Lucid Veins

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CHAPTER 23: THE WRITER'S TRUTH

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Nicolas stood frozen in front of the glowing desk, staring at the radiant boy who called himself the Writer. The flower-shaped chair, the floating books, the celestial garden—it all seemed too perfect to be real.

And yet… it was.

The Writer smiled gently and said, "Nicolas, I know all your questions. And now, I'm going to answer them."

Nicolas blinked, unsure, but gave a cautious nod. "Okay."

The Writer leaned back, folding his fingers calmly. "Your first question: Who am I?"

He gestured around the world they stood in. "I am… what you might call a god. A multiversal god. Or more simply, the Creator."

Nicolas swallowed. His eyes widened.

"I wrote this place. I wrote many like it," the Writer continued. "I write stories into worlds. I give them life. But I don't control everything—just the threads that must be woven."

"The second question," he said with a change in tone, more serious now, "Why is your life the way it is? Why all the pain? The war? The copies? The destroyed world?

"I'll tell you."

He stood slowly and walked toward a glowing stream nearby, gazing into its water. Reflections twisted like memories.

"When your original world was destroyed, it wasn't a natural accident. It was… my decision."

"What?" Nicolas gasped.

The Writer nodded sadly. "There was a man—your Head. A scientist. Brilliant. But he tampered with the core of dimensional existence. If he had succeeded, he would've brought ruin not just to your world—but every world. Even though his intentions were noble."

"You caused the black hole…" Nicolas whispered.

"Yes. I had no choice. To protect the multiverse, I destroyed your world."

He turned to face Nicolas fully now. "But I didn't want innocent life to suffer. So I created a new parallel world. A mirror. I moved you all there, gave you different bodies—but the same souls. The same stories. The same emotions."

"What about Head?" Nicolas asked quietly.

"I wanted to make him… normal. Just another person. But the other two Multiversal Gods forbade it. They warned me: if he remembered even a piece of who he was, he could trigger it all again."

"Wait," Nicolas interrupted, mind spinning. "There are others? How many multiversal gods are there?"

"Three," the Writer said. "Me, the Creator. The second… the Destroyer. And the third—the Caretaker. We are not separate. We are one and many. Balanced."

"Does every world have gods?" Nicolas asked.

"Some do," the Writer replied. "But your world has none. No god walks there. And soon… that will become a problem."

"Why?"

The Writer stepped closer. "Because in the future, your world will fight for a god. Every planet will choose a deity to follow. Yours will be the only one… without one."

Nicolas's mouth was dry. "So what happens to us?"

"That… depends on your next journey."

Nicolas hesitated. "You said you gave me this power. Why me?"

The Writer smiled softly. "Because your mind is… different. Stable enough to bear it. Curious enough to question it. And strong enough to wield it. The Copy Skill is not just a power—it's a prophecy. You were made to shape outcomes that even gods can't predict."

Nicolas looked down. "Then what's next?"

The Writer turned and waved his hand. The air shimmered like glass.

A new world appeared—a planet that looked almost like Earth, spinning silently in space.

Nicolas tilted his head. "This one… I saw it once before. It's like that advanced civilization world I visited."

"For your kind information," the Writer said calmly, "this is the most horrible world you'll ever visit."

He snapped his fingers.

The glowing trees, chirping birds, and floating books disappeared in a blur of smoke.

The sky turned red. The grass withered into ash. Screams echoed in the air.

Buildings stood in ruins. Fire burst through shattered windows. Shadows moved along cracked roads.

And then—he saw them.

People.

Running.

Screaming.

Others—twisted, rotten figures—chased them down. Tackled them. Tore into them.

Some cried. Some begged. Others turned feral and ate the bodies around them.

Nicolas took a step back in horror.

He whispered, "Zombies…"

The Writer, still calm, stood beside him.

"This is the next page, Nicolas"

The world was burning.

Nicolas stood frozen beside the Writer as they stared down at the nightmare below. Black clouds curled like snakes through a crimson sky. The once-glowing fields were now barren and cracked, drenched in blood and ash. Broken cities collapsed into themselves. People ran, screamed, fell—and were devoured. Not just by creatures, but by other humans whose minds were lost.

"Zombies…" Nicolas whispered, his voice barely audible.

The Writer, calm as ever, nodded slightly. His radiant face turned toward the chaos with quiet pain behind his golden eyes.

"Yes," he said. "But not as simple as that. These are more than monsters. They are intentions, Nicolas. Cursed manifestations—infected by despair, hatred, hunger. This world was like yours. Bright. Pure. Until they arrived."

Nicolas turned sharply. "They?"

The Writer raised one elegant hand, fingers long and glowing faintly, and snapped his fingers.

The red sky shattered like glass.

The screams faded. The stench vanished. The twisted world folded into itself like paper crumpling into dust.

Light returned.

The soft breeze of the Writer's world danced past Nicolas again. Green grass sprouted beneath his boots, warm moonlight shimmered on the silver river nearby, and birds resumed their gentle songs. Ducks swam in peaceful circles. The air smelled of flowers and honey and calm.

But Nicolas couldn't relax.

"What… was that?"

The Writer didn't answer at first. He walked forward and sat once more upon the large flower-shaped throne, letting his fingers tap lightly across the desk of woven vines. Floating books slowly returned to orbit him, like they feared the truth he had just revealed.

Then he spoke:

> "I am the Creator. Because I create... I also feel. Just like the other two. The Destroyer. The Caretaker. We are bound by balance. We sense when harmony begins to crack. That zombie world you saw—it was only a preview. The infection is real, and it is spreading."

