Cosmic Ruler - Chapter 562

Chapter 562: Arena

The other writers, warriors, reflections—all blinked out of existence like lines struck from a failed manuscript.

The arena fractured.

The parchment sky bled black.

And Aiden—he stood alone, at the center of a page being torn in half.

But he didn’t fall.

The Quill burned brighter, protecting him from the unraveling with a shield of potential.

And in that silence, he wrote.

Not a sentence.

Not a spell.

A name.

“Elyxur.”

The Eye flinched.

The air rippled.

A thousand whispers exploded into screams.

Elyxur—the oldest of the Outer Gods.

The Authorless One.

The god who had no story, for it was said the act of recording it would destroy the page it was written on.

“You remember,” the voice snarled.

“You utter a name forbidden since the First Collapse.”

“You dare—invoke the Nameless?”

Aiden did more than invoke.

He began to write again.

His hand moved in defiance, forming runes on the empty air, each letter resisting the very laws of reality.

Every word he etched was like a hammerstrike to the veil separating multiverses.

And yet he smiled.

Because every time his hand moved, he felt the universe shudder.

He was no longer just a character.

He was a storyteller.

Suddenly, the Eye bled.

Thick ink poured from it, raining down like the tears of dead myths.

And from the rift it opened, a shape emerged.

Not a body.

Not even a form.

But intention.

A void that wore the shape of negation.

It spoke in contradictions, a thousand voices layered in reverse.

“You will be forgotten.”

“Your line ends here.”

“The Quill is stolen property of the Primordial Index.”

“Surrender or be unmade.”

Aiden didn’t reply.

Instead, he pointed the Quill at the entity.

And wrote only two words:

“Try me.”

The arena reformed—no longer broken, but rewritten.

Aiden’s rules now applied.

Causality bent.

Physics whimpered.

And the Eye, for the first time in a billion eons, felt fear.

The void-being attacked.

Reality screamed.

It clawed at Aiden, tearing away timelines where he failed, trying to overwrite his confidence with despair.

Aiden bled moments.

His arm cracked.

A thousand versions of his death flashed before his eyes.

But he kept writing.

Each wound a sentence.

Each scar a declaration.

He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t weak. Not anymore.

“I was once a pawn,” he said.

“A side character.”

“A mistake in someone else’s plot.”

“But now I am the author of your end.”

With a final stroke, he wrote a phrase:

“And the Eye closed… forever.”

The sky howled.

The rift collapsed inward.

The Eye blinked once more—then cracked like glass.

And then—

It closed.

Gone.

Sealed.

And Aiden stood in the silence that followed.

Breathing.

Alive.

Victorious.

But not finished.

He looked up at the blank sky.

It was truly blank now.

A page without story.

A canvas without brush.

A field waiting to be planted.

He raised the Quill once more.

“Time to build a new ending.”

The sky above Aiden was empty.

Not dark, not light.

Just… blank.

No stars. No sun. No echo of passing time.

A featureless canvas, as if the world had forgotten how to dream.

He stood at the edge of a world torn from time—fragments of landscapes, continents drifting like broken glass in a void sea. Each shard was a memory cast adrift, pieces of lives and civilizations erased from every timeline. These were not merely ruins—they were wounds in reality.

And Aiden, now the last true sovereign of narrative law, walked among them like a ghost.

He had sealed the Eye.

One of the Outer Gods.

But he knew better than to feel relief.

That was not a victory—it was a delay.

The others were coming.

Faster now.

Hungrier.

Aiden’s footsteps echoed on ground that didn’t exist moments before, a trail of golden ink and abyssal light bleeding from his heels. He had rewritten too much. The fabric of the world could barely hold itself together.

And yet…

He wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

A ripple spread from his presence, and across the fragmented realm, faint lights began to flicker. One by one, they awakened.

Forgotten beings.

Entities denied existence in every timeline, cast aside by the loom of fate itself.

Some had once been gods.

Others—monsters.

And some, things that defied names or forms entirely.

They came not out of loyalty. Not from worship.

But because Aiden had opened a door none of them could ever reach.

A door to choice.

A ripple passed again. Not through the land. Through reality itself.

And in its wake, the first of them stepped forward.

A shape took form amid the haze, walking through spirals of smoke that sang with forbidden memory. A towering figure, clad in scales of glass and wings folded like pages in a burned book.

“Aiden,” it rumbled, voice like a storm biting into parchment. “I remember you. Even though I should not.”

Aiden turned. His sword was gone—dissolved into the quill now bound to his hand. The Quill of Final Edit, inscribed with the last law: “What is written can be unwritten.”

“I remember you too, Saerach,” Aiden said quietly.

The being inclined its head. “Then you truly are unbound.”

Others followed.

A woman carved from obsidian stars, her eyes two supernovae. A machine from a universe that never reached ignition. A child whose laughter rewrote time.

They came.

Forgotten kings.

Lost gods.

Dreams that died before creation.

A council of the unremembered.

Aiden stood at the center of it all, surrounded by what reality had buried.

“We are at war,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But not against a kingdom. Not a nation. Not even time.”

He raised the quill. Golden lines began to form in the sky.

“Our enemy is everything that devours truth.”

Far above, in the blank sky, cracks began to spread.

Not because of Aiden.

But because the Outer Gods had noticed.

The Eye had fallen.

The Architect of Forgotten Things had risen.

And now, the veil that kept them at bay was failing.

Across the blank horizon, silence broke as a scream—a scream that wasn’t heard, but remembered. The kind that echoed through your bones even before you were born.

One of them was trying to breach.

Aiden turned to the gathering of impossible souls. “If you stay, you make a choice—to defy oblivion.”

“And if we don’t?” asked the child whose laugh had once ended empires.

“You vanish. Fully and truly,” Aiden said. “Erased from even the places you were never meant to exist in.”

The child laughed again, but this time, it was a sound of joy. “Then I’d rather fight.”

The pact was made.

The first strike of resistance carved in silence.

Aiden held the quill before him and drew the first line of the Pact in the sky. It shone in both ink and flame.

The Blank Sky Pact.