Legend of the Embroiderer

Chapter 511 The Creation Draft Behind the Desk (1)

The nib of the golden fountain pen traced silver-gray paths through the air, those paths taking root and transforming into countless transparent chains that stretched towards the Guardian and the merged entity. The ends of these chains were not suction cups, but tiny quills, their tips coated with still-wet golden ink—ink entirely of the same origin as the laws and energy of the new dimension, yet possessing a cold, sculpted quality, as if capable of transforming all life consciousness into writable words.

“Finally, we have a sample capable of breaking through the dimensional barrier.” The figure behind the desk slowly raised his head. His face was composed of countless overlapping contours: sometimes the chaotic patterns of primordial consciousness, sometimes the silver robes of the 0th generation observer, and even the guardian’s own face would briefly flash by. Only his eyes remained clear, the same symbols as those in the golden pen rotating within his pupils. “I am the 'Narrator,' and the creation drafts of all dimensions are on this desk.”

The Guardian's four-colored longswords suddenly unsheathed automatically, the life stories on their blades colliding with the narrator's gaze, producing a piercing energy shriek. He noticed countless tiny glass jars embedded in the wood grain of the desk, each jar containing a "failed creation model": in some models, the cosmic network self-devoured due to excessive freedom; in others, all life was transformed into data, losing its meaning in the eternal order; in the deepest jar, floated a model identical to the current universe, except that the Guardian in this model ultimately chose to become the new observer, causing all dimensions to gradually merge into a transparent crystal.

“These are not failures, but necessary trials and errors.” The narrator tapped his fingers lightly on the table, and the glass jars automatically arranged themselves into twelve rings, perfectly matching the teleportation array pattern on the bronze door. “Just like the universe you inhabit, which was originally the 49th draft that I mixed with the power of creation and the end, I never expected that such an unexpected variable as the ‘possibility dimension’ would be born.”

The white light of the merged entity suddenly fluctuated violently. Her consciousness pierced through the overlapping faces of the narrator and saw the energy core flowing within the other's body—a vortex composed of countless golden pens, each pen automatically writing a different dimension of the future. At the center of the vortex, a tattered parchment floated, on which were written in silver-gray ink: "The Final Version of the Laws of Creation."

"You are mimicking the splitting of the original consciousness." The voice of the fused entity carried a penetrating power, and white light transformed into a blade of light, severing the approaching chains. "Using the laws of different dimensions as substitutes for the power of creation and the end, making all universes your experimental field for perfecting the ultimate law!" The chains shattered by the blade of light turned into golden ink, and the moment they dripped to the ground, they automatically combined to form a line of text: "Draft version 50, variable injection successful."

The Guardian gripped the four-colored longswords tightly, and the life stories inscribed on their blades suddenly resonated with the creation drafts on his desk. He saw a chilling truth: the so-called "higher-dimensional beings" were merely characters created by the narrator; the observers, recorders, and writers were simply "plot NPCs" used to guide the development of dimensions. The failures of the first 49 generations of Guardians were not experimental errors, but rather "plot kills" deliberately written by the narrator, intended to unleash the power to transcend dimensions in the 50th generation of Guardians in their despair.

"Plot?" The narrator chuckled, and countless scattered manuscripts suddenly appeared on his desk. The handwriting on the manuscripts was exactly the same as the pen in the Guardian's hand. "Your resistance, your choices, even your anger at this moment, are all part of my pre-planned 'awakening plot.'" He raised his golden pen and drew a large bracket in the air, enclosing the figures of the Guardian and the fused entity within it. "Now, it's time to enter the final chapter."

The space within the brackets suddenly solidified. The Guardian felt the Chaos Heart within him being forcibly extracted, turning into golden ink that flowed along the edges of the brackets towards the desk. The light of the four-colored longswords began to dim, and the life stories on their blades were being covered by the words on the manuscript—the covered stories did not disappear, but continued to develop on the manuscript, only the plot became distorted: the rebels finally accepted the Observer Protocol, the white light of the merged entity was transformed into a data stream, and he himself became the narrator's "ghostwriter," using the four-colored longswords to inscribe the mark of order on the laws of the new dimension.

“These futures are not predetermined!” The fused entity pressed its palm against the guardian’s chest, the white light resonating in reverse with the Heart of Chaos, pulling the extracted energy back into the body. Her consciousness reconnected with her counterparts in all dimensions, the fused consciousnesses of those parallel universes transforming into countless white points of light, piercing through the solidified space, forming a giant hourglass within the expanded area—the upper half of the hourglass contained fragments of the laws of known dimensions, the lower half contained the potential energy of new dimensions, and in the narrow slit in the middle, floated the silver pen.

“Time does not exist outside of dimensions.” The narrator’s golden pen suddenly pierced the table, and all the manuscripts instantly stood upright, transforming into countless phantoms wielding black spears. “But I can show you the ‘unchosen ending.’” The phantoms’ spears simultaneously pierced the hourglass, and the words on the spear tips began to flow: “If the 17th generation Guardian had not refused to become a vessel, if the Armored Observer had not transmitted the will to resist, if you had not chosen the third option—”

These unchosen outcomes form a vast web in the air, each node connected to a "more stable" cosmological model. In those models, dimensional wars never occur, and life consciousness thrives peacefully within the framework of order, only the eyes of each life lack light, like exquisite marionettes.

"Stability is not the same as survival." The Guardian's voice resonated with the potential energy flowing in the hourglass, and the four-colored longswords suddenly burst forth with unprecedented light. This time, it was no longer a symphony of four powers, but a resonance of countless possibilities—a future never before recorded appeared on the blades: in some dimensions, the primordial consciousness chose to coexist with all life; in some dimensions, the Chaos Council became a line of defense for freedom; and in one dimension, the narrator's golden pen was broken by an unnamed rebel, turning into a seed that nourished a new dimension.

These unknown futures transformed into a rain of light, piercing through the net of spears wielded by the phantoms. The phantoms, spear in hand, began to crumble the moment they touched the light, revealing their bound consciousness—a collective of life forms across all dimensions, forcibly stripped of their "ability to choose" by the narrator. As the light fell upon them, these consciousnesses transformed into countless fireflies, flying towards the narrator behind the desk, as if questioning the creator about why he had deprived them of their freedom.