Folld was a man who spent every day believing he was a knight.

Even into his old age, he remained unmarried, accompanied only by his long-dead donkey. Yet still, he helped the townsfolk in need—dragging the skeletal remains of his beloved beast behind him, as if stubbornness alone could keep the past alive.

At the age of 99, Folld died.

But death wasn’t the end.

He found himself adrift in a space that was neither here nor there—a room that thickened and stretched, senselessly and endlessly. Around him, every event flickered into existence as text—lines from a book he’d never read but somehow knew intimately. And in the center of it all, he saw something… a creature he could not describe, writing down his foolish actions in real time.

Even after becoming aware, Folld didn’t feel real.

He merely existed—sustained by the thoughts of some higher entity that seemed to be narrating his every move.

He blinked.

Suddenly, the world was back to normal.

But things were off.

There was too much... magic. Or rather, what he now recognized as magical energy—something he’d learned about from the thousands of floating texts he’d absorbed in that strange, in-between room.

And now, he understood.

This world—his world—was nothing more than fiction, rewritten over and over by something he would never truly meet.

That was the moment it all changed.

Folld, once a clueless pawn in a hollow tale, became a narrative saboteur.

A character who knew he was just text.

A textual anomaly capable of cracking through the chalk lines of story structure to rewrite the rules of his own existence.