Lu Mingfei got a pen.
A pen that could rewrite the past, using memories as ink and causality as its canvas.
The pen touched the page, and its strokes became the blood that had not yet dried on Tokyo Tower, the tears still wet in the Beijing subway. He painted like a madman:
For a girl named Erii, he added a path to safety leading to him in the sunset before the apocalypse.
For the killing machine named Chu Zihang, he sketched a profile that could never be forgotten in the rainy night when the divine spear erased him.
He thought he was painting a perfect ending, one without regrets.
Then he looked down and saw his hand gripping the pen growing transparent, little by little, starting at the fingertips.
Lu Mingze chuckled in his ear, revealing the cruelest rule of all:
“Brother, every time you correct a flaw in fate, you use your own existence as the eraser.”
“When you draw a perfect ending for everyone, you yourself will become the only blank space erased from this masterpiece...”
