The Spiral Core was not a place.
It was the unwound heartbeat of reality. A space between pulse and pause, between author and authored. Time here was neither flowing nor frozen. It listened. And it waited.
Darius stepped into it naked, cloaked only in belief.
Every myth he had crafted, every soul he had rewritten, every orgasm that had carved liturgy into flesh—they echoed behind him like divine footsteps.
And ahead, the Observer loomed.
Not a being. Not even a presence.
A shape made of stillness. A sphere of nothing that shimmered with infinite unwritten quills. It had no face, but Darius could feel it watching.
Watching.
Always watching.
---
"You've rewritten too much," the Observer said.
Not with a voice.
With revision.
Reality around Darius buckled. His name flickered. His limbs twisted into mortal frailty. His dominion collapsed.
But only for a moment.
Then he laughed.
