There exists a book that never ends.

Its pages fill themselves, written by an unseen hand.

It knows past, present, and future—even the things that should never be known.

I found it once, in the depths of a forgotten sanctuary, resting in the hands of a man who had spent centuries writing a story he could never finish.

The Scribe of the Endless Book.

He was both its author… and its prisoner.

And when I turned its pages, I saw something I was never meant to see.

My own ending.

The Library That Should Not Exist

There are many libraries in the world.

Some hold history.
Some hold magic.
Some hold lies.

But I once found a library that held something worse.

A story that would never end.

The place had no name, only whispers.

I had stumbled upon it while chasing a trail of lost knowledge, a path that led me deeper than any mortal should go—through tunnels that predated the oldest civilizations, past doors carved with warnings in languages no one remembers.

And at the end of the road…

A single chamber, lit by floating candles, filled with the sound of a quill scratching against parchment.

I was not alone.

The Man Who Never Stopped Writing

The Scribe sat hunched over a desk of blackened oak, his beard long, his fingers stained with ink that never dried.

The book before him was impossibly large, its spine stretching far beyond the table, the pages rolling out onto the floor like rivers of text.

And yet…

The book had no beginning.

And it had no end.

“Who are you?” I asked.

His quill did not stop.

“I was once a man,” he said, voice dry, hollow, distant.

“Now, I am a story.”

“And this…” He gestured to the book.

“This is all that is… and all that will be.”

The Book That Writes Reality

I stepped closer, eyes scanning the nearest page.

The words were shifting, rearranging themselves, forming new sentences as they were written.

A passage caught my eye:

“At this moment, Merlin steps closer to the book, realizing that it is writing his every movement. He hesitates, but curiosity pulls him forward. He does not yet realize what he is about to see.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

The book was writing my story as I lived it.

I looked up at the Scribe.

“This is not prophecy,” I murmured.

“No,” he whispered.

“This is reality.”

The Unwritten Page

I turned to the next page.

But it was blank.

The first blank page in the entire book.

“Why does it stop here?” I asked.

The Scribe’s quill trembled in his grip.

He did not meet my gaze.

“Because that is the end.”

“Of what?”

He swallowed.

“Everything.”

The Final Story Yet to Be Written

I ran my fingers over the empty page.

It was waiting.

Waiting to be written.

“If this book shapes reality,” I said carefully, “then that means the future is not set.”

The Scribe laughed—a sound so empty it barely reached the air.

“You do not understand, Merlin.”

“This book does not predict the future.”

“It controls it.”

The realization hit me like a hammer to the chest.

This was not just a record of time.

It was the engine of fate itself.

And when the last page was written…

The story of the world would end.

The Story That Must Never Finish

I looked back at the Scribe.

His hands shook.

His eyes—haunted, pleading—met mine for the first time.

“I have written for eons, Merlin.”

“I have prolonged existence itself, delaying the final page.”

“But one day… I will falter.”

“And when I do, the last sentence will be written.”

“And the world will be no more.”

The book was not just endless.

It was a countdown.

A story that should never be finished.

And the Scribe…

Was its prisoner.

The Last Request

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

The Scribe hesitated.

Then, slowly, he slid his quill across the table toward me.

“Because I need you to take my place.”

I took a step back.

“No.”

“Someone must write, Merlin.”

“Someone must keep the book going.”

“Or the last page will come.”

I stared at the quill, at the man who had written reality itself for centuries.

If I accepted, I would never leave this room.

If I refused, the world would inch closer to its end.

And as I stood there, torn between two impossible choices…

The candles began to flicker.

The book began to write again.

And for the first time…

The Scribe looked afraid.

Because the last page had begun.

And neither of us knew how much time was left.

The Last Page Begins

The candles flickered, their light dimming as the book continued to write itself.

For the first time, the Scribe was not holding the quill.

And yet, the words kept appearing.

Something else was writing now.

Something neither of us could see.

And as the letters formed across the ancient parchment, I read them aloud:

“At this moment, Merlin realizes that the final page has begun.”

“And no force in existence can stop it.”

A deep silence filled the chamber.

And then the Scribe spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s happening.”

The Fate That Was Already Written

“Tell me the truth.”

I turned to face the Scribe, gripping my staff.

“This book… does it truly dictate reality? Or does it simply record it?”

The Scribe’s hands trembled, his ancient fingers pressing into the desk.

“For a long time, I believed I was merely a chronicler, documenting the natural course of history.”

“But then… I made a mistake.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What mistake?”

His breath was ragged, filled with the weight of a thousand lifetimes of regret.

“I changed a word.”

The Word That Was Never Meant to Change

I stilled.

A single word.

A single edit.

That was all it took?

“You altered reality?” I asked, carefully.

“Not intentionally,” he admitted, his voice hollow.

“I was tired, Merlin. I had been writing for centuries. I tried to correct a simple mistake—just a name, nothing more.”

“And yet… the moment I changed it, that name ceased to exist.”

“Every trace of that person was gone. Erased from memory, from time, from everything.”

“No one knew he had ever been.”

A cold chill ran down my spine.

“And what was his name?”

The Scribe opened his mouth.

But no sound came out.

He could not speak it.

Because whatever he had erased…

Was gone forever.

The Final Line That Must Not Be Written

The book kept writing.

“Merlin now understands the truth. That the final sentence of the book will be the last sentence in existence.”

“And that nothing can prevent it.”

My heartbeat quickened.

The pages were turning on their own, filling with sentences faster than the human eye could follow.

At this rate, the book would be finished within minutes.

And if the last sentence was written—

The world itself would end.

