UmbralWhite (TheFrozenMoogle)
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Chapter 49
🕑 Added 2025-03-21 23:14:32 +0000 UTCAN: Final Time I'll state this about Lumivis. All bold or no bold. Just see Lumivis as Bold for me ;w;
“What…what is this?” I nearly screamed out loud. Seeing the person on the cover – it was me.
“Oh. That’s not great. Well I now know what your challenge for the evening is.” Lumivis spoke with a voice of a thousand sorrows. His entire inhuman gaze still managed to convey the feeling of worry.
“Yeah. I think I do too. You said that the person placed within isn’t giving a challenge based on them though, right?”
“Yes, the halls of the Demon Lord of libraries do indeed, not create challenges for the evening based on the person. This doesn’t mean a librarian or Danatallion himself can’t interfere.”
I lightly rubbed the temples on the side of my head, fighting yet another migraine. I keep having situations that cause everything to simply compound and hurt. Opening the book, it was indeed a retelling of my entire story, as of current day. Although… many of the details were just wrong.
***
There are many stories told of Alexander Duarte, and not all of them agree. Some whisper his name in reverence, others in fear, and more than a few in outright disbelief. Was he a scholar who became a warrior, or a warrior who found solace in the written word? A revolutionary who defied the laws of Otherrealms, or a mere traveler swept up by forces far beyond his understanding? The truth, as it often does, lies somewhere between the inked lines of history.
What we do know is this—Alexander Duarte walked where no man was meant to tread. And he did not walk alone.
The Accidental Arrival
To begin the tale of the Paper Walker, one must start not with grand purpose or prophecy, but with an accident. The boy who would become legend did not seek adventure; it sought him. Thrust into Danatallion’s Halls, a place of forgotten knowledge and buried madness, Alexander should have perished within days, if not hours. By all known accounts, he did.
For a time, his body lay still, unresponsive. His mind wandered beyond the veil, and some claim he conversed with a being whose name should not be spoken. Others insist that he wrote his own fate into existence, scrawling his will across the unseen pages of reality. What is certain is that when he woke, the library that should have consumed him was instead his playground. And at his side, a bird—no, a spirit, shimmering like a jewel—watched over him, its masked visage unreadable.
His survival, however, was merely the beginning.
A Pact Written in Ink
The story of Alexander’s arte—his Paper Manipulation—is well-documented, though rarely agreed upon. Some say it manifested in desperation, a final plea written into existence as he clung to life. Others believe it was gifted to him by Danatallion himself, a boon from a patron unknown. Whatever the case, what began as simple control over parchment evolved into something far greater.
His paper moved like living things, folding into weapons, shields, even creatures that slithered and skittered in his shadow. With a flick of his wrist, he could rewrite the battlefield, create walls of scripture that bent reality, and snatch words from books to make them his own.
But power, as always, came with a price.
It is here that the accounts begin to splinter. Some scholars claim that his power was limitless, that he could enter any book, any story, and rewrite its ending. Others suggest that the ability was unstable, that with each use, he lost fragments of himself—his memories, his emotions, his humanity. Perhaps this is why he forged a contract with Vanitas, a creature of whimsy and malice, a being bound in theatricality and excess. Or perhaps Vanitas had always been there, whispering from the margins of Alexander’s story, waiting for him to turn the page.
Regardless, their pact was signed not in blood, but in something far more permanent.
Ink.
The Walker’s Burden
With his newfound abilities and a reputation growing beyond the halls of Danatallion, Alexander took his first steps into Otherrealms. Unlike most Walkers, who tread cautiously and preserve neutrality, he left an unmistakable mark upon every realm he entered. Some welcomed him as a scholar, eager for his insight into forgotten texts. Others saw him as a threat, a being who could rewrite the fate of entire civilizations.
His legend solidified when he walked into a realm teetering on the edge of war and, through words alone, ignited the flames of battle. Some say he did so intentionally, others claim it was his very presence—his mere existence—that caused the realm to shatter into conflict.
What is undeniable is that when he left, the world was different.
