**EPISODE SEVEN**
**"THE SILENCE THAT COMES AFTER MERCY"**
---
**1. THE WORLD DOES NOT THANK THE SAVED**
The world did not heal.
That was the first lie Milo had to unlearn.
Morning came again, but it arrived without ceremony. No triumphant sunrise. No cosmic sigh of relief. The jungle simply *continued*, as if nothing monumental had occurred - trees growing where impossibility had been moments before, insects resuming their patterns, the air thick with the ordinary cruelty of life persisting.
Milo sat by the ashes of last night's fire, knees pulled to his chest, staring at his hands.
They still felt foreign.
Not injured.
Not altered.
Just… *returned*.
That frightened him more than the pain ever had.
Diana stood a short distance away, sharpening her blade against a stone - not because it needed sharpening, but because she needed the sound. Each scrape was measured. Controlled. An attempt to anchor herself in something simple and repeatable.
Tarzan moved through the treeline silently, gathering fruit, listening for threats that might never come - or might already be too late.
And Gandalf…
Gandalf stared at the sky.
Not at the clouds.
At the *gaps* between them.
"The Editors have withdrawn," Diana said at last, breaking the fragile quiet. "That must count for something."
Gandalf did not turn.
"They have *paused*," he replied. "Which is far more dangerous."
Milo swallowed.
He could still hear Crowe's last words.
*Make better endings.*
The problem was -
Milo was no longer certain endings were his to shape.
---
**2. THE WEIGHT LEFT BEHIND**
Milo stood unsteadily and walked toward the console lying half-buried in leaves nearby.
It no longer hummed with urgency.
No alarms.
No countdowns.
Just a faint, patient glow... like a thing that knew time would come to it eventually.
He hesitated before touching it.
For the first time since he'd built the damned thing, the Anchor did not respond to him.
No recognition.
No synchronization.
No warmth.
It was no longer *his*.
That absence hit harder than the pain ever had.
Diana watched him closely. "You don't have to... "
"I do," Milo said quietly.
He knelt, brushing dirt from the console's surface. The screen flickered, then stabilized.
**ANCHOR STATUS: ACTIVE (REMOTE)**
**BEARER: UNAVAILABLE**
**SIGNAL STRENGTH: WEAKENING**
**NOTE: PRIMARY COMPATIBILITY LOST**
Milo frowned. "Primary compatibility?"
Gandalf approached, staff tapping softly against the earth. "You were not merely a user," he said. "You were a *fit*."
Milo let out a humorless laugh. "So the universe finally admits I was good for something."
"That is not what I meant," Gandalf said gently. "You were… uniquely incomplete. The Anchor could rest inside that contradiction."
Milo looked up sharply. "Rest?"
"Yes," Gandalf said. "And now it cannot."
A low vibration rippled through the ground.
Not an earthquake.
A *response*.
The console chimed again.
**QUERY UNRESOLVED**
**WHO WRITES THE END?**
Milo recoiled slightly.
"It's still asking," he whispered.
Diana's jaw tightened. "Then it hasn't accepted Crowe."
Gandalf shook his head slowly. "No. It has accepted him."
"Then why... ?"
"Because," Gandalf said, eyes darkening, "the Anchor has learned something new."
---
**3. STORIES WITHOUT OWNERS**
The jungle changed subtly as the day progressed.
Not catastrophically.
Not visibly.
But *wrongly*.
Birds repeated the same call twice, perfectly identical, as if a recording had been replayed.
A waterfall in the distance surged upward for a heartbeat before correcting itself.
Tarzan returned with fruit, then paused mid-step.
He sniffed the air.
"There are hunters nearby," he said. "But they are not… moving."
Diana stiffened. "Not moving?"
Tarzan nodded. "They breathe. Their hearts beat. But they are… waiting."
Milo's skin prickled. "Waiting for what?"
Before anyone could answer, a figure emerged from between the trees.
A woman.
Human.
Unarmed.
Her clothing was simple, worn, and entirely unremarkable - except for one thing.
She did not cast a shadow.
