Chapter 68
However, when he tried to restore the flow of that story, attempting to rearrange it into something different, something longer and more directed, the world no longer offered him a path.
The attempt to expand the moment into a seven-place date was considered a change that should not have occurred, a branching that was never designed to be born from the hands of a creator who had no mandate to arrange it.
That understanding pressed on Theo in a way that did not directly threaten him, yet made his chest feel heavier, as if he were drawing breath in a shrinking room.
He imagined how the flow of this world moved, how every action that exceeded its acceptable limits would invite the hands of the Administrators to correct it.
He weighed how far he had disturbed that balance, pondering whether his desire to give Aldraya something more than a brief moment was truly worth the chain of consequences they revealed.
Everything seemed like threads intertwined, and one of those threads, without him realizing, was himself.
'It's obvious how this will end.
Arguing with Administrators is pointless once they've made up their minds.
Even Cru yesterday was just as firm, and Quorin and Valthura are no less rigid.
There is no benefit in explaining further.'
In the hardening silence between the pulses of the two Administrators' Sa, Theo felt something pinch his instincts, as though the world was forcing him to accept a line that had already been determined.
Behind the steady look in his eyes, his heart moved far more wildly.
He recalled how his encounter with Cru once forced him to face one bitter truth.
Administrators do not discuss.
They do not negotiate.
They decree, and the world adjusts itself without offering anyone room to bargain.
That memory returned like a shadow clinging to the remnants of his breath.
And in the stiffness of the air, he knew that anything he said next would be nothing more than a murmur swallowed by the will above all things.
That truth compelled him to see the two not as mere figures stepping in, but as centers of gravity determining the direction of every scenario.
Though they seemed to speak, though they explained reasons and considerations, it was all just a layer atop decisions already sealed beyond anyone's reach.
Theo felt the reluctance to prolong a conversation with no destination, as if every word leaving his mouth would only echo against a wall—never meant to be heard.
He understood that pattern.
He had walked the same circle when facing Cru, and that memory now stood solid behind him, reinforcing that resistance through words had never been a meaningful option.
With that thought, his body remained in a stance of vigilance, yet inwardly, he stepped back.
He considered what he could do when arguments were no longer a bridge to move forward—only a leftover formality forced by the human instinct to persist.
He gazed at the floating figures of Quorin and Valthura without moving his lips, allowing only the whisper of his thoughts to seep quietly between pulses of halted time.
There was no use insisting, no use overturning their reasoning.
In a flow determined by the highest hand, the voice of a creator without authority was nothing more than a breeze that could not change the direction of the wind.
'If they can erase five techniques just like that, then I really do need to raise the stakes.'
That resolve grew within him like embers pressed by a cold wind—not flaring, but becoming denser, heavier.
Theo recalled the traces of the five techniques he had released earlier, remembering how each ripple of force vanished instantly when it touched the Sa of Quorin and Valthura.
There was no impact.
No clash of concepts.
No trace of resistance.
Everything disappeared as though he had thrown a shadow into emptiness.
But from that very emptiness, his decision hardened.
He knew they stood above all, yet he also knew that not trying meant surrendering before acting.
He had once studied the world that swallowed ninety-nine percent of reality, and deep in that knowledge lay another set of techniques he had not yet used—a set far greater in number than before.
In the silence pressed by the Sa, Theo drew a deep breath that felt like inhaling fragments of a frozen world.
Every layer of his thoughts moved slowly, weighing one by one the techniques forming the sequence of eighteen slashes.
He recognized each pattern and purpose, had practiced them in simulation space, had once imagined what would happen if he unleashed them on an entity that did not obey common laws—and instead commanded them.
Now all those images stacked behind his eyelids, becoming possibilities he refused to discard.
He understood how small the hope was, but he also understood that power left untried would remain only imagination.
With a heart that had chosen its direction, he prepared to turn imagination into reality.
Quorin and Valthura remained suspended high above, showing no sign of change, as if the world around them had ceased.
The pressure of their Sa rolled thinly through the air, making the sky feel heavy like a metal surface forced to carry extra gravity.
Amid the tension, Theo gathered energy within his body, compressing concepts, calling forth the current from the core of a technique deeper than any he had used before.
He did not need to take the first step, for the world before him was already a stage sculpted specifically for this encounter.
All he needed was a will strong enough to begin the sequence of eighteen.
'Night turns to day, day turns to night, yet I remain here, and my intent remains the same—18 techniques, one moment.'
The Sa of both Administrators rolled again like two primordial currents rising from the base of reality, creeping across the air with pressure that made every layer of space feel fragile.
Theo realized that his intention to unleash all eighteen techniques was no longer merely an offensive choice, but the reflex of a writer refusing to let the world direct him without resistance.
But when the aura of Quorin and Valthura intensified—when their Sa expanded and touched the edge of his vision—the stage around him began to distort.
He saw lines of light that had once been straight slowly bend, heard the whisper of broken time at the edge of his ears, and felt that whatever happened next would no longer unfold within the framework of cause and effect he knew.
'This is the moment. Eighteen techniques, one breath, less than two inhalations.
I will do it now!'
"Ridiculous."
Fooooh!
"Do the two of you—Quorin and Valthura, the idiot siblings—truly deserve to wield Sa?
Remember, Sa is not a tool for showing off or proving strength.
You treat Sa as a trophy, not a responsibility that must be upheld."
That intent reached its densest point.
When Theo Vkytor's resolve, will, and ambition tightened into a single line—so taut it felt as though it could shatter his body from within—the world around him trembled like a sheet of glass about to crack.
The eighteen techniques he summoned within formed faint patterns, circling the edge of his consciousness like sword-shadows waiting to be born.
In that moment, the backward-moving flow of time collapsed into a single point.
The sky darkened not from darkness, but from the density of something descending without steps, without light, without any sign of arrival.
For a brief instant, Theo felt the world give way, granting permission—as though reality bowed to witness what he was about to unleash.
To be continued…