The silence stretched longer than anyone would have considered normal.
Not because Lin Ye hesitated out of fear, but because the world itself seemed to be waiting for his answer. The forest did not creak. The wind did not move. Even the insects had stopped making sound, as if reality had reduced itself to minimum activity so as not to interfere.
The Conciliator remained motionless, hands relaxed at his sides. He showed no urgency. People like him did not need to pressure others; they trusted that the system's logic would eventually tip the balance.
He Lian, on the other hand, watched Lin Ye with tense attention. She did not intervene. She knew that any additional word could contaminate the decision—and with it, the later record of the event.
The fragmented clock floated in Lin Ye's consciousness with uncomfortable clarity.
It did not vibrate.
It did not warn.
It did not suggest.
For the first time since awakening that forbidden system, there was no guidance.
"Authorized narrative node…" Lin Ye repeated softly, testing the words as if they did not belong to him. "It almost sounds kind."
The Conciliator inclined his head slightly.
"Because it is," he replied, "compared to the alternative. The world does not want war. It wants stable continuity."
"And you?" Lin Ye asked. "What do you want?"
The Conciliator met his gaze directly.
"I want to reduce the number of irreversible decisions," he said. "Every event you mark as significant creates branches no one can close afterward."
Lin Ye nodded slowly.
"So you don't want me to decide," he concluded. "You want me to validate what has already been decided."
He Lian exhaled quietly.
The Conciliator did not deny it.
"We want coherence," he corrected. "The world already has enough broken stories."
Lin Ye closed his eyes.
In the darkness, he did not see specific memories. He saw trends. Entire regions erased to preserve statistical stability. People turned into noise. Lives that had not failed—only become inconvenient.
He also saw the other extreme.
A world saturated with exceptions, where every anomaly demanded permanence, until reality could no longer sustain them all.
"If I accept," Lin Ye said, "what happens to events like the Eastern Road?"
"They will be evaluated," the Conciliator replied. "Classified. Some preserved. Others discarded in a controlled manner."
"And who decides which?"
"The aggregated consensus," he said. "I merely facilitate the process."
Lin Ye opened his eyes.
"That's not a decision," he said. "That's dilution of responsibility."
The fragmented clock beat once.
Heavy.
Final.
Lin Ye took a step forward.
Not toward the Conciliator.
Toward the space between them.
"I will not accept authorization," he said calmly. "Because that means that when the hard moment comes, no one will be responsible. Only the system."
The Conciliator frowned for the first time.
"Then you choose friction," he said. "An increase in collateral victims. An acceleration of conflict."
"No," Lin Ye replied. "I choose that someone bears the weight."
He looked the Conciliator in the eyes.
"Even if that someone is me."
The silence broke.
Not with sound.
With record.
The fragmented clock reacted in a way never seen before. The central gear stopped completely, and for a single heartbeat, all the cracks aligned into a coherent shape. Not a symbol. Not a seal.
A frame.
"Primary decision registered."
"Result: integration rejected."
"Status updated: Independent Narrative Authority."
The Conciliator took a step back.
"That was not accounted for," he said quietly.
"I know," Lin Ye replied. "That's why it works."
He Lian closed her eyes for a brief moment.
When she opened them, there was something new in her gaze.
Respect… mixed with fear.
"Do you understand what you've just done?" the Conciliator asked. "You've created a decision instance outside the Core. Not an anomaly. A source."
"No," Lin Ye corrected. "I've accepted being the point where someone can point and say: this decision had a face."
The forest breathed again.
The wind returned.
The world, almost imperceptibly, adjusted its attention.
The Conciliator remained silent for several heartbeats before speaking again.
"Then this stops being a regional matter," he said. "The Central Continent will feel it. The other continents as well."
"Let them feel it," Lin Ye replied. "As long as they remember why."
The Conciliator inclined his head.
"I won't stop you," he said. "But others will not be so… reasonable."
His figure began to blur—not through forced retreat, but through loss of priority. When he vanished, he left no trace behind.
Only a conscious absence.
He Lian stepped closer to Lin Ye.
"You've just divided the Released," she said. "Some will follow you. Others will blame you."
"That too is memory," Lin Ye replied.
She nodded.
"Then we don't have time to lose. The West is already reacting."
The fragmented clock vibrated again.
Not as a warning.
As the beginning of a phase.
Far away, in sealed chambers of the Aureon Empire, ancient records activated on their own. On continents that had not spoken to one another for ages, forgotten structures began to resonate.
And in the deep layers of the world—where decisions were usually made without witnesses—a new variable appeared, impossible to eliminate without clear consequences:
An existence that did not ask permission to be remembered.
A story that refused to be summarized.
Lin Ye began walking westward.
And with every step, the world understood something more unsettling than any collapse:
This time, correcting would not be enough.
This time, it would have to explain.