1 | The First Sentence
Nathaniel Pierce always believed that writers were gods of their own small worlds. They created, dictated, and destroyed with a stroke of the pen. But as he sat before the flickering glow of his laptop screen, typing the first lines of his new book, he felt more like a puppet than a god.
The words were not his own.
"In the cycle of endless eons, when the veil between thought and void thins, the Sleeper shall stir, and the sky shall rupture with the weeping of a thousand worlds."
The moment the sentence was complete, a strange sensation washed over him. The room, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, seemed to breathe. The shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, as if watching.
Nathaniel blinked. His fingers trembled over the keys. He had not planned to write those words.
But they had come so easily.
He tried to delete them. His cursor hovered over the text, but his hand refused to obey. A faint ringing filled his ears—a dull, monotonous hum, like something vast and hidden whispering just beneath the fabric of reality.
He closed the laptop. The words remained.
Outside his window, a new star burned in the night sky.
2 | The Book That Should Not Be
Nathaniel’s novel progressed at an inhuman pace. He did not write so much as transcribe. He would wake up at his desk, pages filled with text he did not remember typing.
The narrative followed a struggling writer—Daniel Whitmore—who discovers a book hidden within the walls of an abandoned monastery. A book that, once read, reveals forbidden knowledge of an ancient entity—a being beyond comprehension known as Xal’Zyul.
Daniel begins to understand that the book is not just a story. It is a prophecy.
Nathaniel shuddered. He did not remember plotting this novel, yet every chapter fit with terrifying precision.
Then, the real world began to change.
News reports surfaced about an unregistered celestial object—a rogue star appearing where no star should be. The scientific community was in disarray; its trajectory made no sense. It was moving toward Earth.
Nathaniel knew its name. He had written it.
"NGC-3301, the Weeping Star."
It was in his book.
It was not supposed to be real.
3 | The Words That Shape Reality
Nathaniel’s editor, James Corwin, called him in a panic.
“Nathaniel, what the hell is this book?”
“What do you mean?” Nathaniel asked, his voice hoarse.
James exhaled sharply. “This... this isn’t a novel. It’s a goddamn religious text.”
Nathaniel’s blood turned to ice.
James continued. “I had some people in academia look at it. Your descriptions, the rituals, the symbols—they’re not made up. You wrote about things that predate recorded history, things that appear in Sumerian, Akkadian, even Pre-Diluvian oral traditions. How the hell did you—?”
A knock at Nathaniel’s door cut through the conversation.
Slow. Deliberate.
He turned toward the door, heart hammering.
“I have to go,” he whispered and hung up.
The knocking continued.
He approached cautiously, sweat beading on his brow. When he opened the door, there was no one there.
Only a package.
Inside was a bound manuscript.
He recognized it immediately.
It was his book.
But the final pages had changed.
The last chapter was new. He hadn’t written it.
He turned to the final sentence:
"And on the third moonrise of the Weeping Star, the sky shall crack, and Xal’Zyul shall step forth. The old world shall drown, and the new shall be written in its place."
Nathaniel checked the date.
The third moonrise was tomorrow.
4 | The Prophet of the New Order
By the time night fell, the world had already begun to shift.
Tides raged against coastal cities. The sky pulsed with unnatural light, waves of green and violet flickering across the horizon. The Weeping Star was growing larger__
impossibly close.
And then there were the "Readers."
Nathaniel did not know how his book had spread so quickly.
But those who had read it were changing.
They stood motionless in the streets, chanting in unison. Their eyes were clouded over, their voices hollow.
Nathaniel staggered through the streets of his city, watching in horror as thousands knelt in silent worship before the Weeping Star.
The words he had written had become "gospel."
A :new scripture" for a "new god."
And then, the sky split open.
5 | The Arrival
Nathaniel fell to his knees as a shrieking void tore through the sky.
A vast, unfathomable shape descended from the rift. Its form shifted between dimensions, never entirely present in one space. It was "a thing of eyes, limbs, and hunger"—a being too large, too unnatural for the human mind to comprehend.
Xal’Zyul had arrived.
And the world knelt before him.
Nathaniel felt his body lock in place. A great and terrible force moved through him, something colossal pressing against the fragile walls of his mind.
The realization struck him like a hammer.
He had never been the author.
He had been the vessel.
His fingers twitched, moved by something unseen. His body was no longer his own.
He was still writing.
Even now, his mind continued the book—the final words forming in his thoughts as reality bent and twisted to follow.
“The world is undone, and in its place, the Word shall stand eternal. There will be no history before this moment, no memory of the past. There is only the New Order. And the Prophet shall bear witness.”
Nathaniel gasped as the last sentence branded itself into his mind.
His body was no longer flesh.
He was "ink."
A scripture made manifest.
A living text, forever writing and rewriting the world at Xal’Zyul’s will.
And as the final vestiges of his identity were erased, he understood the true horror.
This had happened before.
Across time. Across worlds. He had written this story again and again.
And humanity, in its blind hunger for belief, had followed every time.
The only thing stronger than power was "faith."
And faith had rewritten the universe.
6 | Epilogue: The Next Scribe
Decades passed. The Old World was forgotten. The Weeping Star was now the Holy Sign, and Xal’Zyul reigned unchallenged.
The "Word" was law.
The Prophet Nathaniel had become legend, a divine scribe who had brought the world its new god.
But one night, in the flickering glow of a candle, a young writer sat at a desk, trembling fingers hovering over a blank page.
The whispers had begun again.
And somewhere in the void, Xal’Zyul smiled.
For the next book was being written.
For the next world was about to be reborn.
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