The base of the Tower of Tropes wasn't made of stone. It was built from stories.
Pages twisted into stairs. Paragraphs formed pillars. Every surface hummed with echoes of half-told tales and punchlines that had outlived their humor.
The first step felt like a choice. The second felt like a dare. By the third, we knew we were being watched.
---
The first floor: The Chosen One.
A vast hall of glowing pedestals, each one holding a dusty sword or glowing gem. Thousands of names lined the walls. Most crossed out. Some… burned.
> "This is where they leave the heroes who gave up," Plotbert whispered.
We walked in silence, passing relics of grand beginnings. One plaque read: "Jerald the Just—Got Bored and Opened a Bakery." Another: "Sir Smolderbeard—Overleveled Too Early. Got Nerfed."
> "Let's keep moving," Lyria said, voice tight.
---
The second floor: The Evil Twin.
A room of mirrors. But these reflections didn't copy us—they watched us.
Our dark selves stood behind the glass.
> "You're too soft," mine hissed. "You're too loud," Kevin's muttered. "You're delaying the end," Lyria's snarled.
Arc's reflection simply bled ink and fire.
The mirrors cracked as we passed. But we didn't look back.
---
The third floor: The Last Stand.
A battlefield frozen in time. Statues of fallen adventurers. And whispers.
> "They all tried," Mortax said quietly. "They all failed."
He touched one statue—an old friend? His hand trembled. Then he pulled away.
> "Keep walking," he said. "We don't stop here."
---
Each step up the tower drained something. Not just stamina. Something… narrative. Hope. Stability. Our genre.
The comedy thinned. Replaced by weight.
Then… the voice came.
Not the Editor. Not the Narrator. Something… older.
> "You've wandered far, little fictions." "You think you drive the story, but you are driven."
The walls pulsed with red ink. Quills cracked like thunder.
> "WHO'S TALKING?!" Kevin yelled.
Arc gripped his hilt tight. Plotbert spun in circles.
> "This voice isn't part of the script," he whispered. "It's a rewrite."
The Princess clutched her chest.
> "It's like something's rewinding our purpose…"
Then we saw it.
A door at the top of the stairs. Massive. Golden.
Cracked open.
Behind it—something watching. Something scribbling. Something laughing.
> "One more step," the voice hissed. "One more page."
---
We stood in silence. Bruised. Frayed. But not broken.
Kevin adjusted his backpack. Grubnuk wiped away a single tear and pulled out a butter knife.
> "For courage," he said.
Lyria smiled through clenched teeth. Arc glowed faintly.
And me?
I reached for the door. Because beyond it—
Was Chapter 50.
And someone had to finish this story.
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End of Chapter 49 (Tropes twisted. Shadows faced. One last step remains.)