Nicolas's breath caught in his throat. He remembered the cities in that vision, the ruined monuments. One of them looked like the Eiffel Tower. Another… looked like his own home.

"No," he muttered. "Are you saying this… this virus… it's coming to my world?"

The Writer looked at him gravely.

> "It already is."

Silence.

Only the trickle of the moonlit river remained between them.

"I've slowed it," the Writer said. "Altered time, pushed the timeline back. You now have one year before it awakens in your world. But it won't stop there. Those who birthed this curse plan to infect every dimension. They are no longer content with a single universe. They want to consume the multiverse."

Nicolas's fists tightened.

"But why me?" he asked, voice shaking. "Why do I have to stop them? Why not you? You're a god."

The Writer stood.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

> "Because we cannot interfere directly. That is the one law that binds us all. The Creator creates. The Destroyer destroys. The Caretaker restores. But none of us… none of us may fight our own wars. That is the price of divinity."

He walked closer and placed a hand gently on Nicolas's shoulder. His touch was warm—like a summer wind, like truth itself.

> "That is why you exist. Why you were chosen. You are the Key."

Nicolas looked down.

Confused. Scared. Angry.

"I don't know if I can do this…"

The Writer gave a small smile. "You already did."

He snapped his fingers again, and floating images appeared between them—moments from Nicolas's journey:

His battle with the Tech Commander in UK-472.

His painful victory against Echo.

The War Council saluting him.

Anya, smiling behind him as Sector 9 burned in light.

> "You've survived war. You've changed worlds. But what's coming… is different. This war isn't about machines or rebellion. It's about corruption. Despair. Madness."

Nicolas swallowed. The images faded.

The Writer's voice dropped.

> "And this virus... it adapts. It learns. It twists love into hate, memory into lies. You will need more than strength to survive. You will need your soul."

Another pause.

Then the Writer stepped back and gestured toward the glowing sky. A new vision appeared above them—an Earth-like world, bustling and bright, with international flags waving, kids in uniforms, tall futuristic schools reaching toward the sky.

The International High School.

Nicolas blinked in recognition.

"This… this is my school."

"Yes," the Writer nodded. "And that is where it begins. Your journey. Your test."

Nicolas turned to him.

"But you said I have a year before the virus begins."

The Writer nodded again.

> "Yes. And that year… is your preparation. You will return. Complete your education. Win the school championship. Find those you can trust. Protect Anya. Grow stronger—not just in body, but in spirit. When the year ends… the war begins."

The skies darkened for just a moment—as if a shadow passed through the realm.

Nicolas took a deep breath.

It was coming.

Another war.

Another world.

But this time, the stakes weren't just survival—they were everything.

The Writer slowly stepped backward, returning to his throne.

Nicolas's head was spinning. The vision of the destroyed world, the infected people, the spreading despair—it clung to his chest like a vice.

His voice cracked.

"W-wait… you said… the virus already spread in one world. That place you showed me—was that a real world?"

The Writer slowly nodded. His expression turned cold—not cruel, but grieved. His golden eyes shimmered with a pain that felt ancient.

> "Yes. That world was real. A dimension not so different from yours. Once bright, like a dream. It's now fallen to the curse."

Nicolas's breath hitched.

He stepped forward, trying to process the weight of it.

"How bad is it…? Is anyone left?"

The Writer's gaze flickered. He raised his right hand and twisted his fingers in a slow spiral. In the sky above them, the mist parted, forming a glowing map—scorched continents, burning cities, oceans turned black.

Only two regions still glowed dimly… two final lights resisting the dark.

"Only two countries remain," the Writer said softly.

Nicolas clenched his fists.

"Which ones?"

The Writer didn't speak at first.

Then, with a calm, nearly reverent tone, he said:

> "India. And the United States."

Nicolas blinked, startled.

"What?" he whispered. "Why… those two?"

The Writer's eyes became distant, gazing into invisible timelines.

> "They fought longer than the rest. For different reasons. In India, it was belief—faith, ancient wisdom, and spiritual defenses. Their monks, dreamwalkers, and elemental guardians delayed the spread."

> "In the United States… it was innovation. Their military formed a floating city, and their last AI merged with human empathy—something unprecedented. They chose hope over control."

The vision showed fragments of both:

A vast temple-fortress glowing gold beneath the Himalayas, surrounded by monks chanting as energy shields shimmered above sacred grounds.

A floating cyber-city in the sky, its edges crackling with defense drones, while teenagers trained in simulated arenas wearing glowing suits.

Nicolas stared.

A strange warmth filled his chest. Pride. Fear. Awe.

"They're still fighting?" he asked.

The Writer gave the faintest smile.

> "Yes. But barely. They are holding the virus at bay. One mistake… and they fall."

> "And when they fall…" the Writer paused, gaze falling heavily on Nicolas,

"…the virus gains enough strength to jump across dimensions."

The weight of those words crushed the silence around them.

The birds stopped singing.

Even the river seemed to pause.

Nicolas took a trembling step back, heart pounding.

"Then… I really am the only one who can stop it."

The Writer didn't answer directly.

He looked at Nicolas—not with pity, not even with hope—but with something rarer:

Trust.

> "You were chosen because you carry balance within you. You are human, but touched by greater laws. Your Copy Skill is more than mimicry. It is understanding. Connection. Empathy made weapon."

> "And that… is the only thing the virus cannot copy."

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The moment hung like a held breath.

Nicolas felt it then—not just pressure, but purpose. A calling deeper than any mission before. Deeper than the wars he'd fought, deeper than anything the Council or Head had prepared him for.

He would not just fight for survival anymore.

He would fight for truth.

For worlds.

For those yet to be infected.

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