His companions, too, were drawn to him not by chance, but by some force greater than themselves. V, the trapsmith whose explosives could carve stories into stone. Ten, the bound fighter who danced in chains, defying gravity and fate alike. Cordelia, the psyker whose mind touched the fabric of dreams. Wallace, the shieldbearer who could hold back the very tide of destruction. Sven, the gun mage who tripled every shot, his bullets weaving their own tales in mid-air.
Each of them, in some way, was an echo of Alexander’s story—a chapter, a footnote, a contradiction.
The Unwritten Truths
Of all the tales surrounding Alexander Duarte, the most fascinating are the ones that contradict.
One account claims he once spoke to a Dominus as an equal, negotiating the laws of reality itself. Another insists that he insulted a god-king and was promptly struck down, only to return days later, grinning as if he had planned it all. Some whisper that he stole a skillcube from an emperor’s vault and gave it to a peasant child, laughing as the course of history was irrevocably altered. Others argue that he was that peasant, rewriting his past to suit his needs.
A particularly outlandish version suggests that he once dueled himself—a future version of Alexander, one who had grown weary of the ink-stained path. The battle lasted three days, pages of forgotten history fluttering around them as they clashed, rewriting and undoing reality with each strike. When it was over, only one remained.
No one knows which.
The Final Page
How does a story like Alexander Duarte’s end?
Some claim he vanished, slipping between the lines of his own tale, forever walking the margins of reality. Others insist that he ascended, no longer bound by the constraints of ink and flesh. A few darker accounts suggest that he was consumed—that his power grew too vast, too uncontrollable, and that he was ultimately undone by the very words he wielded.
And yet, there are those who believe he still lingers.
A traveler who arrives at the turn of great events, a flicker of parchment seen in the corner of one’s vision. A page in a forgotten tome, still warm to the touch. A whisper of ink flowing across paper when no hand is there to write it.
The Paper Walker may no longer be bound to a single story.
But his tale is far from over.
The Duel of Ink and Color
The duel began, as all things between Alexander and Vanitas did, with a flourish.
They stood across from each other in the boundless halls of Danatallion’s library, an ocean of tomes stretching into infinity. The ceiling was lost to swirling constellations of forgotten words, and beneath their feet, ink bled from the pages of unwritten books, pooling like liquid shadow. Silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of paper as the books watched.
Vanitas, ever theatrical, made the first move—not with violence, but with presentation.
He twirled into existence, his flamboyant robes a riot of colors too saturated to exist naturally. Each step he took left behind a smear of hues that bled into the surrounding bookshelves, repainting the very structure of the library with his presence. With a grin so wide it verged on lunacy, he flourished his arms.
“Alexander,” Vanitas purred, his voice silk and venom, “if you wished to challenge me, you need only have asked.”
Alexander did not respond. He simply lifted his hand.
Paper fluttered into existence from the void, each sheet imbued with intent. His Arte hummed in his veins, ink lines shifting across the air as he wrote his battle into reality. A single flick of his wrist, and the pages spiraled around him, forming a storm of sharpened edges and hidden truths.
Vanitas sighed dramatically. “No opening monologue? No cutting remark? You wound me, truly.” He placed a hand over his heart, the color around it draining for a moment before flaring back into vibrancy. “Then let us begin.”
With a snap of his fingers, color exploded.
Wherever Vanitas moved, the world warped. The shelves around him shifted into a theatrical stage, the books morphing into painted props and elaborate backdrops. He did not walk so much as perform, each step a dance upon a set of his own making.
Alexander countered without hesitation.
The moment Vanitas’ power spread, Alexander’s paper surged forth. His pages consumed the color, blanketing it in monochrome, rewriting it into something stark and rigid. Where Vanitas was theatrical, Alexander was precise. His paper extended like blades, geometric and absolute, slicing through the shifting set pieces and unraveling Vanitas’ illusions.
