Chapter 134
"Singularity," Meshya whispered, her voice no longer cold and sharp like the edge of a blade, but weary, exhausted, like someone who had repeated the same task far too many times and was beginning to lose the ability to feel anything beyond boredom and an ache that never truly disappeared.
"The original title given to universes destined for destruction. Not because they are weak. Not because they are wrong. Not because they are useless. But because they are… too depraved to continue living. Too cruel to continue telling stories. Too monstrous to continue being remembered by anyone, even by their own enemies."
And amidst the chaos spreading across the billions of fictional universes sheltered beneath the WoC:TLDR multiverse—among interdimensional civilizations scrambling like ants whose nest had been crushed beneath a giant's foot, like rats fleeing wildly from a sinking ship, like beings who had never imagined that the end of days would truly arrive and, when it finally came, had nowhere left to hide, no gods left to pray to, no hope left to cling to—a girl with Abyssal Transparent hair stepped forward.
Not hurriedly like someone chased by death, not casually like someone taking a stroll through a park at dusk, but with a conviction that could not be shaken by anything, with a certainty that no one could doubt, with the awareness that what she was doing—burning forests of fiction, destroying universes, turning billions of worlds into meaningless nothingness—was right, even if no one would ever praise her, even if no one would ever thank her, even if no one would remember her name once she was finished.
And behind her—in every footprint left by her bare feet, in every place where the soles of her feet touched the foundation of reality between fictional worlds, in every corner of the billions of universes she had burned, destroyed, and reduced to meaningless ashes—memories were engraved.
Not memories of kindness. Not memories of love. Not memories of noble sacrifice.
But memories of violation, of beheadings, of cultivators slaughtering one another without regard for blood ties, of depravity so unforgivable that not even the Almighty Himself could pardon it.
"I do not enjoy this," Meshya whispered, her voice no longer weary and exhausted, but empty, hollow, like the space between stars untouched by light, life, or hope.
"I have never enjoyed this. But if I am not the one who does it, if I am not the one who burns these forests, if I am not the one who punishes these universes that have lost their humanity… then who will? Who will tell them that their actions cannot be allowed? Who will tell them that there is a boundary that must never be crossed, even in fiction, even in stories, even within the wildest imagination?"
And behind her Abyssal Transparent eyes—which were not a color but the absence of color, like black holes devouring everything without ever feeling full—the fire faded away.
Not because it had run out of fuel, not because someone had extinguished it, but because her work was complete.
Because the forests no longer existed.
Because the billions of fictional universes she had burned had already become meaningless nothingness, never to return, never to be read, never to be told again by anyone—not even by their own author, who in another world still slept upon a bed with a pillow too thin and a smile untouched by understanding.
And Meshya—the girl with Abyssal Transparent hair, the girl whose footsteps engraved death, the girl whose eyes radiated conceptual flames, the girl standing alone among billions of burning universes—turned around.
Not like someone returning home. Not like someone regretting what she had done.
But like an executioner cleaning blood from a sword after severing the condemned's head, like fire spreading toward the next patch of dry grass, like something that never stopped, never rested, never felt satisfied, because her work would never truly end—as long as stories too depraved to continue existing still remained, as long as universes too cruel to continue living still survived, as long as fiction continued crossing boundaries no one else dared to punish.
"One more," Meshya whispered, her voice no longer hollow and empty, but absolute, unquestionable, like something that could not be challenged by anything.
"One more universe that I must destroy. And another one. And another one. Until nothing remains. Until no story deserving punishment is left. Until…"
She did not finish her sentence.
Because she already knew—she knew there would never truly be an end. That as long as humanity could still tell stories, as long as writers could still dream beyond reality, as long as fiction could still be born from minds forever unsatisfied with the truth, there would always be stories too depraved, universes too cruel, and work waiting for her.
And with the same calm steps—with steps that were never rushed, never hesitant, never regretful—she walked away, leaving behind billions of universes reduced to ash, leaving behind forests transformed into nothingness, leaving WoC:TLDR DF-27 and all its infinite versions as memories that would never again be remembered by anyone, as stories that would never again be told by anyone, as something that had never existed at all.
And wherever she stepped—in every footprint left by her bare feet, in every place where the soles of her feet touched the foundation of reality between fictional worlds—there was nothing.
Not a void that could be filled. Not emptiness that could be inhabited.
But absolute nothingness, eternal emptiness, the end of everything—for those universes, for those stories, for those characters who never learned that depravity has limits, and that once those limits are crossed, Singularity will come.
Finished.