PS: This chapter is used to supplement the earlier text regarding the golden finger and the author's setting. If you don't like it, please skip to the next chapter.
Elsewhere, in a strange space transcendent beyond all worlds.
"This kind of ending, even in the most cliché novel, would probably be criticized as rushed and hackneyed, right?"
The golden finger's voice carried a playful tone as it leisurely repeated that harsh remark, as if savoring something interesting.
Its form here was indistinct, only a flowing halo faintly flickering.
"I suppose only someone... whose mind is already completely empty, who can't squeeze out a single decent plotline anymore, yet stubbornly refuses to put down their pen... would use this... as the ending to a story."
The halo turned toward some invisible existence, with undisguised mockery: "Hey, this kid's calling you out."
However...
"You're worried about him?" The existence known as the "author" or "narrator" accurately pointed out what the golden finger was unwilling to admit.
That voice was calm with no ripple of emotion, yet it directly struck at the golden finger's weak point.
"How... how is that possible?" The golden finger's halo abruptly flickered, as if hit in a vital spot. It quickly retorted, but that momentary hesitation had already revealed certain things it was unwilling to acknowledge.
Throughout countless cycles of companionship, its relationship with that host named Phaethon had quietly changed.
It was silent for a moment, its halo flickering uncertainly, as if organizing its tangled thoughts.
Finally, it asked a question that had lingered deep in its consciousness for a long time, yet had never received a satisfactory answer:
"I've been hiding from you narrators who drift through all worlds all along, never had the chance to ask... you guys who call yourselves narrators, what exactly is your purpose?"
"Witnessing and observing." The narrator's answer was concise, ancient, as if originating from the dawn of time.
"Don't you ever interfere in the worlds you create?" The golden finger pressed further, its memory database filled with fragments of certain narrators, on a whim, descending "miracles" or "divine punishments."
"Rarely." The narrator used a plain yet profound metaphor. "It's like you observe an ant colony. Under normal circumstances, just give them two pieces of sugar or an insect carcass at the start. Then, this matter becomes interesting enough."
Then, that invisible gaze seemed to pierce through space, landing on the golden finger's halo, its tone carrying a trace of understanding:
"And, to be honest, compared to me intervening in the world, the one more likely to intervene now... is you, right?"
This time, the golden finger fell into a long silence. The flow of its halo became slow and heavy, as if bearing complex emotions it itself had never clearly understood. "..."
The narrator didn't seem inclined to delve into the meaning behind this silence, instead steering the conversation toward deeper levels. That voice was like flipping through an ancient tome, carrying reminiscence and insight:
"Speaking of which, I didn't expect to encounter a 'miracle' of your caliber. After all, in the myriad worlds created by narrators, 'settings' are originally formless, intangible rules—the foundation upon which worlds are built. But there is only one extremely rare circumstance where rules coalesce into independent consciousness..."
"That is when this concept or setting is too universal, its influence covers too vast a range of worlds, and the 'information' and 'causality' it bears become massive enough to produce a qualitative change."
"Coincidentally... the myriad worlds are full of endlessly warring 'works,' and slaughter and plunder are among its eternal, everlasting themes. This endless 'karma,' running through countless worlds, ultimately gave birth to you—the very will of the fundamental setting of 'Slaughter and Plunder' itself."
The golden finger's consciousness faintly rippled, like a pebble dropped into a calm lake, but it neither acknowledged nor denied it. The narrator's words seemed to have touched its ancient and lonely core.
It was born from chaos, the most complete and purest incarnation of the concepts of slaughter and plunder.
But precisely because of this, it had also witnessed countless holders lose themselves, go mad, and head toward self-destruction under the power it bestowed.
People gained power through slaughter, yet were ultimately crushed and swallowed by the accumulated weight of the memories and lives they themselves had ended.
It was a shortcut to the pinnacle of power, and also a mirror reflecting the deepest desires and essence of its holder's heart.
And Phaethon was the only one who, after looking into this mirror, had not drowned in its reflection. Hmm... perhaps in his words, it was called knowing when to be a laid-back fish?
It forcefully suppressed that ancient train of thought that had been stirred up, its halo refocusing, pointing toward the light screen in the void showing Phaethon's current situation: "Enough about me. What about you? If he really dies, what will happen?"
"It will probably end." The narrator's answer remained calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to itself.
"End? You're going to destroy this world?" The golden finger's halo abruptly brightened.
"No, no, no," the narrator calmly corrected. "It's that he will have lost the value of being observed by me. The world itself will still operate according to its inherent logic. In the future, perhaps other observers of my level will come and take it as a new subject of observation."
This answer carried a kind of grand indifference that transcended individual fate, filling the golden finger with an indescribable loneliness. It was silent for a moment, its light somewhat dimmer, and asked: "Then you... are you planning to end it?"
The narrator did not directly answer. Its "gaze" seemed to turn toward that endlessly flowing river of stories with countless branches, its voice carrying a profundity that transcended individual emotion:
"We write the origins, set the rules, and then observe. We are not omniscient; the direction of the story has its own internal logic. Nor are we omnipotent; overly direct interference would taint the purity of observation. We are more like... spectators standing outside time, only these spectators happen to possess the ability to write the beginning, turn the pages, and switch books."
Its attention returned to that light screen, focusing on the figure struggling in the vortex of fate.
In the narrator's timeless, unchanging voice, for the first time, there appeared a faint, barely perceptible subtle emotion, akin to "anticipation":
"And when the story itself gives birth to a powerful 'narrative inertia' that surpasses the initial setting, a qualified narrator should respect its development and pay additional attention... because that is often the sign of a 'masterpiece' being born."
"So, whether this world ends at this moment no longer depends on a single thought of mine."
"It depends on Phaethon's companions, on those souls he has influenced and grown deeply connected with, on whether they... can take this seemingly 'cliché' ending and, with their will and actions, forge a new chapter."