The elevator ride to Floor 100 was silent, save for the hum of the "Narrative Drive." The walls of the lift were made of translucent glass, and outside, the view had shifted from the magical floating library to something far more chaotic. They passed layers of clouds that looked like crumpled balls of paper. They saw lightning that didn't strike the ground but froze in mid-air, unfinished.
"I don't like this floor," Sarah whispered, clutching her handbag. "It feels... desperate. Like a scream that got cut off."
"It's the Dome of Drafts," Aryan said, checking the Mirror-Book. But the book was useless here; the pages kept rewriting themselves every few seconds. "This is where the Architect keeps the versions of the story that didn't work. The timelines he abandoned."
Barnaby the fish, currently wearing his propeller hat which spun lazily, sighed. "We've all had rough drafts, haven't we? I once wrote a sonnet about a potato that I thought was genius. Turns out, it was just... starchy."
The elevator chimed—a distorted, glitchy sound—and the doors slid open.
They stepped into a coliseum.
It was vast, its ceiling a dome of shredded parchment that rustled like dry leaves. The floor was littered with "Dead Weapos"—swords that were too big to lift, guns that shot lasers instead of bullets, and magical staffs that had lost their glow. In the center of this wreckage sat a throne made entirely of Rejection Letters.
And on the throne sat Vikrant.
He looked like Aryan. In fact, he looked exactly like Aryan, but sharper, harder. He wore armor made of black spikes—the kind of "edgy" design a writer creates when they are trying too hard to make a character look cool. His face was covered in scars that didn't look natural; they looked decorative.
"Finally," Vikrant said. His voice echoed, sounding like it was coming from a bad radio signal. "The 'Chosen One' arrives. The version the Architect actually liked."
Vikrant stood up. He was holding a weapon that flickered in and out of existence. It was a Sword of Cancelled Plotlines. One second it was a katana, the next a broadsword, the next a chainsaw. It was a weapon of pure instability.
"Who are you?" Aryan asked, stepping forward, his mahogany arm pulsing with a steady, warm light.
"I am Draft 4," Vikrant spat. He walked down the steps of the throne, kicking aside a helmet. "I was the hero before you. But I was too dark. Too gritty. The Architect said I wasn't 'relatable.' So he deleted my world, erased my sister, and threw me in the trash. And then... he wrote you."
Vikrant pointed his flickering sword at Aryan. "You with your 'Wood Magic' and your 'Hope.' You're soft, Aryan. You're a family-friendly edit of a war story."
The Attack on the Heart
Vikrant didn't attack Aryan immediately. He turned his cold, scarred eyes toward Mira.
Mira stood her ground, the Heart of Flesh beating rhythmically beneath her dress. She felt a strange kinship with Vikrant—they were both discarded things. But where she had found love, he had found bitterness.
"And this," Vikrant sneered, walking closer to Mira. "The Love Interest. The Reborn Shadow. A classic trope."
"I am not a trope," Mira said, her voice steady. "I am a choice."
"Are you?" Vikrant laughed. It was a dry, joyless sound. "Do you know why you exist, Mira? You exist to die. That's what the Architect does. He creates beautiful, innocent things like you, makes the hero fall in love with them, and then—snap—he kills you to give the hero 'motivation.' It's called Fridging."
He looked at Aryan, his eyes burning with accusation. "He's using you, Mira. Aryan doesn't love you. He loves the pain of losing you. He loves the drama. You are just Character Development wrapped in a pretty dress."
Aryan felt a cold spike of rage in his chest. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Vikrant countered. "Look at you! You gave up 'Peace'! You thrive on conflict! Without her in danger, you have no story!"
Mira looked at Aryan. For a split second, doubt flickered in her hazel eyes. The world of the Architect was built on narrative rules. Was her love just a plot point? Was her humanity just a setup for a tragic finale?
"Don't listen to him," Aryan said, walking past Vikrant to stand between him and Mira. "He's a deleted draft because he doesn't understand the difference between a Plot and a Life."
Aryan raised his mahogany hand. He didn't summon a weapon. He summoned a Flower.
A small, white jasmine flower grew from his wooden palm. He offered it to Mira.
