, a silent declaration of war against the cruel deity that had ensnared him.

Though, the loud audience had stopped laughing a long time ago. Everyone was quiet. Some were shocked. Others, in anticipation of what was to happen next. They all knew, deep in their bones, that they were about to witness an extraordinary spectacle. But no one wanted to be the first to make a sound, in fear that they would break the spell and shatter the delicate balance that hung in the air.

The Author said it, he couldn't directly harm him here, right?

So, what was stopping him from moving forward?

—Pain was nothing compared to the satisfaction of overcoming his oppressor. And, as he inched ever closer to his target, his spirit blazed brighter, an ember in the dark, ready to ignite into a conflagration.

He could feel their eyes on him, boring into him, reading him, dissecting him.

And, slowly he understood it, there was no wager, no bargain. He had given the Author exactly what the bastard wanted. He had given him a story to write about, an event that he could turn into a tragedy. A fool that he could play with, toy around, and twist. He had walked right into the Author's web, like a moth drawn to the flame.

"Is Madame Horloge your ally?" the Nameless choked out between his labored breaths.

"I've never heard of a 'Madame Horloge,'" the author said, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders, a sly grin spreading across his otherwise blank face. His expression remained inscrutable, a mystery to the Nameless.

"You know her. Don't pretend otherwise."

"Even if I did," the Author countered, his voice laced with disdain, "do you think I need allies?" The implication of his words was clear—he considered the idea beneath him, almost insulting.

The answer didn't surprise him, but the question wasn't asked to gain knowledge. Rather, it served to confirm a suspicion that had been lurking at the edges of his consciousness for a while now.

Madame Horloge had a certain enigmatic aura, an air of secrecy and knowledge that went beyond the superficial façade of an eccentric fortune-teller. From her cryptic warnings to her unsettling shop, there was an underlying layer to her presence, one that hinted at a much deeper, darker truth.

—How can a prisoner escape from their own cell?

—Simple: they don't.

With every step, the Nameless could feel the energy draining from him, the weight of the pain and the exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead weight. It was as though the very air itself was conspiring against him, pushing him to the brink of collapse.

And, the truth was, they weren't wrong. There was something strange about her, something otherworldly that sent shivers down his spine whenever he laid eyes upon her stitched, unmoving smile, or heard her speak of things no mortal being should ever have the right to speak of.

But, he always brushed it off because the lady was nice to him. Because she was kind and helpful.

"Are you saying you have no allies?" the Nameless managed to ask, his voice strained.

"Why should I need them? They're nothing more than a bunch of ants crawling on the ground, waiting for someone to stomp on them." A pair of eyes appeared, simply to twinkle with amusement, as though he were sharing a private joke with the Nameless, before vanishing into thin air once again. "Why bother? I can simply create a new world, with a new cast, and do it all over again."

The implications of this were terrifying, suggesting that the Author held the power to not only manipulate the characters and events in a single narrative, but also to rewrite entire worlds according to his whims.

"You're... a parasite."

"Aww, that hurts, truly. I've been called many names, but never a parasite," A mouth appeared, and the smile widened. The teeth, too white and too perfect, glinted in the light, casting an eerie shadow over his features, making him look like a predator baring his fangs at his prey. "But, you're wrong. I am an artist, and this," the Author gestured around, countless memories of worlds, and stories flashing around the both of them, "is my canvas."

Basim and Jean-Baptiste were strong. Stronger than him. In a lot of ways.

They proved it.

And, they were getting up.

"I'll let you in on a little secret," the Author's voice was a low, sinister whisper that echoed through the room. He leaned in, his breath hot against the man's ear, and the Nameless felt a cold, paralyzing dread creeping through him. "You're not the main character in this story."

—What?

He looked down. His body was fading away. It was flickering in and out of existence. And then, suddenly, his body was whole again. But, it was not his. It belonged to his younger self, a weak, and cowardly version of the person he was trying to be.

He fell to the ground, the force of his fall driving the wind from his lungs.

"Take a good look," the Author sneered, his lips curling into a vicious smile, "that's who you are, and that's all you'll ever be."

And, as the Nameless gazed upon his own visage, his reflection was distorted and warped, a mockery of the person he thought he was, or wanted to be. He couldn't discern the original anymore, only a vague outline of a face staring back at him.

"This is your reality. You don't exist. You're just a fragment, an echo of the person she used to be."

As the silence stretched, his hand pulled the deck of tarot cards…and the edges were soaked in his blood. The drops, which had already dried, were still visible. As if, in a way, his fate was written in the crimson stains that adorned the deck. The cards seemed to mock him, their images and symbols twisted into a cruel caricature of the truth.

With a shaky hand, the Nameless drew a card from the deck and stared at its illustration. He had drawn the ———————.

"I already know the price for gazing upon what I shouldn't have seen." He muttered to The Author's surprise.

"Is that so? Do enlighten me, then."

Then, in his last act of defiance, he threw the card in his hands to the ground, face down. It landed with a soft thud, the image concealed from prying eyes.

A hush descended on the onlookers, their gazes fixated on the fallen artifact.

For the first time since their arrival, the spectators could see a faint flicker of uncertainty in the Author's demeanor, as the card lay face down, its secrets hidden from all, including The Author.