"I've been looking for you," she said calmly.
Diana stepped forward instantly, sword raised. "Stay where you are."
The woman smiled politely. "I would prefer not to."
She took another step.
The world did not stop her.
Gandalf's staff flared faintly. "Who are you?"
The woman tilted her head. "That depends," she said. "On whether you need a name… or a function."
Milo felt the console vibrate against his palm.
**UNREGISTERED ENTITY DETECTED**
His breath caught. "You're not an Editor."
"No," the woman agreed. "They answer upward. I answer *laterally*."
Diana narrowed her eyes. "Then speak plainly."
The woman finally looked at Milo.
Really looked.
Her expression softened - almost pitying.
"You broke the hierarchy," she said. "Do you have any idea what that does to a narrative universe?"
Milo swallowed. "I saved it."
"Yes," the woman said. "And now it doesn't know *who it belongs to*."
---
**4. THE FIRST CONSEQUENCE**
She gestured casually toward the treeline.
A man stepped forward.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Hunters.
Villagers.
Soldiers.
All frozen mid-motion, eyes open, faces slack.
"They were part of stories that required heroes," the woman said. "Quests. Rescues. Wars. Sacrifices."
She snapped her fingers.
Nothing happened.
"Notice anything?" she asked.
"They're still," Diana said.
"They are *paused*," the woman corrected. "Their stories cannot proceed without a central gravity."
Milo felt sick. "You're saying... "
"The Anchor stabilized *everything*," she said. "Not just time. Meaning. Priority. Importance."
Gandalf's voice was grave. "And without a bearer... "
"There is no hierarchy of relevance," the woman finished. "Only events. No heroes. No villains. Just… occurrences."
Tarzan looked at the motionless hunters, confusion flickering across his usually instinct-driven calm. "They will starve."
"Yes," the woman said simply. "Eventually."
Milo clenched his fists. "Then tell me how to fix it."
The woman studied him for a long moment.
"You already know the answer," she said.
Milo shook his head. "No. I don't."
She stepped closer.
Close enough that he could see his own reflection in her eyes - slightly delayed.
"You don't need an Anchor bearer," she said softly.
"You need an *author*."
---
**5. THE TRUTH NO ONE WANTED**
Diana's grip tightened on her sword. "If you think you can manipulate him... "
"I'm not here to manipulate," the woman said. "I'm here to warn."
Gandalf frowned. "Warn us of what?"
She turned to him. "The next phase."
The air grew heavy.
"The Editors were never the final authority," she continued. "They maintain structure. Not purpose."
"And who does?" Milo asked.
The woman smiled.
"No one," she said. "That's the problem."
She gestured skyward.
"Once," she said, "stories were written from *outside*. Then beings inside them learned to choose. Heroes emerged. Meaning followed."
She looked back at Milo.
"You removed the last external constraint," she said. "Now stories must decide *for themselves* whether they deserve to continue."
The console pulsed violently.
**SYSTEM SHIFT DETECTED**
**AUTHORSHIP: DISTRIBUTED**
Milo staggered back.
"That's not... " he whispered. "That's chaos."
"Yes," the woman agreed. "And it has already begun."
---
**6. THE QUESTION THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING**
The sky darkened - not with storm clouds, but with absence. Stars winked out even though it was day.
Somewhere far away, something screamed - not in pain, but in confusion.
Diana turned to Milo. "What did you do?"
Milo stared at the console.
At the question still blinking on its screen.
**WHO WRITES THE END?**
His voice shook.
"I thought… if no one controlled it… everyone would be free."
The woman nodded. "Freedom is expensive."
Gandalf placed a hand on Milo's shoulder. "Then the question is no longer who writes the end."
Milo looked up.
"It is," Gandalf said quietly, "whether the world still wants one."
The ground trembled again.
This time...
It did not stop.
---
**END OF EPISODE SEVEN**
(TIME, TARZAN AND TERRIBLE IDEAS will return with an exciting new adventurous episode)
Written By,
Ivan Edwin
Pen Name :Maximus.
©All Rights Reserved.