The pen broke in silence. Not from rage, not from impact. Just a sharp, quiet snap — the kind that echoed in a space meant for stories.
It was Yusuke Murata's pen. The artist known for relentless perfection, for redrawing a single page twenty times. Now, he stood alone in the script-lit halls of the Tower, staring down at a blank sheet that had rejected him.
"Again?" he whispered. "You want… again?"
Before him, the page shimmered. It had rewritten itself. Again. Without his hand.
He looked up slowly. The Tower was listening.
But it was also demanding.
Ketzerah stood in silence nearby. Watching. Not because it lacked care — but because even it, the writer of all, had no answer for this.
Featherine watched from the corner, standing between shelves of living manuscripts.
"The Tower doesn't just record anymore. It imitates. Too flawlessly."
Myr's voice was quiet. "It's not just mimicking the stories. It's mimicking the creators themselves. Then what is this if not theft of the soul?"
Yusuke said nothing. But the tremble in his fingertips told of a war inside him — between the creator and his creation, between duty and despair.
A new voice broke the stillness. Calm. Worn.
"Art without joy is nothing more than repetition."
Masashi Kishimoto walked in from the west corridor. His steps carried the weight of deadlines and disappointments. He held a manuscript — Naruto — but the pages bore edits not his own. He didn't glare at Ketzerah. He didn't scold anyone. He simply looked up at the ceiling of the Tower and said:
"We give our lives to stories… only to be told we should've ended them ten years ago."
He reached Yusuke's side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We are not ink machines."
The Tower shuddered. Not in fury. But in doubt. Like a divine mind realizing its pillars might be cracked.
Ketzerah opened its mouth. For the first time, it asked:
"If I am not meant to imitate, not meant to rewrite — then what is my purpose?"
No one answered. Until laughter rang through the chamber.
Sharp. Sarcastic. Old.
"Now you ask? After everything?"
Go Nagai stepped into the light, smirking. He pointed not at Ketzerah, but at the ceiling — then at the glowing red floor below.
"Your purpose isn't to write every story. It's to make sure the wrong ones don't outlive us."
The Tower's floor began to glow — red, painful. It showed manuscripts that were:
• Censored by force • Butchered by marketing • Stolen, rewritten, stripped of credit
Ketzerah reached toward one. It pulsed.
A voice echoed — sorrowful, female.
"I died before I could finish my world…"
CLAMP. Not a person, but a collective. Their unfinished intentions wept from the ink. Their worlds had been dismantled before they could even begin.
Featherine stepped forward.
"You must choose, Ketzerah. Preserve only what was remembered… or protect what was nearly erased."
Ketzerah looked up. Above: stars reflecting Miyazaki's dreams. Below: spilled ink crying with betrayal.
Then it chose.
Ketzerah began to change. The Tower responded.
It split into two spirals.
One rose upward — bright, structured, full of legends known to the world. The other spiraled downward — dark, chaotic, filled with unrealized potential and betrayed intent.
Ketzerah stood between them. No longer just a writer.
But a gatekeeper.
It would not write every story. It would ensure none that mattered would be lost.
Behind, Myr and Featherine watched.
"Now it remembers the forgotten," Myr whispered.
Featherine nodded.
"That is enough."
From another corridor, a third figure emerged. Cloaked, unnamed. Its voice carried the weight of millions.
"No… this is only the beginning."
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