Editor's Note:
This is the final edition of this book. As the editor, I have chosen to remove all epilogues, to honor those who gave their lives so that this book could exist. In place of the epilogue, I have collected their stories, the moments, the sacrifices, the voices that could not be silenced. I call this section the Back Story Stories.

To honor their work and the efforts of every Hero Writer, I have preserved their lines exactly as they spoke them, keeping the rawness, the urgency, and the tone of their words. Every fragment is a testament to the journey, and every story here is a hero's truth.

The Warden's Story

I am the Warden, the one who guarded the Hero Writer. I saw everything. I was there at his last moments. Strong. Sorrowful. The air was thick with both.

He fought—he fought against the dead, against the shadows that clawed at the world, just to finish his final masterpiece. Every stroke, every word, every drop of life he gave to that book—it was a battle not just against death, but against the silence that wanted to swallow it all.

I could only watch. I could only bear witness as he poured himself into the story, even as the world fell apart around him. And when it was done... when the final words were written... he fell.

I carry his courage with me. I carry the weight of what he left behind. This story is his echo. I tell it so that no one forgets what it costs to create a hero's truth.

They call us rebels, but our organization is large and shrouded in mystery. Our previous leader, the Colonel, was a great man. He placed many of our agents within the army, yet none of them knew who their allies were. The secret was his alone.

We have hidden spots, known only to us. Orders come and information flows through these shadows, unseen, unheard. Every move is calculated, every message concealed. The world sees only fragments of what we do, but we move like ghosts among them, shaping events while remaining unseen.

One day, I received the order: take care of the Hero Writer. They made me his Warden during the night shift. My orders were simple: "Help the Hero Writer finish his work."

When I returned to my post, a new directive came from the army. The Hero Writer would live in an isolated cell under my watch. I had to prepare it—every corner, every surface. They demanded it be completely clean, completely comfortable, as if the cell itself were a sanctuary.

I set to work. The air smelled of disinfectant and oil, the walls stark but unyielding. Every detail mattered. I knew this was no ordinary assignment. He would be here, under my eyes, writing the last words of a world no one else could see.

He arrived at the cell not during my shift, but my presence was requested. Why he was so important, I did not know, but I followed the order. I wanted to meet him too.

With both of us, the day Warden and I, the room was silent, heavy with expectation. Our eyes were cold, measuring him, aware of the weight of this duty. Both of us knew how important this job was. Eyes were everywhere. Every move, every breath, observed, recorded, guarded.

It was near the end of the day shift. I stayed at the cell, waiting for my turn. The day Warden understood, and he waited for his shift to end as well. Both of us stood there, silent, watching, until the doctors arrived to examine the Hero Writer.

They forced him to take the medicine, making him swallow every drop. When they left, the cell door locked behind them. The day shift had ended, and now it was our turn.

He gave me the orders for this cell, for its wardens. The directive was clear: two wardens must focus entirely on this cell. The other Warden would handle the rest of the cells.

During my shift, I stood guard before the iron door. My eyes were cold, unwavering, fixed—but my mind was already inside that cell. Behind the door, the Hero Writer lay there, silent, fragile, yet unyielding.

I could not move. I could not speak. Eyes were on me, everywhere, watching, judging. The orders were clear: focus only on the Hero Writer. I knew the other Warden, bound by the same directive, was watching over this cell too.

The dinner cart arrived, pushed by the servant. I opened the cell door, but she did not enter. She looked at me, frozen. I did not move. In this tense silence, no one dared speak. I understood, after the incident in the Noble District, the high ranks trusted no servant.

I took the cart and pushed it into the cell myself. This was the moment I needed.

I placed the food before the Hero Writer. He looked better, strong enough to sit up on his own. I began preparing the meal, and as my head disappeared behind the cart, I whispered the signal: "From green life to white life, everyone live."

The Hero Writer froze for a moment, then continued as if nothing had happened. Each time I hid behind the cart, I sent short words:
"Speak your lines."
"Short words only."
"I write."
"Do not interact with me."
"They can see us, but they cannot hear us."
"Keep your voice low."
"Only for me."

When the dinner was fully prepared, I pulled the cart out and returned to my post. The servant took the cart away, silent as before.