With an arrogance that belied his fear, the Nameless opened his arms wide and heavensward, a defiant gesture to the Author and the universe, daring the very gods to strike him down. But his bravado was a façade, for in his heart, a storm raged, a maelstrom of emotion that threatened to tear him asunder.

A taboo came out from his mouth, and his words were a curse, a plea, a command to the forces that govern the cosmos, a desperate cry that his fate would be his own and not that of a mere pawn, subject to the whim and fancy of a higher power.

"But, what would be the price of taking the life of a God, I wonder?"

A whisper. So soft, so quiet that no one could hear. But they were meant for no ears, but his. Yet, they were heard, the sheer power contained within them shook the audience and caused the world around him to tremble. It was subtle, a vibration of the soul that set the very fabric of reality on edge.

All eyes were on that card. All of them. Waiting for him to turn it over and reveal its face.

"Price?" the Author asked, a note of derision in his tone, a slight tilt to his head, conveying his incredulity, "there's no price. Child, there is no currency high enough to purchase my ending. No sacrifice grand or small enough to weigh in the scale of the balance. There's no bargain or pact that can buy me, or sell me, or trade me. If there is a God above me that has the right to decide my beginning and end...then it is me. Myself."

Though, despite his grandeur, and his majesty, his face was locked on that card. That single card. His eyes, which had seen the death of countless worlds and stars, were focused on a simple card, a card whose value, a card whose importance, he didn't know.

"Rules, morals, laws, and physics," the Nameless said, a mocking lilt in his tone, his words cutting through the thick air like a blade. He raised an eyebrow in a challenging manner, daring the Author to contradict him. "Those things were designed for ants, not for gods, and definitely not for devils. But, a king will never kneel in front of the crown, will he?"

As he was disappearing, his form flickering, and wavering, as though on the verge of dissipating, a golden light emanated from his eyes—an otherworldly radiance that seemed to burn through his very being. He was fading, but not from the battlefield. His body was dissolving, his physical form disintegrating before their eyes. Yet, he wasn't gone—not yet.

His brown eyes turned gold.

And The Author took three steps away.

In the face of that impossible glare, even the great Author had no choice but to retreat, his arrogance replaced by a sudden and unwavering sense of caution.

For, those eyes were the one who taught Fear what terror was.

Her eyes. The eyes of that woman.

Those were the eyes of the one who nearly defeated The Author. Those were the eyes of an enemy of a god. Someone whose name could not be pronounced. And the way the kid was speaking, the way the aura around him changed, everything was reminiscent of her.

Her, the First One, and the only person the Author had ever feared.

Was it her?

Or, was it something that she had given him?

Whatever, the answer was the same: annoying.

That woman. Her, and her legacy were infuriating, irritating, vexing.

The card did not flip.

It trembled.

Not from wind—there was no air here. Not from fear—no emotion tainted its ink. It trembled the way a truth shakes just before being spoken.

The Author stared at it. No longer mocking. Just... watching.

"The Queen of a Thousand Broken Mirrors, huh?" the Author murmured, a hint of recognition, of respect, of fear, of anger in his voice, a voice that was usually devoid of any emotion, as if the mention of that name alone had awakened something primal and ancient within him.

"Always the same... You're truly an unkillable pest. An insect that never dies no matter how much I squash it."

"Look upon your face and despair. Or laugh. Or do whatever it is that gods and monsters do. It's been a while, Fear. Are you ready to lose, again?"

At the sound of that voice, The Author froze, his eyes fixed on the spot where the mirror had stood, and now, in the middle of that chessboard, a queen stood.

She had hair as dark as the void and skin as pale as snow. A crown rested atop her brow and her dress was made from a myriad of shattered mirrors. Eyes that were shards of molten gold. And, in her hands, she held a sword of broken reflections. And, in the center of the sword was an Archetype.

The Nameless, the man, was replaced by her.

She was beautiful. And, terrible. Like a nightmare that you couldn't help but love. Like a dream that was better off forgotten. Like the moon in the night. The most beautiful thing that you had seen and at the same time, the most terrifying thing that was there. Like a monster in a princess' body, and a princess in a monster's body.

She was both, at the same time. Both a nightmare and a dream, a monster and a princess. Beauty and terror.

And, she was standing in front of the Author. Not cowering, not begging, not kneeling, but standing.

"It's a shame, I can't kill you," the Queen lamented, her voice dripping with genuine regret, as she stepped forward, a queen in her full regalia, ready to fight the god that stood before her.

"And neither can I, you parasite." The Author took a step forward himself, meeting her challenge head-on.

"I seem to not possess my Archetypes, right now. Perhaps you have the answers?" Her question, coated in sarcasm and defiance, cut through the tension, slicing it like a blade through butter. "Well, insight shall be enough in this realm where you can't hurt me."

"Ah, yes, those toys that you left behind. I have to admit, they're rather entertaining. So many different stories and possibilities. It's like having a miniature theater of the absurd, where each player is unaware of their role in the grand scheme of things. As for hurting you..." He raised a finger and gently stroked the Nameless's face. A sharp sting, a line of fire across the cheek.

"I see. Is it because I replaced the boy?"

"No, that's not the reason." He waved his hand, the wound healing, the redness disappearing, leaving the Queen's cheek smooth and unblemished, as though no injury had occurred, "I just felt like it."

—Insight. What a powerful word. How many wars had been waged, how many kingdoms had been destroyed, all in search of a single piece of information that could have saved a thousand lives?