The ink had barely dried when the gunshot rang out.
In the dim glow of a desk lamp, Ijas's hand trembled as he scribbled the final line in the worn, leather-bound book. His breath was ragged, sweat clinging to his skin as if his body already knew what was coming.
He placed the pen down with careful precision, staring at the words as if they might change if he looked long enough.
"To whoever finds this book—know that I was never meant to write it."
He put down the book on top of another 12 books, And took The Loaded revolver sat beside the manuscript. He picked it up with calm certainty.
Outside, the city buzzed, unaware that history was ending at this very moment.
Ijas exhaled slowly.
A gunshot shattered the silence.
The bullet tore through his skull. He collapsed onto the cold floor.
But as his body hit the ground, a smile curled on his lips.
"It just began."
Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor.
Then—a blinding blue flash.
In an instant, the room was empty. The body was gone.
Only the 7 manuscripts remained.
To be continued…