Now Arthuria opened her heart to see what happen in her eyes.

  The Hollow God would not stay lost to death.

  Arthuria towered over the broken throne, steam rising from her armor—a repulsive mix of blood and rust, her lungs struggling for air. The cathedral groaned, its pillars crumbling at the base, gears trembling dangerously in the ancient rafters, stone cracking under the sluggish rhythm of a dying Heaven.

  With grim determination, she dragged Excalibur across the floor. The blade cried out against the marble—a harsh clash of metal on metal. It resonated like the world itself pushing her away.

  A tremor coursed above the throne.

  Arthuria stopped.

  Her fingers gripped the broken hilt tightly.

  Rust recoiled. Bone shed its decay. Thick strands of iron twisted together into a spine. A hand—skeletal, bent the wrong way, oozing ink—gripped the armrest. The Hollow God rose, remaking itself with a terrifying inevitability, like a nightmare that won’t let go.

  Arthuria didn’t even flinch. “You’re already dead.”

  The creature’s jaw unhinged, twisting into a shape that could form words.

  “Arthuria Britannia—”

  In a blink, her blade was at its throat. “Don’t act like you know me.”

  “You’ve killed the vessel,” the creature replied, its voice deepening—no longer empty, no longer broken. “But you don’t grasp it—‘tis not the author you’ve slain.”

  Arthuria's gaze, sharp as a blade, narrowed in disbelief. “You’re not the Hollow God.”

  “Nay.” The creature rose, standing tall. Metal tendons tightened, and massive wings spread out—not covered in feathers, but draped in laws, sacred texts bound to bone. “I am the Auditor, dressed in remnants of what was once complete.”

  “Explain,” Arthuria ordered, stepping closer. The point of her blade stayed firm; it was she who trembled, a restless ember in the cold night.

  The Auditor tilted its head, much like an executioner deciding the fate of an unsuspecting soul.

  “Ledger-Class. Echelon III. My directive is to ensure the very collapse of Heaven.”

  Arthuria spat out rust-colored saliva, a mark of her fury. “Then your god is just a puppet.”

  “A bait,” it stated with assurance. “A test. A threshold to cross.”

  The Auditor held its gaze steady, lacking the ability to blink.

  “To see what happens when a mortal destroys what was meant to last forever.”

  Arthuria's jaw clenched, a reminder of her bottled anger. “Then let this trial reach its end.”

  “Incorrect.” The stones of the cathedral shook with the Auditor's words, as if the very air trembled in reply. “The fall of the puppet is only Step One.”

  “So, what’s in Step Two?” Her voice cut through the air, as solid as iron, lacking any warmth.

  “Extraction.”

  “Extraction of what, if I may inquire?”

  A heavy silence settled, thick as night, as if the world itself held back its breath. The quiet rustle of parchment drifted in from the dark corners that waited just out of sight.

  “…You.”

  From deep within the earth, ink-colored chains burst forth, twisting like serpents as they slithered around Arthuria, ensnaring her ankles, wrists, and throat. They were cold but burned with intense heat. More than just bindings for her body, these chains linked to the very core of her being.

  Arthuria's lips twisted into a fierce snarl. “Do you really think you can change my fate?”

  “You defied oblivion.”

  “You stood strong when your name vanished into the void.”

  “You defeated a god whose immortality was embedded in sacred texts.”

  The Auditor leaned in, its voice low and chilling, forged from bone and dark magic.

  “You are an anomaly.”

  Arthuria's lips curled into a cruel smile, marked by the aftermath of her struggle. “So be it.”

  With a fierce roar, she broke her right arm free—muscles tearing, bones cracking—and swung with all her might. Excalibur collided with the chains in a thunderous impact. Her boots kicked up dust and gouged deep grooves into the marble as she charged ahead.

  The Auditor stood still. “Violence brings no gain. It is meaning that leads to ruin.”

  Arthuria’s scream sliced through the air—not a cry of fear, but a storm of fury. “Then let this act carry weight—!”

  She plunged Excalibur deep into its chest.

  In that instant, the Auditor bled.

  Ink poured out like broken veins under immense strain. The very mechanisms of the cathedral jolted, startled by the upheaval. Chains above snapped in a deafening uproar. The Auditor stared at the wound, shock flickering in whatever might be its gaze—a reckoning with its own mortality.

  Arthuria leaned in closer, her voice shaking with the heat of her anger:

  “Send this message to your masters—Heaven bleeds tonight.”

  The Auditor staggered backward, disbelief carved into its features. “This can’t be. A Ledger-Class entity can’t—”

  “Die?” Arthuria pressed, her fury igniting within her as it tore through the sacred text woven into its being. “Everything born must face the cold grip of death.”

