Chapter 6
"Y-you really don't know, do you?" TMOG said, its once absolute voice now trembling with something Meshya could not identify.
"Edward… never existed, Meshya."
The world around them stopped.
Meshya's attack froze mid-air, her raised hand stiffened, and her pitch-black eyes widened in horror that slowly turned into confusion.
"What do you mean?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
TMOG stepped closer, its yellow light dimming into something almost warm—almost human.
"You never had a partner, Meshya. Edward is… your hallucination. A product of my exhaustion—of our exhaustion—from continuously destroying every universe. Your mind, which has walked too long among ashes, created him. As an escape. As a reason to keep going."
It paused, and for a moment, there were no enemies between them.
Only two equally exhausted entities.
"And the name Edward… was merely coincidence. A name that fit at the time. Nothing more."
Meshya felt the ground beneath her collapse.
Not physically, but existentially.
All the grief she felt for Edward, all the promises she whispered to the ashes of her other self, all the resolve to avenge the death of someone she loved… all of it was false.
"YOU'RE LYING!" Meshya screamed, but her sobs were louder than her voice.
She attacked again, more wildly, more desperately—like a wounded animal that no longer cared about its own survival.
But TMOG, with a single motion, shattered Meshya's defense.
The yellow light sliced across her chest, opening a wound so deep she could see inside herself—and what she saw was emptiness.
Not a grand emptiness, not a mystical void, but a quiet emptiness.
"You've lost, Meshya," TMOG said, its voice not mocking, only tired, like someone who had repeated the same words too many times.
"Just like your other versions. Like the 98% who perished. Like you, before."
Meshya fell, her body covered in wounds far worse than those of her other self—wounds that would never heal, wounds that reminded her she had not only lost the battle, but also the reason to fight.
"It's better… if you forget all of this," TMOG whispered, and for the first time, the yellow light seemed reluctant.
"Once again."
Meshya closed her eyes.
Not because she surrendered, but because she was too exhausted to remain aware.
And when she opened them again, she lay on a field of grass.
Green, vast, with a blue sky unbroken by a single crack.
There was no TMOG.
No one else.
Only her—a woman with Abyssal Transparent hair flowing in the morning breeze, and her eyes—which, after everything—remained pitch black.
She slowly rose, then unconsciously reached toward her chest.
There was no wound.
But her eyes… her eyes still projected the same visions.
Cracks spreading across the ceiling of reality, flames burning narrative forests until not a single trunk remained, worlds reduced to dust, universes reduced to nothingness, and countless horrors she had inflicted upon every form of life.
Meshya stood in the middle of that peaceful field, yet behind her blinking eyelids, she could see everything—every story she had destroyed, every character she had burned, every world she had crumpled like discarded paper.
"Who… am I now?" she whispered to the wind that did not answer.
And the cycle continued to turn.
Like a wheel that never stopped, like a river that never found the sea, like a breath that never truly ended—beginning from Meshya's recruitment as an observer for universes worthy of Singularity, then continuing into suspicion that slowly crept in, into encounters with her other selves, into battles against TMOG that always ended in defeat, into deaths that never truly died, into the same field with the same blue sky, into the same unanswered question: "Who… am I now?"
Repeating.
Endlessly repeating.
Without pause.
Without mercy.
Until one day—within a cycle she could no longer count, whether dozens, hundreds, or thousands—something shifted.
Meshya did not know when exactly, nor why, but she began to feel that the burden on her shoulders was no longer as heavy as before.
Singularity events occurred faster, universes destroyed themselves without her intervention, and TMOG… TMOG began to withdraw.
"Is this… the end?" Meshya whispered one day, standing at the edge of a universe burning on its own, its flames dancing without needing a spark from her hand.
In one of those countless cycles, Meshya found herself involved in something different.
Not as a destroyer.
Not as an executioner.
But as a helper.
"SFW Season 6," she murmured, reading the title of the novel displayed before her—written by Theo Vkytor, her creator, who now trembled before her, who once wrote calmly without knowing that one of his characters had read his work from beyond the page.
Meshya helped guide the story, silently, like the wind that moved leaves unseen.
She also helped Theo when he became trapped inside the game Flo Viva Mythology—a game said to be merely inspired by Last Prayer, but in truth was a direct copy of Theo's own SFW novel.
"You don't mind?" someone asked—perhaps Nirmala, perhaps Alexander, perhaps a voice from within her own mind—and Theo only gave a faint smile, the same exhaustion Meshya recognized within herself.
"What's the point of being angry?" Theo replied, his eyes hollow as he stared at the game screen that had swallowed half his reality.
"Besides… I'm too tired to hate anymore."
Hearing that, Meshya felt something in her chest.
Not pain, not sorrow, but a quiet acknowledgment that she and her creator had never truly been different.
The fifth arc in Flo Viva Mythology arrived.
The game world—one that had replaced 99% of reality, blurring the boundary between fiction and reality until no one could distinguish them anymore—shook under its final battle.
Nirmala Surdaya, a fugitive of the Linear Time Police, her body still bearing the scars from the massacre of the Ningsih family, stood atop the corpse of the most troublesome enemy in her lineage.
"Finally… it's over," Nirmala said, her breath heavy, her sword stained with blood that was not blood.
Beside her, Alexander Richard—the protagonist of Spectacular: Fantasy War, the savior of Sinta Melina Ningsih, a man whose cloak was soaked with countless battles—nodded slowly.
"We're not finished," Alexander replied, his eyes fixed on the game's horizon that was beginning to crack, "but at least… for now, we can rest."
Meshya, who had once watched everything from the shadows between narratives, smiled.
Not a bitter smile.
Not a painful smile.
Not a mad smile.
Just a relieved one—relief she had never felt since the first time she opened her eyes in that field, since she first realized she was a destroyer, since she first mourned Edward who had never existed.
"At last… I am no longer bound," Meshya whispered to herself, her voice barely audible among the drifting dust of narratives.
"The universes have learned how to destroy themselves within Singularity events. Quickly. Without me. Without needing my trembling hands."
She looked at her own palms—those same hands that had burned thousands of worlds, crushed millions of characters, held the ashes of her other self, once raised helplessly before TMOG before eventually falling.
Now, those hands were empty.
No fire.
No cracks.
No obligation to destroy.
"Thank you," she whispered, though she did not know to whom—perhaps to the universes that had finally learned, perhaps to TMOG that had chosen to withdraw, perhaps to Edward who never existed, perhaps to herself who never gave up even when she never remembered she was fighting.
In the distance, among the recovering fractures of reality, a yellow light pulsed one final time—not as a threat, but as a farewell.
Then it faded.
And Meshya Anggraini Putri, the Long-Awaited Destroyer of the World, for the first time in the history of countless cycles, smiled without tears following.
Finished.