“How do we stop it?” I demanded.

The Scribe shook his head, his eyes filled with sorrow.

“It cannot be stopped.”

“The book must be written. That is the law of its creation.”

“All we can do… is delay it.”

The Quill That Holds Reality

I stared at the quill resting on the desk, the ink black as night, shimmering with a glow that did not belong to this world.

The instrument that had written every event in history.

The Scribe’s prison… and power.

“If I take the quill,” I said slowly, “does that mean I take your place?”

The Scribe exhaled, the faintest glimmer of hope in his expression.

“Yes.”

“You would become the Keeper of the Story. The one who writes. The one who prevents the final line from being completed.”

“You could hold back the end of time… for as long as your hand endures.”

I looked down at my fingers.

They were steady.

But for how long?

How many years—centuries, millennia—could I keep writing?

Could I outlast eternity itself?

Or would I, too, one day falter?

And if I did…

Would there be anyone left to take my place?

The Other Choice

I clenched my jaw.

“And if I refuse?”

The Scribe’s expression darkened.

“Then the final line will be written within moments.”

“And the world will end.”

I turned back to the book.

The pages were almost full.

The last empty space remained.

Waiting.

I could feel the story reaching its conclusion, the weight of reality itself preparing to collapse in on itself.

And then I saw something that made my breath catch in my throat.

A single, unfinished sentence forming at the bottom of the last page.

“And so, Merlin picked up the quill and—”

It stopped.

Waiting for my choice.

The book was asking me.

It would not write the ending without my answer.

I had two choices.

1. Take the quill. Become the next Eternal Scribe, delaying the end of time for as long as I could hold the pen.
2. Refuse, and let the book write the final sentence… the end of everything.

The room felt smaller, the air growing heavy.

The universe was watching.

Waiting.

And I, Merlin, had to decide the fate of existence itself.

The Choice That Would Shape Eternity

I stood before the book that dictated reality itself.

Its final sentence lay unfinished.

Waiting.

If I picked up the quill, I would take the Scribe’s place—stalling the end of time for as long as I could keep writing.

But if I refused…

The book would finish itself.

And that final sentence…

Would end everything.

The room hummed with anticipation, as if the universe itself was watching, waiting, eager to know which path I would take.

And in that moment, I knew—

There was only one choice.

The Third Option That Should Not Exist

I reached for the quill.

The Scribe exhaled, relief flooding his ancient face, knowing he was finally free.

But at the last moment—

I hesitated.

Something felt wrong.

I had spent lifetimes questioning fate, rewriting destiny, defying the gods themselves.

So why now…

Why should I accept that this was the only way?

What if…

There was a third option?

Something neither the Scribe nor the book had ever considered?

A way to break the cycle altogether?

I lowered my hand.

The Scribe frowned.

“Merlin, what are you doing?”

“Something no one else has ever dared to try.”

The Quill That Must Be Broken

I did not pick up the quill.

I did not let the book finish the sentence.

Instead…

I raised my staff.

And I brought it down.

The tip struck the book’s final page—

And the world shattered.

The book screamed.

Not as a voice, not as an echo, but as reality itself fracturing, like a great cosmic being writhing in agony.

The Scribe fell back, his expression turning to one of horror.

“You don’t understand—”

“No,” I said, watching as cracks spread through the parchment, through the quill, through the very concept of the book itself.

“It is you who never understood.”

“No story should ever be written in stone.”

The Collapse of the Written World

The room trembled, the walls flickering between existence and nothingness, as the book fought back.

It did not want to be destroyed.

It did not understand destruction.

For all its power, all its control, it had only ever known one path forward—

To be written.

To continue.

And now, I had introduced a contradiction.

I had broken its perfect order.

And in doing so—

I had broken its power.

The Scribe’s Last Plea

The Scribe reached for me, desperation in his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Merlin!”

“You have unraveled the Book of All Things!”

I met his gaze.

“Good.”

With a final surge of magic, I ripped the last page free.

And the book—the Endless Book, the Record of Reality, the Keeper of Fate itself—

ceased to be.

The World That Was Now Unwritten

The moment the book vanished, the universe itself changed.

I felt it in my bones, in the very fabric of magic.

The rules that had bound time, fate, and prophecy…

Were gone.

The Scribe collapsed to the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He looked up at me with awe… and terror.

“What happens now?” he whispered.

I turned to face the now-empty pedestal, where the book had once dictated the laws of existence.

I took a deep breath.

“Now?” I said.

“The story is ours to write.”

The Aftermath of a Broken Fate

For the first time in eternity, time itself belonged to no one.

The paths that had once been carved into stone were now shifting sands, free to be reshaped.

And though some might have feared this newfound chaos…

I did not.

Because magic is not order.

It is not certainty.

Magic is the power to change.

And now, for the first time…

The world was truly free.

I turned back to the Scribe.

He was no longer bound.

No longer chained to a book that had ruled him for countless lifetimes.

He was just a man again.

Lost, perhaps.

But free.

“What will you do now?” I asked him.

He exhaled, looking at his empty hands, the ink still staining his fingers.

Then, after a long moment, he said:

“I think… I would like to write my own story, for once.”

And with that, he walked away.

Merlin’s Final Words

They say fate is unchangeable.

That destiny is set in stone.

That the future is already written.

But I have seen the truth.

I have stood before the Book of All Things.

And I have torn its pages free.

The world is not written.

It is not planned.

It is ours to shape.

And if anyone tells you otherwise, if they say your fate is sealed, your path already determined…

Tell them this:

“That story has already been erased.”

And then, my dear traveler, go and write your own.