Tom narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by thread of fate?"

Ice's calm, chilling voice echoed through the vast grasslands.

"You've heard the saying that everyone's fate is written, haven't you?" he said. "But fate isn't a straight line, Tom. It's a web — divided into countless branches, each connected to another's thread. Every choice, every person you meet, is bound by these invisible connections."

He raised his hand, and the air shimmered with golden strands stretching endlessly in every direction.

"Your thread is tied to your parents, your friends, your enemies. And because of that, no single author decides your entire life. One can shape your beginning and end, but the journey between them… that's influenced by every author whose characters are tied to yours."

Tom's brows furrowed. "So, if an author wants to kill a character—"

"He can't," Ice interrupted. "Not unless every other author whose stories intersect agrees to it. Only when all have given up their connections can the author end that character's existence."

Tom frowned. "But… death isn't the end, is it?"

Ice smiled faintly. "No. Death is only another beginning. An author can't erase someone who already existed in the past. What they do instead is rewrite them — send them back to the past with memories intact, reincarnate them in another form, or strip their memories away entirely and make them a new person. But even then, that author never has full control. Those threads still connect the reborn soul to others."

He stepped closer, his tone deepening. "That's why writing a story isn't as simple as it seems. Reality doesn't just bend because you write. True reality—true stories—depend on every author, every character, and how their threads of fate intertwine."

Tom's eyes darkened. "But the story I wrote… it became real instantly. I even erased characters myself."

Ice looked at him. "You can do that—but to truly gain mental power, you must write something far more complex. The more authors connected, the more layered the world becomes. Multiple main characters, shared rules, conflicting fates—only then does the story reach its true form."

He paused. "Do you know why we gave only the two of you the pens?"

Tom shook his head. "Maybe because I was alone. As for her… I don't know."

"You're right," Ice said. "We deliberately chose those who were isolated. You both had no remaining connections of fate. No ties. No attachments. If we hadn't given you the pens, you'd both be dead right now."

Tom stiffened. "What?"

"It means you're free from fate," Ice explained. "Your authors are gone. You are unbound. You can do anything — because no thread controls you now. You are both authors yourselves."

Tom lowered his gaze, whispering, "So that's why everyone ignores me. I haven't spoken to anyone in days…"

Emilia chuckled softly. "Like you'd talk to anyone even if they did."

Tom glared at her, but Ice ignored the exchange. "If you have no further questions, you two can now collaborate. Create something vast — something complex enough to attain true mental power."

Neither of them spoke.

And then, with a flicker, the world twisted again.

In an instant, they were back in Emilia's luxurious room. The air felt heavier than before.

Emilia turned toward him. "So… what kind of story should we write?"

Tom's voice came out low, bitter. "We shouldn't write anything."

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"Because I can't trust anyone." His tone cracked. "That Mr. Who—he forced others to write. And to fight him, they created me. A lone character born from their selfish plans. Because of them, I've suffered endlessly. You think I can trust anyone after that?"

Tom stood, heading toward the door. "I'm done."

Emilia blocked his path. "Even if they used us, this could still save everyone from Mr. Who's control!"

"I don't care." Tom's voice trembled with anger. "You can play the hero if you want, but I won't. You were born rich, surrounded by friends and comfort. You had everything. I had nothing. My parents died, and I've been alone ever since. I've had enough."

He tried to walk past her—but she stepped closer, her voice breaking as she whispered,

"I didn't have everything, Tom… because I didn't have you."