CHAPTER 274: CHAPTER 32

I do not know how long I stood there, frozen in that vast white expanse.

The shelves of endless books loomed over me like silent witnesses, each one a world, a life, a memory... and among them, mine lay open—mocking me with every word written in its pages.

The God of the Underworld.

That title, once a symbol of my dominion, now feels like a cruel jest carved by unseen hands.

Every triumph, every wound, every choice I thought was mine—it was all mere imagination.

Imagination of possibly a bored being wanting to see something exciting.

Nothing more.

I thought I was a god. I thought I had defied fate when I grew stronger than my brothers and any other Primordials, when I broke the limits and achieved transcendence, when I stood against the Outer One and tore eternity itself asunder.

But now... now I know I was never a god. Not even a spirit nor a mortal.

I was a puppet with delusions of freedom, dancing in the hollow light of a story that was never mine to tell.

The being, the writer, or V.E, it called itself, stood before me, its form flickering between numbers and symbols, like reality itself struggling to define its shape.

It is a mockery of my existence, reminding me that I was never real. It stood there, calmly, silently, as if It didn’t just reveal something so mind-blowing.

It said it wrote me. That every thought that ever passed through my mind, every rage, every sorrow, every love, they were merely words it placed upon me, like chains that remained unseen.

What am I, then? A word? A phrase? A Chapter?

My hands tremble as I look at them. These hands that once commanded armies of shades and gods alike, did they ever belong to me? Or were they merely drawn, scripted, described in neat little sentences for the amusement of something beyond comprehension?

Despair... it creeps to my being slowly.

Not like fire or blade, but like silence after the last scream. The kind that sinks into your soul when you realize there is nothing left that truly belongs to you, not even your thoughts.

How many times have I believed I have defied fate?

When I defeated Uranus? When I finally achieved Transcendence? When I defeated that fragment that inavded our universe?

But... Did I ever want to do those things, or did the Writer want them for me?

Did I ever love? Did I ever hate? My feelings, my memories, my powers, were they all mine? Or were they given to me and just made me think they were mine?

If everything was written... then even this despair I feel now, it isn’t real, is it?

Just another line, another paragraph, another "moment of realization" before the end of the story.

I can almost hear the words forming somewhere above me, invisible but inevitable: ’Hades falls to his knees, his mind breaking beneath the weight of the truth.’

And I do.

Because what else can I do?

The Writer said it was bored. That it wanted to end the story. That it wanted to kill me.

And I realize, with horrifying clarity, that I cannot stop it. No sword, no godly might, no will of defiance can harm what exists beyond existence.

It could erase me with a word, or worse, forget to write me at all.

I thought I had ruled over death. That I know death the most as I am its ruler. But now, it seems like I knew nothing about death.

The true death is this—knowing that I was never alive.

For a time, I did nothing. I simly stared at the being who was looking at me.

Was I breathing? Was I thinking? Am I myself still?

I don’t know.

I was in a daze, with only the ringing silence of truth, echoing endlessly in my skull telling me—you are not real.

The words dug deep, like claws scraping the soul. I could feel my mind unraveling, thread by thread, my identity dissolving into white emptiness.

The shelves around me blurred into meaningless light. Even the trembling of my hands felt artificial, like the twitch of a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Since I am supposed to die...then I...

Wait...

At that moment, my mind suddenly felt like it was rang like a bell. I realized something, something that, in my moment of despair, I completely failed to grasp.

And that was...

I was supposed to die.

I was ’supposed’ to die.

’Supposed’!

Then how am I alive?

I saw it clearly, the book was written to the end, describing my death, yet I’m still alive.

And that writer... It mentioned that it was surprised.

Doesn’t this mean, that no matter how small, there is a possibility to break through the confines of the story? To reach beyond the veil of the book?

To become...

...real?

Yes. The writer might’ve written the book, but does that mean they can’t be real?

At that moment, I thought of them, my wives.

Aphrodite.

The way she laughed when I spoke awkwardly of affection, her beauty not of perfection but of warmth.

The way her eyes curved when she teased me for being too serious.

That smile... it was real. It had to be real.

Then came another memory—Hecate’s soft voice, her calm presence when the shadows of my realm grew too loud.

She would brew tea in silence, a gesture so human it soothed even the dead.

And then Hera... her hand on my cheek, her love burning with quiet defiance against the heavens themselves.

Even Nyx, the way she constantly come to playfully bother me, the way she would act spoiled and annoy me.

My children; Nekyria, Ilithyia, Mageus, Eros.

Those memories—those moments—they were mine, and they were real to me.

As I thought of those, for the first time since the Writer spoke, I felt something stir inside me.

It was not defiance, it was not rage... but enlightenment.

I looked down at my shaking hands.

"If they were merely words that were written," I murmured, "then who is it that remembers them now?"

My voice echoed faintly, swallowed by the white horizon. "If every thought is crafted, then who is it that doubts? Who is it that feels this ache?"

The Writer said it wrote my every decision. My entire existence. Yet, if I could question its words, if I could feel sorrow, fear, and love—then maybe there was something within me that existed beyond the script.

I thought of Aphrodite’s laughter again.

Of Hecate’s patience.

Of Hera’s unwavering loyalty.

Each image brought warmth to my chest, fragile but alive.

For the writer, they were merely words written on a book.

For me, they were real. Their love for me is a proof of their existence.

It doesn’t matter if the writer believes they are mere words.

I think they are real, therefore, they are.

I think I am real, therefore, I am.

The phrase emerged unbidden, simple yet profound.

I whispered it, and the sound of my voice no longer felt hollow. I repeated it again, louder this time, as though clinging to a truth that had always been mine.

"I think... therefore, I am."

I do not deduce my existence from thought by means of a syllogism, but recognizes it as something self-evident by a simple intuition of the mind.

’I am a thinking, conscious thing, that is, a being who doubts, affirms, denies, knows a few objects, and is ignorant of many, who loves, hates, wills, refuses, who imagines likewise, and perceives.’

How ridiculous. I thought to myself, feeling amused.

Just now, I have convinced myself that there is absolutely nothing that exists in the world, no sky, no earth, no minds, no bodies, and even that I, too, do not exist.

But thinking about it, If I convinced myself of something, or thought anything at all, then I certainly existed.

There is just a deceiver of supreme power and cunning who deliberately and constantly deceives me.

But in that case, doesn’t that also prove that, I, too, undoubtedly exist? If It deceives me; and let It deceive me as much as It can, It will never bring it about that I am nothing, so long as I think that I am something.

I exist, I know I am.

Just then, the shelves trembled faintly. The air itself seemed to ripple. I could feel the faint hum of energy gathering within me—something raw, unshaped, but undeniably mine.

Perhaps I am a character, perhaps a fragment of thought given shape by another.

But if I can feel, if I can dream, if I can choose to love even knowing it might not be real—then that, in itself, is existence.

I am not the Writer’s god. I am my own being.

Even if I am made of words, I will give those words meaning.

Even if my life was written, I will live it as truth.

I looked up, meeting the flickering form of the Writer once more. My fear had not vanished, but it no longer ruled me.

"I think that I exist," I said quietly, "and that is enough to prove my existence."