IAmThatOneGuy

*dresses in a brick costume and raises the bricks* BRICKS!

I am joining, if thats alright

*instant flashback* nononono

The Author decided to try something new. The three would come back later. Harold sat on a bench, eating a delightful peanut butter and jam sandwich, oblivious to the future that lay ahead of him.

No, he's still out there, but he's likely going to lie low for a while. The two don't really know what happened to him.

Matias watched the sunrise, turning the sky a brilliant array of colours. Aster was on his shoulder, the cultivationspren silently resting. The man once called Vlanis — now simply Troy again — sat next to him in a matching shirt, the emblem of The Longest Shard Humanitarian Organization bright against the fabric. Both were quiet, but no words were needed. The Witherlord still loomed over the horizon, a threat waiting for its hour. But as for now, the sun would rise, warm and bright. And life would go on. I think I'll leave it there for now

"...For now." Mistair snapped his fingers with a tight smile. He fell backwards and vanished without a trace. Across the burning street, two figures froze at the same moment. Troy stumbled, hand flying to his chest. The Outlier beside him and evacuees did the same, golden chain slipping through his fingers. Something deep within them—something old, something shared—shattered like glass. The bond was gone. They were immortal no more.

Vlanis began to run back to the fight, but stopped. For the first time, he realized what was happening to the city. The fires were quickly spreading throughout the streets. Civilians were crying out and running in chaos. Vlanis looked back to the fight. He could finish this. Kill Mistair and take his revenge. His eyes focused on a familiar figure. There, just a hundred feet away, the Outlier and several other people in uniforms were urgently leading a group of scared people to safety, holding his golden chain. Matias looked up, met Vlanis’s eyes, and something old and painful stirred. Times when he had been called Troy. Times when he helped people. Times when Matias had been a friend close as a brother. Angela's voice echoed through him. Troy, do you know why I love you? It's because, in the end, you always do the right thing. The silver-eyed Wayfarer stared at the mordite knife in his hands. He let it fall. It clattered on the pavement. Without a single look back, Troy ran towards the people in need. - Mistair screamed in rage, all of his clones countering the attacks with fierce intensity. One of them stepped back, gaining a moment's rest. In that second, he saw Vlanis. The white-clothed man looked back and forth from the fight and the crowd, before finally dropping the knife and running towards the people. Mistair understood instantly. Vlanis hadn’t chosen revenge. He hadn’t chosen the story Mistair wanted. He hadn’t chosen him. The Narrator's last hope for control faded. He lowered his weapon, his clones disappearing. "Well," he murmured, sanity returning to his eyes, "I suppose this is the end. I have nothing more." Straightening, not caring for the witherbound's raised sword, he bowed a deep, theatrical bow. "My final act has ended. I bid you all... Adieu."

The Narrator screamed, voice cracking under the weight of everything he’d buried. “Do you know how many times I’ve been beaten down, told what to do, been a victim of circumstance? I grew up without parents, surrounded by psychopaths wanting to break me!” The flames spiraled outwards in swirls of purple and orange. “When I had finally crawled my way to the top, and everything was going my way, it came burning down around me!” The flames grew exponentially, spreading across the street and outwards. He shouted, his voice reverberating. “So I am going to use this illusion, this power, this story to make sure that I am in control! I am the one pulling the strings! ” For a heartbeat, surrounded by flames, Mr. Mistair’s form flickered– a bruised child, a burned young man, a terrified survivor — before snapping back to his usual shape, eyes wild and unfocused. “I don’t care about Narrators, or Authors, or ANYTHING! I don’t care that we are all just words on a page, given semblance by imagination!” he screeched. “I manipulate you because it's the only thing I have left! It's either torment, or be tormented! AND I WILL NOT BE TORMENTED AGAIN!!”

Mr Mistair attacked Inkwell with a mace furiously, fighting the witherbound and the variable he represented. From the edge of his vision, something blurred towards him. The silver‑eyed Wayfarer was already mid‑leap, one hand warping with summoned Anti‑Intent. The look in the Vlanis’s eyes made the Narrator hesitate — just for a heartbeat. Then the last thread of composure snapped. “NOOO!” The scream tore out of him, and a shockwave blasted both attackers down the street. His suit erupted into a storm of chaotic color, hues clashing like a broken kaleidoscope. Unnatural multi-colored glames burst to life around him.

Vlanis stared at Inkwell, then at the Narrator's clones. Almost unthinkingly, he drew his mordite knife. "Mistair is angry and focused on you," Vlanis said, voice cold. "I can sneak up behind him, weaken him, then kill him."

Got it. Mistair: the Narrator, the Victorian man, the storyteller Vlanis: the Wayfarer, the man in white, the knife-wielder The Outlier: Matias, the chain-wielder, the wanderer, the solemn one Vlanis didn't lower his guard, standing ready as he watched the witherbound carefully. Mistair clenched his teeth, eyes burning with fury. The suit's outbursts became more chaotic and frequent. "FINE," he snarled. "You want to play dirty?" The Narrator split into 4 copies of himself, each with a different weapon. "Then let's play."

If I were to get a law, it would be that you have to break that law. Man, i cant keep up with this thread. Stupid things I have to do

I've done it! The impossible! Behold! The Button!