After an hour, a servant returned, pushing an empty cart to collect the dirty plates. I watched through the peephole in the door. The Hero Writer had already finished his meal, sitting quietly, doing nothing.

I opened the door. The servant shook her head, signaling me to enter. I stepped inside to collect the plates. The Hero Writer moved as if to help, but he met my cold eyes and froze. He stayed in the corner, still.

I whispered to him again, carefully, each word deliberate:
"One knock means too low for me to hear you clearly."
"Two knocks mean too loud."
"Three means too fast."
"Keep your voice low and slow."
"I cannot knock much—they will become suspicious."
"After I lock the door, wait a few minutes."
"Trust me."

He nodded slightly, absorbing the instructions. The silence returned, heavy and precise, as we moved in a rhythm only we could understand.

After the servant left, I focused. I did not wait long. The Hero Writer began to speak—short lines, one by one, slow and clear. His voice was low, but I could hear every word.

I remembered all his lines. On the first night, he gave me very little of his story, but every word mattered. With my perfect memory, I would write it down when my shift ended.

When he was done, I let him sleep. In my head, I repeated his lines over and over, committing them to memory, keeping them alive.

The next night, his condition was better. I whispered to him, "Send me more lines, double last night." Then I stepped out, leaving him with his dinner.

That night, the Hero Writer gave me more lines than before. His voice was steady, his words sharper. By the time silence returned, I knew he had finished Chapter Six: The Trust of My Father.

I still remember his last words before he closed his eyes to sleep:
"One more chapter left. Let us focus, comrade."

Morning came. The day Warden arrived with soldiers and a doctor, a good one, the best in the army. I thought then that the Hero Writer's judgment had come. My mind circled around the final chapter. I prayed he would not be executed, prayed he could finish his story before death claimed him.

Night fell. I traded places with the day Warden. My body felt as if it burned from the inside. I wanted, so badly, to look at the Hero Writer, to see if he was still alive, still fighting. But eyes were everywhere. I had to stay cold, expressionless.

When the dinner cart arrived, I forced myself to remain calm, to move with routine, not to expose myself. I examined the cart, opened the cell door under watchful eyes.

And then I saw him.

The servant covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. The Hero Writer's body was covered in blood and wounds. They had been patched, no longer bleeding, but the pain was etched deep into him, unbearable to witness.

Yet when I looked into his eyes, I saw no surrender. His spirit still burned. His gaze told me what words could not: keep going. I am not dead yet.

Morning came. The day Warden arrived with soldiers and a doctor, a good one, the best in the army. I thought then that the Hero Writer's judgment had come. My mind circled around the final chapter. I prayed he would not be executed, prayed he could finish his story before death claimed him.

Night fell. I traded places with the day Warden. My body felt as if it burned from the inside. I wanted, so badly, to look at the Hero Writer, to see if he was still alive, still fighting. But eyes were everywhere. I had to stay cold, expressionless.

When the dinner cart arrived, I forced myself to remain calm, to move with routine, not to expose myself. I examined the cart, opened the cell door under watchful eyes.

And then I saw him.

The servant covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. The Hero Writer's body was covered in blood and wounds. They had been patched, no longer bleeding, but the pain was etched deep into him, unbearable to witness.

Yet when I looked into his eyes, I saw no surrender. His spirit still burned. His gaze told me what words could not: keep going. I am not dead yet.

A voice came from above: "Force him to eat, don't let him die."

With a gesture, I gave the high rank my acknowledgement of the order. The door stayed open as I prepared his dinner. Tonight it was only porridge. They must have known—his wounds, his state, he could not handle rice.

Then the angry voice came again: "You. Get out."

I froze, stunned, and looked up. The voice was directed at me. For a heartbeat I thought I had been exposed. But no, the command struck me, while the servant still lingered.

The cart was empty, yet she remained. Then, the shout, she moved, pushing the cart with shaking hands. Her steps quickened. Not a walk. A run. She ran away.

I remained in the cell. The door stayed open, wide, the eyes above watching every movement. I turned back to the Hero Writer. His body trembled with pain, but his eyes still burned.

I lifted the bowl of porridge, sat close to him. My hands were steady, though inside I shook. Slowly, carefully, I raised the spoon to his lips. He tried on his own, but his arms were too weak. Each swallow was a struggle, yet he did not resist.