Vanitas laughed, effortlessly stepping between the folds of reality. He painted his defenses mid-motion, trails of vibrant strokes becoming solid walls and barriers that flickered between dimensions. A brush of his hand, and his colors dripped into living entities—faceless jesters of oil and light, lunging for Alexander with clawed hands.
Alexander did not falter.
The pages around him bent and folded, forming a vast origami construct in response. A great wyrm of scripture, its form crafted from the language of forgotten gods, coiled around him and struck forward. The jesters burst into splashes of watercolor upon impact, their hues staining the library floor before fading into irrelevance.
Vanitas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? You have been practicing.”
Alexander finally spoke. “I’ve been waiting.”
And then, he attacked in earnest.
A gesture, and walls of text erupted, forming shifting barriers of narrative that trapped Vanitas within. Each page was a law, a decree of reality, constraining his movement. Vanitas, ever the trickster, attempted to rewrite them—his fingers stained with ink, twisting words into nonsense. But Alexander had anticipated this. The moment Vanitas altered a word, the pages devoured his ink, consuming his Charity and reflecting it back in blank silence.
Vanitas frowned.
Then, he smiled.
“Well played.”
And then, he vanished.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed.
Vanitas did not simply teleport—he rewrote his position, leaving a smear of missing context where he once stood. Before Alexander could react, color rained from above.
A thousand hues, shifting between the impossible and the unreal, cascaded from the ceiling. Each droplet of pigment carried meaning—sorrow, mirth, agony, euphoria—all blending into an overwhelming onslaught of sensation. Where they landed, the library changed. Laws became whims. The bookshelves grew teeth. The floors turned to velvet. The air itself pulsed with erratic, conflicting emotions.
Alexander gritted his teeth.
Too much color.
He focused. Willed his Arte into motion. The paper storm around him became a dome, shielding him from the deluge. But Vanitas was already moving, stepping through his own chaos with effortless grace.
“Tell me, dear Alexander,” he mused, twirling in midair as though gravity did not apply to him, “have you ever truly felt color? Or are you too bound to your ink-stained world?”
He gestured, and from behind him emerged a bow.
Not a real one.
A mockery. A painting of a bow, its form shifting between abstraction and realism. Yet the moment Vanitas drew the string, the illusion became reality. A phantasmal arrow formed, its tip not a point, but a smear of unwritten possibility.
Alexander’s body reacted before his mind. His own bow, crafted from liquid starlight and parchment, appeared in his grip. He pulled back, and three arrows of erratic motion formed, spiraling around each other.
They fired at the same time.
Vanitas’ arrow did not fly. It simply was.
The two projectiles met in the air.
The moment they collided, the world split.
Reality peeled away in fractured pages, ink spilling between the cracks as color bled into it. Alexander found himself thrown back, his feet skidding across the transformed library floor. Vanitas remained floating, grinning, though his form flickered—his color draining for a split second before flaring back into vibrancy.
For the first time, Vanitas looked genuinely entertained.
“Oh, now we’re having fun.”
Alexander did not share his amusement. He flicked his fingers, and the remaining pages of his Arte folded in on themselves, forming a second him. A doppelgänger, a story of himself made real. Vanitas clapped, delighted.
Then he split, his form smearing into two, then three.
The battle resumed.
Ink and color, page and paint, reality and illusion.
A duel where both combatants rewrote the very nature of existence with each passing second, each seeking to define the narrative before the other could claim it.
And yet, through it all, there was a single truth:
Neither could ever truly erase the other.
For what was a book without color?
And what was color without the pages to frame it?
***
“Is… is all this true? Would this happen?”
My voice was tight, uncertain. My own fingers clenched around the edges of the tome, the pages brittle yet suffocating in their weight. The words swam before my eyes, taunting me with possibilities that felt too real, too raw.
Across from me, Lumivis remained composed, the glow of his eyes dim in the library’s low light. The specter of knowledge was a patient thing, unfazed by mortal distress. He observed Alexander with the same distant curiosity he might afford an unfinished manuscript.
