CHAPTER 265: THE FORGOTTEN KING

The crystallized writing surface shattered like a dying star, its fragments dissolving into motes of silver light that scattered across the fractured dimensions. The countdown had reached zero, the cosmic competition was over, and reality itself seemed to exhale in relief—or perhaps terror—at what Lio had written.

But instead of experiencing the aftermath of his narrative revolution, Lio felt himself falling.

Not through space, but through something far more intimate and dangerous: memory.

The last fragments of Reed’s shattered soul had been waiting for this moment, when the barriers between consciousness and story became thin enough to breach. As the cosmic entities above processed the implications of Lio’s meta-narrative, Reed’s broken memories pulled him into a realm that existed somewhere between thought and experience.

Welcome to the place where I keep the things too painful to remember while living.

Reed’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere, carrying harmonics of infinite regret. The memoryscape materialized around Lio like a slow-blooming nightmare—not violent or chaotic, but saturated with a sadness so profound it made his bones ache.

He stood in what appeared to be a vast library, its shelves stretching upward into infinity. But instead of books, each shelf held crystallized moments—memories preserved in amber-like constructs that pulsed with their own internal light. Some glowed warmly, radiating joy and triumph. Others flickered weakly, their light contaminated by pain or shame.

And some... some were completely dark.

The memories I couldn’t bear to keep intact, Reed’s voice explained as Lio approached one of the darkened crystals. The ones that shattered my soul before the cosmic competition ever began.

Lio reached toward the dark crystal, and the moment his fingers brushed its surface, the memoryscape shifted. The infinite library dissolved, replaced by a scene that made him stagger backward in shock.

He was standing in a small, crude village built into the side of a mountain. The architecture was rough but functional—stone houses with reinforced doors, watchtowers positioned at strategic points, weapon caches carefully hidden but easily accessible. It was clearly a settlement built by beings who expected to fight for their survival.

But it wasn’t the village that made Lio’s breath catch in his throat.

It was the inhabitants.

Goblins.

But not the savage, mindless creatures of legend. These goblins moved with purpose and intelligence. They carried themselves with dignity despite their humble surroundings. Children—actual goblin children—played games in the central square while their parents worked at forges and looms, creating tools and art with surprising skill.

And at the center of it all stood a figure that made Lio’s heart stop.

The Goblin Lord.

But this wasn’t the corrupted, power-mad entity that Reed’s stories had always portrayed. This wasn’t a monster to be defeated or a tyrant to be overthrown. This was a king.

He was tall for a goblin, his green skin bearing ritual scars that spoke of hard-won wisdom rather than random violence. His eyes—deep amber orbs that seemed to hold the weight of every difficult decision—surveyed his people with obvious love and fierce protectiveness. When he spoke, giving orders for the day’s defenses, his voice carried the authority of someone who had earned respect rather than taken it by force.

"The human settlements to the east are growing larger," the Goblin Lord was saying to his advisors—actual advisors, not cowering minions. "Their scouts have been seen near the lower passes. We need to decide: do we attempt diplomacy, or do we prepare for the inevitable war?"

One of the advisors, an elderly goblin female with intricate tattoos covering her arms, leaned forward. "My lord, the humans have never shown interest in peace with our kind. Every approach we’ve made has been met with violence."

"Because they see us as monsters," another advisor added, his voice heavy with bitter experience. "To them, we are nothing but vermin to be exterminated."

The Goblin Lord was quiet for a long moment, his amber eyes distant with thought. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of absolute conviction: "Then we survive. We protect our own. And we remember that their inability to see our worth does not diminish our value."

Lio felt tears streaming down his face before he even realized he was crying.

This wasn’t a monster. This was a father protecting his children. A leader trying to guide his people through an impossible situation. A king who had been painted as evil simply because his subjects weren’t human.

Do you see? Reed’s voice whispered through the memory, thick with pain that had festered for eons. Do you see what I did?

The scene shifted, time accelerating. Lio watched in growing horror as the inevitable war came to the goblin village. He saw human armies—proud knights and holy warriors carrying banners of righteousness—march up the mountain path. He watched them attack not military targets, but homes and schools and places of worship.

He watched the Goblin Lord fight with desperate courage, not for conquest or glory, but for the simple right of his people to exist.

And he watched Reed arrive.

Reed as he had been before the cosmic competition, before the fragments, before the breaking. Reed the Hero, Reed the Champion of Justice, Reed who had been told by every human authority that goblins were irredeemably evil and needed to be purged from the world.

Reed who had never bothered to question that truth.

The battle was magnificent and terrible. The Goblin Lord fought with the skill of a master warrior and the fury of a parent defending his children. But Reed was the protagonist of his own story, blessed with narrative weight and the certainty that he fought for the greater good.

When Reed’s blade finally pierced the Goblin Lord’s heart, the dying king’s last words weren’t a curse or a threat.

They were: "My... my children... please..."

Lio collapsed to his knees in the memoryscape, sobbing with a grief that felt like it was tearing his soul apart. "You killed him. You killed him for trying to protect his people."

I killed him because I was told he was evil, Reed’s voice cracked with anguish that had been building for untold centuries. I never questioned. Never investigated. Never tried to understand. I just... believed what I was told and acted on it.

The memory continued, showing Reed’s triumph. The cheering crowds. The medals and honors. The songs about the great hero who had slain the terrible Goblin Lord.

And then, much later, the moment when Reed finally learned the truth.

When he discovered that the "evil" goblin village had been a sanctuary for orphans and refugees from multiple species. When he found out that the Goblin Lord had been negotiating with human diplomats in secret, trying to establish peaceful coexistence. When he realized that everything he’d been told was lies designed to justify genocide.

That was the moment I broke, Reed whispered. Not from the cosmic competition. Not from reality tears or dimensional collapse. From the simple, unbearable knowledge that I had murdered a good king and condemned his innocent people to extinction.

Lio felt Reed’s presence growing weaker, the shattered soul using the last of its coherence to share this truth. Every story I told after that was penance. Every narrative I shaped was an attempt to create worlds where such misunderstanding couldn’t happen. Where heroes questioned their righteousness. Where monsters might actually be victims.

"Why show me this?" Lio managed through his tears.

Because your story—the one you just wrote—it gives narratives the right to compete. But competition without understanding just creates more Goblin Lords. More dead kings who only wanted to protect their children.

The memoryscape began to fade, Reed’s broken soul finally exhausting itself. But before it dissolved completely, Lio felt one last communication—not words, but pure emotion. A desperate hope mixed with terrible fear:

The Neutral Archivist isn’t neutral, Lio. It’s been shaping which stories get told and which get forgotten. The competition was never about finding the best narrative.

It was about finding someone powerful enough to challenge the Archivist itself.

The memory shattered, leaving Lio alone in darkness with the echo of Reed’s final warning:

And now that it knows what you’re capable of... the real game begins.