  “We are the embodiment of concept.”

  “Then let the flames consume you.”

  Light—pure, blinding—burst forth from the gaping wound. The Auditor’s scream echoed—a mixture of countless lost souls manifesting through one throat. Spirits quivered in their binds. The cathedral creaked, its iron ribs splintering as if they were mere flesh.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  With a fierce grip, Arthuria yanked the blade from its depths, watching as it collapsed, metal melting as if it couldn’t withstand true pain.

  “Look at you now,” she spat, her voice venomous. “You’re not divine. Just a parasite wrapped in a decayed shell.”

  The Auditor struggled to rise, its knees trembling, ink pouring forth like a broken fountain from its shattered jaw.

  “You… don’t understand…”

  “I won’t waste my breath on your lies.” Her heart pounded, fury and pain writhing inside her.

  “We did not measure your conviction.”

  Arthuria's breath caught, a chill racing down her back.

  “We did test your insatiable desire.”

  Her heart wavered. “…What cruel joke is this?”

  The Auditor's tone softened, taking on a gentler rhythm that felt surprisingly human.

  “You are not the chosen one from Heaven.”

  Arthuria drew back, her throat tightening, a suffocating grip of dread seizing her.

  “You're just a simple stand-in.”

  “No.” Her voice cracked like fragile glass. “Don’t twist this truth.”

  “If Heaven fails, the world will demand a new record.”

  “A new author will emerge.”

  “A fresh code of laws will be written.”

  Arthuria shook her head fervently. “I protect the living. I bury the dead. I do not reshape existence!”

  “You’ve killed a god, yet the universe hasn’t restored itself.”

  Arthuria fought back the rising panic. “Shut up.”

  “You speak… and reality listens.”

  “You strike… and eternity bleeds.”

  “You stand where angels have fallen.”

  The walls began to peel back, reality itself tearing apart—fragments of scripture spiraled wildly, creating a storm of commands and fading memories.

  Ink chains broke free and writhed in the air, hungry and relentless.

  Arthuria raised her sword. “Stay back—”

  But the ink coiled around Excalibur’s hilt, sensing her trepidation.

  The sword screamed, a horrifying, tormented cry.

  Runes that had long been silent ignited with energy. The damaged blade glowed with an otherworldly blue-white light. Rust faded away. The metal warped under an unseen pressure.

  Arthuria gasped, her breath caught in her throat. “Stop—end this madness—!”

  The Auditor spoke softly:

  “You’ve broken the decree of immortality.”

  “You’ve stained the records of law with blood.”

  “Heaven cannot erase your existence.”

  As the world shifted, a loud roar filled the air. Statues shattered like thin glass. The ground twisted underfoot, heaving as if some dying creature was trapped underneath. Chains, once hanging from the skies, fell down—cut by a command invisible yet acutely felt.

  Arthuria fought against the sword’s grip, her effort painful and evident. The ink wrapped around the blade, tying it to her hand, merging metal with flesh in a horrific union.

  “No—NO!” she shouted, her voice a harsh, desperate cry against the chaos.

  Then the light grew even stronger, a blinding glare that consumed the shadows.

  Excalibur exploded into a burst of light, sending waves of furious brightness surging around.

  Steel changed, reshaping itself into something both sacred and cursed. The crack sealed, each pulsing seam like a heartbeat—alive in its own right. Runes twisted and crawled along the blade’s edge, consuming corruption, digesting the remains of divine flesh as it transformed with every agonizing heartbeat, as red as blood.

  Arthuria's scream cut through the air—a sound torn from the very depths of her being, raw and unfiltered, an outcry of her suffering.

  When the light finally faded, the sword rested whole in her hands.

  Something... older.

  Something far more ravenous.

  The Auditor’s gaze fixated on the newly forged weapon, its voice trembling with disbelief:

  “...ledger-class artifact identified.”

  “EXCALIBUR: RECORD OF FANGS.”

  “Authority: deletion.”

  “Function: rewrite divine law by violence.”

  Arthuria recoiled, holding the sword away from her body, horror creeping into her like a relentless vine. The blade reflected nothing—neither light nor shadow, or even the face of its wielder.

  With a voice as fragile as autumn leaves, she asked, “You think I’ll serve Heaven?”

  “No.”

  The Auditor slumped, its grand wings turning to tattered pages, like petals dropping from a dying flower.

  “Heaven will serve you,” it said.

  Time froze for Arthuria, each heartbeat weighing heavy with a thousand unshed tears.