Spoon by spoon, I helped him eat. I kept my face cold, unreadable, because I knew the eyes judged every move I made. Inside, though, I carried the weight. This was not just food. This was survival, one mouthful at a time, to buy him the chance to finish what he had begun.

The Hero Writer spoke, his voice broken: "Slo... slow down."

I stopped and looked back. Any sound from him could raise suspicion. Then the voice from above shouted: "Do anything you want, keep him alive!"

So I slowed my hand, feeding him carefully. The Hero Writer, in that brief breath, whispered: "Keep go on, comrade. I won't die until my work finish."

I bent closer, answering in the same shadow of a whisper: "More lines. I can remember more."

That was all. No more words passed between us. I kept feeding him, slow and steady, until the bowl was empty. When it was done, I let him lie down, his body sinking into the corner with what strength he had left.

Then I stepped out of the cell, keeping my face and eyes cold, unreadable. But inside, I carried sympathy—and something more. I admired his endurance.

That night, the new chapter began. His voice carried an angry, bitter tone, sharper than anything before. The Hero Writer's strength was failing; he could no longer give me lines as clearly as before.

But he did not stop. Patiently, carefully, he gave each line. And when the words came broken, he fixed them, made them clear, left no confusion behind.

At last, exhaustion pulled him down. He slept, his breath shallow, his body weak.

I sat there in the silence, forcing myself to recollect, to repeat every line in my head, over and over, until they burned into memory. I could not let even one word slip away.

The following night, the Hero Writer bore the unbearable pain, the kind of pain that would make most beg for death rather than endure it. Pain that would break even the most stubborn agent.

I could not find words to describe what he went through. His condition worsened with every breath. His body trembled, his voice cracked, and still, he fought.

He could not remember the last line from the night before, so I reminded him. Line by line, I gave it back, and he continued, weaving his story through agony.

The pain was not only his. It entered me as well, the pain of a man forced to watch another walk through hell, with no power to take that burden away.

I will always remember the last night I stood guard for him—the night he finished his story. After the final line was given, he whispered to me. It was a one-sided conversation. I could not answer. So I carried his last words, as he spoke them:

"Sorry for making you go through this, friend."
"My part is finished, but your part is not."
"Sorry about this conversation, friend. You cannot talk, but please, these are my last words, and I want to send them to you."
"In this moment, I feel so free, so light. My work is done. I did many things wrong, but this, this was the right thing I did."
"I hold no grudge against anyone, because this is my karma."
"Send word to the doctor quickly. I will not die under your guard, you carry too heavy a responsibility. Let me die at the doctor's hand. I hope she will spare them."
"I would like to die in the morning, beaten, but fading away. Yet my life is slipping now. I cannot hold until then."

Those were his last words. And they remain in me, heavier than any chain.

The Hero Writer began to cough, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest, knowing he was dying. I broke the silence with a shout:

"Call the doctor! The prisoner's state has worsened!"

At once came the chaos—shouts, hurried footsteps. Within minutes the doctor arrived. I had already opened the cell door.

The Hero Writer lay pale, no sign of life left in him except the terrible coughing that tore from his chest. The doctor knelt quickly, giving him a dose of medicine, but I saw it in her face—his life was fading.

Moments later, she rose to her feet and spoke flatly:
"He has lost too much blood. His wounds were too many. His heart stopped a moment ago."

A murmur of fear rippled through the cell. Someone asked sharply:
"So what about us? He dies—and do we go with him?"

The doctor shook her head.
"The Empress has lost her interest in this. If I report he passed through a terrible death, she will spare us."

I couldn't believe my ears.

And then, the doctor did something I could hardly believe with my eyes—she twisted the Hero Writer's face. The peaceful smile I had just seen vanished, replaced by a grimace of agony, a mask of despair. All the serenity he had found, in a single moment, was stolen.

A sharp pain constricted my chest. They didn't just take his life; they wanted to rob him of his dignity in death. They wanted the world to believe he died in suffering, in failure, not in freedom. That moment was seared into my mind, heavier than his death itself. It was the clearest proof of the enemy's cruelty.

I understood. This was how they would avoid punishment from the Empress.

And I... I had only one final duty. Not because of an order, but because of my own conscience.

To carry his final work.

To carry his final hours.

To the outside world.

To tell the world he was not a traitor.

He was my Hero.