Chapter 133
And The Singer—upon hearing the mockery, upon hearing herself called childish, immature, shameless—did not become angry, did not feel offended, did not feel the need to defend herself.
She merely smiled, a smile no longer filled with triumph or arrogance, but warm, incredibly warm, like an older sister teasing her shy younger sibling, like a close friend making fun of another friend for not daring to do something they actually wanted to do.
"At least I'm brave enough, Ling Xu," Singer replied, her voice no longer sharp and piercing, but soft—very soft—like a mother stroking the hair of her feverish child, like a nurse wrapping a patient's wounds with clean and warm cloth.
"At least I don't need to rest my head on Huan Zheng's chest and stroke it like a little girl begging for attention."
"How much longer do I have to remain in a situation like this? Or perhaps… nothing is ever going to change?" Huan Zheng muttered softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the silence, as though he were speaking only to himself.
He let out a long breath. His hand briefly rose as if he wanted to press against the heavy ache in his temple, but in the end, he allowed it to fall back down, surrendering to the endlessly repeating situation.
Hhhh!
Between the gaps of reality untouched by time, space, or concepts—between fictional universes whose numbers were limitless and which continuously birthed themselves like endlessly dividing cells that had never learned the meaning of stopping, between versions of the same story yet different, different yet the same, impossible for ordinary eyes to distinguish but clear to eyes that had witnessed the birth and death of billions of worlds—Meshya Anggraini Putri walked.
Not walking like a human moving one foot after another, not walking like a god gracefully floating above the ground, but walking like fire spreading across dry grass, like a law that could not be challenged, like something that never needed permission because it was permission itself.
Her Abyssal Transparent hair—a hair color that could not truly be described because it was not a color, but the absence of color, like a black hole devouring light without ever becoming full, like the space between stars untouched by photons, hope, or dreams—fluttered despite the absence of wind, moved despite there being no space to move within, because it was not she who moved through space, but space itself moving around her.
And in every footprint she left—every place where the soles of her bare feet touched the foundation of reality between fictional worlds—death was engraved.
Not the death of one universe, not the death of a hundred universes, not the death of a million universes, but billions of universes that had long ago—or only recently—been reduced into nothingness, into ashes, into something that had never existed and could never return because Meshya had decided they no longer deserved to continue existing.
"WoC:TLDR," Meshya whispered, her voice no longer soft like when she had spoken to The Monitor of God earlier, no longer firm like when she issued orders to her subordinates, but flat and empty, like the surface of a lake left undisturbed by wind, humans, or beasts for far too long.
Yet beneath that stillness, something moved—something people who still believed decisions did not need to be spoken aloud in order to become real might call resolve.
"A fictional universe with one title, one name, one identity—yet infinite versions, infinite plots, infinite stories. And out of every version I have ever seen, every plot I have ever read, every story I have ever witnessed… this DF-27 version is the most depraved."
She stopped.
Not because she was tired, for Meshya did not know fatigue. Not because she doubted, for Meshya did not know hesitation.
She stopped because she saw—saw what was happening within the fictional universe WoC:TLDR DF-27, within that same yet different version of the story, within a world where there was no Ling Xu, no lazy yet loyal Huan Zheng, no The Singer whose melodies could destroy the flow of Dao.
There was only depravity, violation, the beheading of Goddesses who had already surrendered, cultivators murdering one another regardless of blood ties, and The Silent One—The Silent One who, in this version, was even crueler than any version she had seen before. The Silent One who not only provoked humanity into rebelling against the gods, but who also enjoyed every drop of blood spilled, every scream released, every body that fell.
"Even The Lazy One… in this universe is just as depraved as The Silent One," Meshya whispered again, her voice no longer flat and empty, but cold—sharp as a blade freshly honed upon the finest whetstone.
"Even Singer… in this universe is no less cruel."
And behind her Abyssal Transparent eyes—eyes the same color as her hair, not a color but the absence of color, like black holes devouring everything without ever becoming satisfied—something ignited.
Not fire, because fire still possessed color, temperature, and shape, but resolve. A resolve that could not be overturned by anyone, bargained with by anyone, or escaped by anyone, because that resolve was born from the understanding that some stories did not deserve to continue being told.
And Meshya—who had contacted The Monitor of God, who had received permission, who had accepted a task she did not wish to carry out yet had to carry out because if not her, then who?—closed her eyes.
Not closing her eyes like someone preparing to sleep, not like someone avoiding a sight too painful to witness, but like a judge delivering a death sentence without needing to see the prisoner's face, like an executioner swinging a blade without needing to hear the final scream, like something that understood what it was about to do would never be forgiven, yet still did it because there was no other choice.
And when her eyes opened—opened like the gates of hell that had never been locked because no one dared approach them, opened like a wound that never healed because the same hands kept scratching it raw—there appeared clearly, visibly, unmistakably to anyone who might have been there, though no one ever was, because Meshya always came alone, always worked alone, always isolated herself within her own wisdom:
The forests symbolizing the fictional worlds of every universe she faced—forests infinite in number, immeasurable in width, unfathomable in depth—were burning.
Not burning like forests struck by lightning during a drought, not burning like forests set ablaze by farmers clearing land, but burning like a curse, like punishment, like something unavoidable because it had already become destiny.
And from her eyes—from those Abyssal Transparent eyes that were not a color but the absence of color—fire emerged.
Not red fire like humanity knew, not blue fire like the flames of a cremation furnace, not white fire like the explosion of a dying star, but colorless fire, fire without temperature, fire that could not be extinguished by anything because it was not fire in the physical sense, but fire in the conceptual sense.
A fire that burned not wood, leaves, or flesh, but meaning, stories, existence itself.
To be continued…