973 Episode 58 Myth-grade Constellation (5)

Countless lightning bolts struck the hall. Amidst the raging aftershock of probability, a battlefield several times larger than Mitra had envisioned manifested in the center of the hall.

Mitra, gazing into the churning void, muttered with a pale face.

Mitra's expression, once noble, transformed into that of a cornered demon. Sentences of probability poured from the sky like a deluge. They weren't mere interventions from a scribe or a nebula’s forced [Fate]. They were the natural order of the cosmos—the <Star Stream> itself.

The myth of Mitra's birth and death defied the natural order of the universe, but the impending odds were too powerful for the ancient myth to resist. Mitra's fingertips began to crumble into pale dust. He turned to me, his gaze heavy with humiliation.

With those words, Mitra's incarnation body was enveloped in a blinding halo of light.

"Wait—"

I reached out, but I stopped. It wasn't just Mitra. The surrounding constellations were also being engulfed in identical halos.

The constellations of the 'Hall of Golden Dice' were being forcibly transported.

"Kim Dokja."

Beside me, Anna Croft was fading. In the distance, Jung Heewon was running toward me, her form already dissolving into radiance.

"Dokja-ssi!"

And then, the light claimed me too. As I felt the world shift, the realization struck me.

A distant laughter echoed through the transition—a strange musical note, a soft whisper telling of the beginning and the end of the world.

Along with the records engraved into the Round Table’s universe, the final battlefield of 'Valhalla Hall' was opening.

Back when I was writing web novels, I once asked Kiyeon-hyung how to bring characters to life. (Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I asked him of all people.)

"You have to write as if you were the character," he advised.

"So, do you always write as if you were one of them?"

"Yes."

"But all your characters speak strangely."

"What's wrong with my lines?"

"All your characters laugh like 'Heh heh,' don't they?"

"Because I laugh like that, too."

Thinking I’d asked the wrong person, I went to Ji Eunyu with the same question.

"You shouldn't empathize with your characters too much," she replied. "If you do, only the writer finds the story entertaining."

"But without empathy, won't they lose their vividness?"

She looked puzzled. "Ultimately, characters are the writer's alter ego."

"So should I empathize or not?"

"You should write so the reader can empathize."

"Do you know who your readers are?"

In the end, I never found the answer. I knew nothing about my characters, and even less about the people who would read them. Once I acknowledged that, I lost my grasp on myself as a writer.

What are characters? Are they creations, or are they independent entities merely borrowing my language? How do I write for people I don't know? Who am I, writing an unknown story for an unknown audience?

"Ugh."

When I opened my eyes, I was met with the pitch-black ruins of what looked like a Buddhist altar. Pillars of light flickered in the distance.

The screams of summoned constellations snapped me back to reality.

A record flashed through my mind. At times like this, it’s helpful to format your thoughts into sentences—to act as if you were the character in the script.

It wasn't hard to grasp the situation. I had suspected something like this might happen from the moment I entered Valhalla.

For the constellations on the Main Battlefield, Valhalla was a necessary evil. It provided elite soldiers, but it also drained the potential of those who hid there, resulting in a net loss of strength. This scenario was inevitable. However, as Mitra said, the timing was premature.

Was this solely the will of the 'Round Table'? The answer appeared immediately.

With a tsutsutsu sound, the face of a Great Dokkaebi manifested in the sky.

I recognized him instantly.

His appearance was met with a chorus of indignant roars.

This wasn't some low-level scenario; it was Scenario #85. It was a late-stage arena filled with Narrative-grade beings. Their sense of entitlement was absolute.

The modifiers were familiar—members of the Gourmet Association. They, too, had been lounging here instead of fighting.

He surveyed the field with a calm, piercing gaze.

The resentment subsided for a heartbeat. His words had struck a nerve.

The story of the <Star Stream> flowed above the ruins.

Surprisingly, it was my story.

The stars watched. Yet, what they saw was different for each of them.

They were likely recalling their own 'Proof of Worth', their own ancient origins and distinct eras.

Like the manager of a failing amusement park, the Great Dokkaebi spoke with somber weight.

Even without [Incite], Baram’s speech was moving. But some emotions only affect those willing to feel them.

Looking at them, I thought of the incarnations who had risen in the New Murim District.

To reach this stage, these stars had survived countless tragedies. They had lost everything and gained the world. And now, at the summit, they were obsessed with a single fear.

They didn't want to be eliminated. They didn't want to die. Rather than being remembered as a great line in history, they preferred to remain eternal spectators in the shadows.

I understood that sentiment. I wouldn't call it wrong. But they had to realize the truth by now.

The rules of the world they enjoyed were finally being applied to them.

Amidst the chaos, I read the window. A massive battlefield—the first of its kind in Valhalla history. The goal was simple: survive.

The first condition was brutal. Intermediate warriors had to hunt Advanced-level or higher. Advanced had to hunt Special-level.

The second was no easier: five warriors of your own rank.

The final condition was the only one that seemed feasible for those unwilling to fight.

Most of them hadn't participated in a real scenario in eons. They were content to watch incarnations, sustaining themselves on the stories of others. Risking their own lives was a forgotten concept.

Like children in the first scenario, the constellations grew wary, distancing themselves. Some fled into the bushes. Others tried to find strength in numbers.

The first to call out was a high-ranking constellation from the border regions.

An arrow pierced his shoulder before he could finish.

Five or six constellations swarmed from the shadows like lynxes. In an instant, the Great-grade constellation was torn apart, his story disintegrating before he could utter a final word. Their leader bit into the severed arm of the dead star and spat it out.

I recognized him immediately.

The Black Wolf Reaper—Anubis, the Narrative-grade constellation from <Papyrus>. I quickly ducked behind cover, checking my status.

My value had skyrocketed after the previous battle. If I were caught, I’d be the ultimate prize.

As the wolves led by Anubis roared, the surrounding constellations scattered in a panic. I held my breath, waiting for them to pass.

Anubis sniffed the air near my hiding spot, but his eyes slid right past me.

I was currently nothing more than a stone.

I wasn't afraid of them, but now wasn't the time to move. I waited for the pack to recede, but then, a hand tapped me on the shoulder.

It should have been impossible. Under the effect of 'Pebble and I', I was undetectable.

Unless... there was only one person who could find me like this.