Cosmic Ruler - Chapter 563

Chapter 563: Arena II

The Blank Sky Pact was not about beginnings. It was about refusal. A pact forged not in hope, but in rebellion against the rewriting of truth. Aiden stood at its center, the Unwritten Blade sheathed across his back, burning with potential.

They knelt before him.

He did not ask them to rise.

He simply spoke.

“There’s an author now,” Aiden said, voice carrying like thunder across a world without air. “Not of stories. Of reality. One of the Outer Gods. She has no name—only a title: The Chronicle Mother.”

The Ash-Tongued Chronovore shuddered, and Aiden saw chains stretch into existence around his shoulders—the mark of having once served her, unknowingly, through the cycles.

“She pens entire civilizations from nothing,” he continued. “She makes false histories. False gods. She doesn’t invade.”

He looked at them all.

“She rewrites.”

And they understood.

If she succeeded, there would be no war to fight. No rebellion to stage. No truth to uphold.

Because there would be no memory left of what had ever been.

Only her version.

Only her story.

The Blank Sky Pact had one purpose now.

To march into the unwritten layers of existence.

To confront the Chronicle Mother before she sealed her lies in permanence.

And so, the Unscripted March began.

They marched across realms untouched by time, through worlds that bled meaning and echoed names that had never been spoken aloud. Each step they took brought paradoxes to life. Gravity inverted. Languages rewrote themselves mid-sentence. Memories stitched and unstitched within their minds.

The farther they went, the more Aiden understood: they were not marching across land. They were traversing narrative space.

The Chronicle Mother was writing as they advanced.

Entire continents reshaped themselves overnight. New nations rose in their wake, birthed from text inscribed across the stars. Aiden watched the constellations realign to spell fabricated histories—false pantheons painted in starlight.

He cut them down.

With every swing of his blade, the truth screamed.

And something screamed back.

On the fifth day of their march, the sky wept ink.

It rained in paragraphs.

Every drop a passage—false tales of Aiden’s failure, of the Pact’s betrayal, of the Outer Gods’ benevolence. It was not an attack.

It was a replacement.

Kaelria held her broken shield above her head and asked in a voice like thunder cracking in a tomb, “How do we fight lies written as truth?”

Aiden stared upward, letting the false histories splash across his armor, burning like acid.

“With truth that refuses to vanish,” he answered.

And they pressed on.

It was on the seventh day that the horizon bled.

An ocean of stories surged forward, carried on the backs of titanic scribes—fleshless things with quills instead of fingers, their skin parchment, their organs composed of ancient, undying fonts.

The Chronicle Mother had sent her Archivists.

They did not fight with swords or spells.

They redacted.

The first to fall was the Child of Null. One scribe stabbed her with a quill of obsidian, and her form unraveled—not with pain, but deletion. Her laugh was the last to vanish, like a glitch in reality.

But where she fell, the Ash-Tongued Chronovore unshackled his chains. He lunged forward, mouth still sewn shut, and devoured the words the scribes wrote, his body distorting with every bite.

He ate falsehood.

And in doing so, carved a path.

Aiden followed.

He leapt onto a scribe’s back, his blade cutting deep—not through flesh, but syntax. He severed the paragraph that gave it form. It collapsed in a rain of discarded letters.

The others roared.

Kaelria charged beside him, every swing of her shattered sword rewriting the wounds they inflicted. The Pact fought like nothing this false narrative had ever known—unpredictable, volatile, untold.

That was their strength.

They were the unwritten.

They reached the gates at the end of the Unscripted Road by the end of the eighth day.

Towering arches carved from punctuation loomed overhead, guarded by false gods, each created in mockery of truths Aiden had once known. There was a god of Justice, blind and loyal—crafted to make obedience virtuous. A god of Memory, who only remembered what the Chronicle Mother approved. A god of War who glorified surrender.

They stepped forward with holy chants written across their faces.

Aiden did not let them speak.

He struck the god of Memory first, cleaving through the concept of permission. The being froze—then crumbled as forbidden truths poured out of its form.

He turned to the god of Justice and whispered a name never written.

“My brother,” Aiden said. “He died so I could live. And your story erased him.”

Then he struck.

The god of Justice shattered with a sound like a thousand gongs breaking.

Finally, the god of War knelt—not in surrender, but in acknowledgment.

“You are not of her pen,” it said. “I see now. You are the hand that tears the page.”

The gates opened.

And there, within a palace made of living script, stood the Chronicle Mother.

The sky above was blank.

Not empty—blank.

A perfect, unmarred expanse where stars once lived. Where time once flowed. Where stories once found their path forward.

Aiden stood at its edge, boots pressed into silver soil that shimmered with latent memory. The lands here didn’t belong to any world. They were the interstitials—the connective tissue between erased timelines, buried truths, and forgotten gods.

Behind him, the Blank Sky Pact waited.

Their faces were unfamiliar to the cosmos, but not to reality’s wounds. Each being was a remnant of a story that had once tried to matter. A warlord who rose in a timeline that was devoured before he could ever fight. A child who dreamed of dragons in a reality where dreams were forbidden. A beast that once ruled a jungle that had never existed.

They were fragments.

But together, they were whole.

And now, they marched.

The war was not over. The Eye was sealed, yes. The Herald of Annihilation had fallen. Fate was severed.

But from the fracture… something worse had begun to bleed.

The Chronicle Mother.

One of the last true Outer Gods.

She did not erase.

She rewrote.