“No, Alexander,” Lumivis said, voice as smooth as vellum. “No, it is not all true, nor will it all happen. A snake best lies in the grains of sand of truth. For a desert to be formed, it must first take hold.”
The spirit gestured toward the book, ink shifting on the pages as though the duel itself was still unfolding, caught in an endless loop of paper and fate.
“Yes, some of it will be true,” Lumivis continued, the light of the surrounding books reflecting in his irises, shimmering like molten silver. “But ask yourself: do you see yourself as you are in that tome?”
I hesitated, glancing at the depiction of myself—or something like myself. A warrior of ink and thought, a living tempest of parchment and cutting words. A force of will that could stand against Vanitas not just in combat, but in the very nature of storytelling itself.
“…I mean,” I murmured, rubbing the back of my neck, “I’d like to be.” My lips curled in something between amusement and frustration. “This entire damned library knows I’d love to punch that clown in his stupid face.”
Lumivis let out a knowing hum.
“Yes. It does.”
My eyes flickered back to him, suspicion creeping in. “And why would it show me something like that? You think it’s a warning?”
Lumivis exhaled, the weight of ageless wisdom pressing into the space between them. “It is a desire.” He tilted his head, studying Alexander like a puzzle with missing pieces. “Greed is already one of your vices. Gluttony is another. Do you desire to be a child of wrath as well?”
I scowled but did not immediately answer.
Lumivis stepped forward, unhurried. “Think. The library doesn’t merely reveal futures—it presents what could be. You have just read The Betrayal of Bath, have you not?”
Alexander flinched. The cursed tome still lay open on the pedestal behind him, its text an echo in his mind, a lingering whisper of necrotic ambition.
The knight who had sold his soul. The kingdom drowned in undeath. The endless hunger, the rage that never quieted.
My jaw tightened. “That was different.”
“Was it?” Lumivis’s tone was soft but sharp, like the edge of a well-worn blade. “A man, consumed by his hunger for vengeance, trading away his soul for the power to claim it? If I were to remove the names and place you in his stead, would it read so differently?”
“That’s not—” I inhaled sharply, cutting myself off. I knew the argument brewing on my tongue was fragile.
I wanted power.
I wanted to be strong enough to stand against the forces that mocked me, that challenged me, that tried to define me. And Vanitas, with his relentless games and unreadable motives, was the most infuriating of them all.
But I was not the knight. I would never be the knight.
“…Wrath isn’t the same,” I muttered. “Wanting to hit that bastard isn’t the same as turning into—into that.” He jabbed a finger toward The Betrayal of Bath. “I don’t want to raise a damn army of corpses just because I hate someone.”
“No,” Lumivis admitted, “you do not.”
I exhaled in relief—until Lumivis added, “But what if you did not need an army?”
The words sent a chill down my spine.
Lumivis gestured, and the book in my hands twitched, the ink within writhing. The duel was still there, still playing out, showing myself a version of me locked in a battle of wills against Vanitas. A confrontation of pages and colors, of rewritten fates and unfathomable power.
“That,” Lumivis murmured, “is what the library offers you. Not a future carved in stone, but the possibility of a path.” His glowing eyes flickered. “Do you not see it? Your desires shape your potential. You are already strong, Alexander. Stronger than you know. And if you push further, if you grasp at what you truly want… well.”
The book shuddered, the ink shifting once more.
This time, I saw not just a duel.
I saw victory.
Not through clever tricks, not through mere survival, but through absolute dominance. Vanitas, forced to his knees, his colors drained away, his theatrics stripped down to mere shades of gray.
Alexander, standing over him, a hand raised—not to punch, but to rewrite.
To end the game.
To win.
The vision faded, but the afterimage burned in my mind. My breathing was unsteady. My grip became a vice, holding the book in question.
Lumivis studied my being, silent.
“…I don’t want to be like him,” I muttered, though the words lacked certainty.
“I know.” Lumivis stepped back, his presence dimming, retreating into the library’s vast knowledge. “But wanting and becoming are rarely the same, and the road between them is never as long as we believe.”
I said nothing.
The book lay heavy in my hands.