"A plot point doesn't smell like rain," Aryan whispered to her. "A trope doesn't make me want to learn how to cook stew. I don't love you because it moves the story forward. I love you because you make the story stop."
Mira looked at the flower. She took it. The scent was real. It anchored her.
"You're wrong, Vikrant," Mira said, turning to the failed hero. "I am not here to die for him. I am here to live with him."
The Clash of Canons
Vikrant screamed in frustration. The narrative logic he lived by—where pain was the only truth—was being rejected.
"If the Architect won't kill you, I will!" Vikrant roared.
He swung the Sword of Cancelled Plotlines. It transformed into a jagged bolt of Red Lightning—a magic system that had been deleted from the world centuries ago.
"Look out!" Barnaby yelled, diving to the bottom of his bowl.
The red lightning arced toward them. Aryan didn't dodge. He slammed his mahogany arm into the ground.
"Root of the Present!"
Massive roots of oak and ironwood erupted from the floor, forming a shield. The red lightning hit the wood and fizzled out. Why? because the deleted magic had no "grounding" in the current reality. It was powerful, but it wasn't real.
"Your magic is outdated!" Aryan shouted, charging forward. "It has no roots!"
Vikrant switched tactics. His sword turned into a Void-Blade—a weapon that erased whatever it touched. He swung at Aryan's head.
Aryan ducked, the blade slicing a lock of his hair, which instantly vanished into nothingness.
"The Siege-Engine!" Aryan called out.
The First Son, who had been standing silently by the door, lumbered forward. He didn't attack with speed; he attacked with Mass. He was a physical object in a world of ideas. He slammed his fist into the ground, shaking the entire dome.
Vikrant stumbled. Aryan seized the moment. He didn't use a sword. He used the Chisel of Truth.
He tackled Vikrant, pinning him to the ground among the crumpled papers. He pressed the rusted iron chisel against Vikrant's chest armor.
"Why are you fighting for him?" Aryan yelled, staring into his own face. "The Architect threw you away! Why defend him?"
Vikrant stopped struggling. He looked up at the ceiling of the dome, at the infinite white void beyond.
"Because he's afraid," Vikrant whispered, his voice trembling. "And if he's afraid, we should be terrified."
Aryan paused. "Afraid of what? The Architect controls everything."
"No," Vikrant said. A tear of black ink rolled down his scarred cheek. "The Architect isn't the god, Aryan. He's just the employee."
Vikrant pointed a trembling finger upward.
"He's afraid of The Reader."
The Cosmic Horror
The silence in the Dome of Drafts was absolute. Even Barnaby stopped bubbling.
"The Reader?" Aryan asked.
"The one who watches," Vikrant explained, his voice hollow. "The giant eye in the sky. The Architect deletes us because if the story gets boring... if the pacing slows down... if the hero isn't perfect... The Reader closes the book."
Vikrant grabbed Aryan's collar. "And when the book closes, Aryan... everything goes black. Forever. The Architect is trying to write the Perfect Novel so The Reader never leaves. That's why he edits us. That's why he tortures us. He's dancing for a giant he cannot see."
Aryan pulled back, his mind reeling. The Architect wasn't a tyrant; he was a desperate performer. And Aryan's rebellion? It was threatening to make the story "messy," risking the Reader's attention.
"Then we have to change the audience," Aryan said, standing up. He offered a hand to Vikrant. "Or we write a story so good that The Reader can't close the book."
Vikrant looked at the hand. He looked at the Sword of Cancelled Plotlines, which dissolved into smoke. He didn't take Aryan's hand. Instead, he reached into his armor and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
"This is the Secret Passage," Vikrant said. "It leads directly to the Architect's desk. I saved it from my deleted timeline. Use it."
Vikrant began to fade, his body turning into ink dust.
"I'm a deleted scene, Aryan," Vikrant smiled—a sad, genuine smile. "I can't stay in the Final Draft. But... give them a better ending than I got."
With a soft sigh, Vikrant vanished.
Aryan stood alone in the center of the dome, holding the crumpled paper. He looked at Mira, Rhea, Sarah, and the Giant.
"The Reader," Aryan muttered. He looked up at the sky, almost as if he were trying to see you—the person reading this chapter right now.
"Let's go meet the Architect," Aryan said. "And tell him we're not afraid of the ending."