  The creature, once an imposing judge, struggled to stand, using broken thrones for weak support. Ink dripped from its faceplate, pooling at its feet, blending with the stench of burnt metal and wilted flowers—a nightmare of despair.

  “You are no longer a knight.”

  “You are the ledger.”

  “Class: Deletion.”

  “You may erase any name. Any deity. Any history.”

  Arthuria’s stomach twisted with pain. “Take back what you said.”

  “You don’t get to refuse. Your bones have accepted the law.”

  Arthuria moved forward, her newly forged blade crackling with a wicked energy.

  “Then die with your law.”

  With fierce determination, she drove the sword into the Auditor’s skull.

  Black flames erupted—violent, soundless, and total. Scripture turned to ash as if caught in a storm. Runes screamed, erased by a power that surpassed mere edicts. The cathedral shook as the Auditor fell, not by command, but by her unwavering choice.

  Dust settled like a heavy shroud of grief.

  A whisper hung in the air.

  “Ledger accepted.”

  Arthuria yanked the blade out, her breath coming in rough gasps.

  Stumbling, she escaped from the crumbling cathedral.

  Outside, the sky had vanished.

  Clouds transformed into pages, and stars became punctuation marks. The moon hung out, a sharp disk of parchment, bleeding ink into the encroaching darkness. The atmosphere vibrated with an unspoken order, a chilling quiet that resonated.

  Arthuria looked up, fear coursing through her veins. “…What have you done to my world?”

  The sword pulsed violently in her grip.

  With every step, the ground beneath her changed. Grass wilted and twisted into strange shapes. Stones shifted, bending to her will. Even the wind altered its path, responding to her breath.

  “No. No! This can’t be—” Arthuria fell to her knees, the weight of despair crashing down on her. “Not me. I won’t become this.”

  Excalibur burned cold, piercing her very soul.

  A voice—her voice—echoed in her mind:

  WRITE.

  Arthuria shook her head violently, her voice quaking with determination. “No!”

  DELETE.

  “I refuse!”

  Her body twisted as a storm of emotions consumed her. In desperation, she drove the sword into the dry earth, the sound resonating like a mournful cry in the vast desolation.

  Ink surged forth—devouring everything it touched. The scent of dying flowers filled the air, mingling with the metallic aroma of looming destruction. Trees disintegrated to ash. Birds vanished into nothingness. Life itself was cursed, stripped of memory and existence.

  Arthuria’s scream shattered the silence, a primal wail until her throat bled. “STOP!”

  The blade flickered, its light dimmed, and fell into an unsettling stillness.

  A thick silence surrounded her.

  She crawled across the barren wasteland, her hands trembling, each movement a battle against the crushing weight of despair.

  “I will not become your weapon of ruin. I will not be your replacement.”

  The world reacted with a cold indifference, lost in its own decline.

  With a determined grimness, Arthuria forced herself to stand.

  She raised Excalibur—the Record of Fangs—with quaking resolve, aiming its blade at the endless void of parchment skies.

  “Listen and heed my voice.”

  Her words poured out like a relentless tide—steady, icy, and firm, echoing in the still air.

  “You have picked the wrong maiden.”

  The sword released a stream of dark, thick ink that pooled at her feet.

  “I won’t be your scribe. Never your record. Never your god.”

  Lines of black script twisted across the sky, as the very essence of reality shook—was it as though Heaven itself hesitated to breathe?

  “I am Arthuria Britannia. The world isn’t just a story to be told; it’s a life that demands to be lived with passion.”

  A tear formed in the sky—an expanse of white, devoid of stars, stretching endlessly.

  Something stirred beyond—ancient and eternal, its gaze unwavering.

  Arthuria managed a smile—broken and drained, a mere ghost of happiness.

  “Send forth your Auditors. Dispatch your quills. Unleash your departed gods.”

  Her voice—like a hammer striking stone—resonated with relentless intensity.

  “I’ll wipe out every last one.”

  The rift in the heavens sealed with a crushing finality.

  Silence consumed the world, an oppressive blanket of stillness.

  Then came a whisper, soft yet heavy—a command from a judge long forgotten:

  “Ledger confirmed.”

  “Arthuria Britannia II—Deletion-Class War Sovereign.”

  With a heavy heart, Arthuria bowed her head. That title was a burden, a grim fate.

  “So be it,” she said, her voice empty, carrying the weight of despair. “If Heaven wants a monster…”

  She dragged the sword across the ground, its blade tearing into the earth.

  “…then I’ll become one.”

  Each step she took changed reality itself.

  Every breath she took distorted the divine air.

  High above, within the cold mechanics of a dying divinity, something quivered for the first time in ages.

  Heaven faltered—a delicate flower wilting under the weight of despair.