1 — The Plain That Remembered Footsteps
The plain of black glass stretched outward to every horizon.
No wind.
No sound.
Only the faint, steady thrum… thrum… —
the pulse of something ancient breathing beneath the surface.
Sunny walked.
His footsteps made no sound on the glass.
But ripples spread out behind him with each step, like waves over still water.
Ahead, at the exact center of the world, the throne waited.
It was not grand.
No gold.
No bone spires.
No cathedral of screaming faces.
Just a crude seat hammered from broken iron, rusted swords, and the melted-down crowns of seven long-dead Sovereigns.
One leg was shorter; it rocked slightly with every phantom breeze.
And someone was already sitting on it.
Not the Forgotten God.
Not yet.
It was him.
Or rather—
the version of him who had never lied, never killed, never survived through ruin and rot.
Sunny-Clean wore plain black clothes with not a single drop of blood on them.
Hair neat.
Silver eyes clear.
Hands clean.
He looked… peaceful.
When he saw Sunny approach, he smiled the way the child had smiled in the end—
small, tired, forgiving.
"You're late," Clean-Sunny said.
His voice was soft.
The voice Sunny had lost somewhere between the First Nightmare and the night he cut Cassie's throat.
Sunny stopped a few steps away.
"I had to pick someone up."
Clean-Sunny's gaze moved to the faint scar over Sunny's heart—the one shaped like a small hand.
"Heavy?"
Sunny exhaled.
"Less than I deserve."
Clean-Sunny nodded.
As if that answer fit the world perfectly.
Then he stood.
The throne creaked behind him with a metallic groan (SKRREEEK).
"I kept the seat warm," he said. "Figured one of us should be rested for this part."
Sunny halted ten meters away.
Between them, the black glass reflected two faces—
one ruined;
one untouched.
Clean-Sunny tilted his head.
"You know what happens if you sit down, right?"
Sunny nodded.
"I become the new Forgotten God. The Spell's dead—something has to hold the pieces together. Someone has to remember every sin, every soul… forever."
"And if you refuse?"
Sunny looked at the empty void around them.
"Everything collapses.
Dream. Waking.
Everything.
No more pain. No more anything."
Clean-Sunny spread his hands.
"So choose.
Be the monster that keeps the universe breathing…
or let it die clean."
The air trembled around the throne.
Not with threat—
with inevitability.
Sunny stepped forward.
SFX: CRACK… CRACK… CRACK…
Black glass fractured beneath him, spider-webbing outward in perfect rings.
He stopped just before the throne.
The names etched into the iron glowed faintly beneath his touch.
Millions.
Billions.
Nephis.
Effie.
Kai.
Cassie.
Jet.
The Child.
His own name was there too—still bleeding.
Clean-Sunny gave him one last, gentle warning.
"You could still walk away. Be the last human. Die free."
Sunny met his eyes.
"No.
I tried that.
It didn't take."
He reached out.
Touched the back of the throne.
2 — The Moment the World Held Its Breath
The iron was warm.
Alive.
It pulsed with the weight of every soul waiting for judgment.
Sunny closed his eyes.
He remembered—
Nephis burning herself to cinders to save strangers.
Effie laughing while her spine shattered because someone had to hold the line.
Kai politely asking for the knife.
Cassie seeing every betrayal in his future and forgiving him anyway.
A child waiting four billion years for someone—anyone—to come back.
He opened his eyes.
"I'm done running."
And he sat.
SFX: WOOOM—!!
The throne did not move.
The world did.
Reality folded around him like wet paper held over flame.
Fragments of the Dream Realm—
shards of the waking world—
every drifting soul, screaming god, forgotten nightmare—
all of them
rushed inward,
pouring into the hollow where his heart had been.
Pain beyond language.
His shadow exploded outward, becoming the sky.
SFX: FWOOSH—!
His blood became rain—
no longer crimson, but clear.
The color of tears finally allowed to fall.
His bones rose, becoming mountains.
His breath unfurled into wind.
Memories that were not his tore through him—
A mother rocking her child as the city fell.
A soldier lowering his gun when the enemy was just a scared sixteen-year-old.
A scientist whispering apologies to the stars.
A god who once had a name
and chose to forget it
so others could live.
Sunny remembered.
Everything.
And he held it.
All of it.
The throne stopped rocking.
The plain of glass curled upward—
becoming a perfect sphere of night, suspended in nothing.
Somewhere, a gentle light wrote words across the void:
[The Spell is dead.]
[Long live the Spell.]
3 — The First Mercy
Sunny opened his eyes.
They weren't black.
They weren't divine gold.
They were silver.
Clear.
Human.
He looked into the newborn void and spoke with a voice containing every voice that had ever lived:
"I remember you."
The darkness trembled—
and for the first time in eternity—
it was silent.
No screams.
No blood rain.
No mountains howling like hungry beasts.
Only quiet.
Only memory.
Only mercy.
From somewhere infinitely far and unbearably close, a child's laugh rose—
bright, free,
fifteen years old
and finally, finally going home.
Sunny smiled.
The throne was uncomfortable.
One leg still wobbled.
But it held.
And so did he.
The End.
Or perhaps—
only the beginning.