2: Chapter 2 This time, the script's readers are the whole world.

Twenty-four hours ago.

On the outskirts of Jingzhou, in an urban village, was a partitioned room with a monthly rent of eight hundred.

The ceiling fan creaked as it spun, sounding like a dying cicada.

Su Chen slumped in his chair, staring at the computer screen.

The Rotten Tomato author dashboard.

His new book, "Return of the Immortal Emperor," was on its first day of release.

Favorites: 12. Recommendation votes: 3. Follow-up readers: 0.8.

A new reply lay in his editor's message box, sent half an hour ago—

"Old Su, the data for this book really isn't going anywhere. I suggest you cut your losses and build up your account before starting a new one."

Su Chen closed the page with an expressionless face.

He stared at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen—11:47 PM.

He didn't want to turn off the computer because turning it off meant having to face this room.

The six-square-meter partitioned room was half-occupied by a bed, with the remaining space crammed with a desk, a chair, and a five-year-old laptop.

On the desk sat three half-eaten cups of instant noodles, and beside them was a battered notebook filled with writing.

Su Chen closed the editor's chat box and opened his banking app.

Balance: 217.35 Yuan.

Next month's rent was 2200, due in twelve days.

Su Chen stared at the number for three seconds, exited the app, closed the laptop, turned off the lights, and lay down on the bed.

On the ceiling, the shadow of the ceiling fan spun and spun.

He closed his eyes.

Then, a thunderclap exploded in his mind.

There was no golden light, no strange phenomena, and none of the cliché "heaven-sent encounter" tropes found in every fantasy novel.

Just a voice that suddenly appeared in his mind. It was cold, mechanical, and devoid of any emotion:

"Ding—Script Manifestation System successfully bound. Host: Su Chen."

Su Chen opened his eyes.

He didn't move, lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

"...I've hallucinated from writing too much."

He turned over, intending to go back to sleep.

"Warning: Countdown to the global Weird invasion—1095 days. At that time, extraterrestrial evil gods will descend, and the probability of human civilization extinction is 99.97%."

Su Chen's movements stopped.

"The host is the only designated variable."

In the quiet partitioned room, the ceiling fan creaked as it spun.

Su Chen sat back up.

He felt no panic; he had written three books, over a million words, and had created more protagonists than the number of instant noodle cups he had eaten.

He knew better than anyone how those protagonists would react when encountering a system.

But he was not those protagonists.

Su Chen's first reaction was—

"What is the Weird?"

The system was silent for a second, then began to answer.

Over the next two hours, Su Chen questioned the system thoroughly.

The types of Weird, the methods of invasion, the levels of power, the effectiveness of humanity's existing weapons being almost zero.

The specific form of the evil gods' descent in three years...

Every piece of information was recorded word-for-word in his notebook.

At the same time, the system explained the core mechanism of "Script Manifestation" to him.

As long as the "authenticity" of the script written by the host meets the standard, it can turn fiction into reality.

There are three sources of authenticity: the deep conviction of key figures, the logical closure of the chain of evidence, and global reputation.

Su Chen's eyes lit up when he heard the words "writing a script."

"Wait."

He interrupted the system,

"Are you saying that as long as people believe what I write, it can become real?"

"Simplified understanding, basically correct."

"Then if I write that I am the Huang Tiandi, can it be manifested?"

The system was silent for 0.3 seconds.

"Required points: 9,999,999,999."

Su Chen: "...Fine."

"Newbie gift pack has been distributed: 1000 points."

One thousand.

Su Chen began to inquire about prices.

S-rank ability—starting at 1 million points.

Cultivation techniques—starting at 500,000.

Divine weapons—starting at 100,000.

Any decent piece of equipment—starting at 8,000.

Su Chen's expression went from anticipation to calm, and from calm to numbness.

One thousand points couldn't even exchange for a decent fire poker.

Su Chen stopped his fingers from tapping on the desk.

The room was very quiet, with only the ceiling fan spinning overhead.

He picked up the notebook and turned to a blank page.

The tip of his pen hovered over the paper for a long time.

Then he wrote down eight characters.

—Civilization shall not extinguish, Kindling shall burn forever.

His fingers began tapping on the desk again.

Tap, tap, tap.

This wasn't anxiety; it was his habit when conceiving plots.

He had written three books, over two million words,

and every plot point he was satisfied with was tapped out to this rhythm.

Only this time, he wasn't conceiving a novel.

"System."

"Present."

"I need to construct a brand new organization, an organization that saves the world."

The system did not respond.

After all, the points required to manifest such an organization itself would be astronomical.

Su Chen continued on his own,

"The history of an organization doesn't need to be shown to everyone all at once. It can be like archaeology—dug out layer by layer."

He began to write in the notebook.

"First reveal a corner to make people curious. Then reveal a side to make people shocked. When the full picture surfaces—"

He stopped writing, the corners of his mouth curving slightly.

"Then it won't be me saying it. It will be a historical fact that the whole world dug out itself."

The system's database spun for three seconds.

"The host's plan is theoretically feasible. The feedback of authenticity generated by each small-scale manifestation can feed back into the next, larger-scale manifestation. This is an exponentially growing positive cycle model."

A pause.

"But the risk is extremely high. The initial point reserve is almost zero, and the fault tolerance rate is less than 0.3%."

"I know."

Su Chen lowered his head and continued writing.

The tip of his pen glided across the paper, filling six full pages.

Since the birth of life on Blue Star and the dawn of civilization, the world has hidden an eternal cycle of fate.

Every thousand years, a world-ending catastrophe must occur.

Extraterrestrial evil gods awaken, spatial rifts collapse, otherworldly Weird descend, and the laws of heaven and earth fall into chaos; mortal civilizations are destined for extinction, all living beings sink, and the era is completely reset.

Long ago, the first pioneers who saw through the cycle of fate gathered the embers of the world and the remnants of civilization to establish the only ultimate, secret, world-saving organization in human history that spanned races, nations, and eras—Kindling.

It has continued alongside human civilization.

Eastern Taoist sword cultivators, Western Paladins and Arcanists, Middle Eastern arcane priests... Kindling has taken root in the soil of every civilization.

Kindling does not belong to any dynasty, nation, or sect. It does not vie for hegemony, seize power, or interfere in the rise and fall of mortals.

It awakens once every thousand years; when calamity comes, it saves the world; when calamity passes, it returns to seclusion.

When civilization flourishes, Kindling hides.

When the apocalypse arrives, Kindling burns.

As for himself—

Su Chen's pen paused slightly.

Then he wrote three words in the notebook—Flame Keeper.

Every time the apocalypse arrives, there will be one Kindling member who survived from the previous apocalypse.

Enduring a thousand years of loneliness, watching generations of companions grow old and die.

As a Flame Keeper, guarding the Kindling, hidden within the world.

Until the next catastrophe arrives, raising the Kindling to reignite the fire.

After writing the last word, Su Chen closed the notebook and turned on the computer.

The framework of the organization is written this far; the remaining details need to be filled in slowly.

The organization exists, but it cannot have only him.

He needs a chess piece. The first chess piece.

This chess piece must be wealthy, capable, and have a large enough weakness for him to cut into.

He opened the search engine and entered keywords.

The third trending topic—

"Liu Group head Liu Hongde is critically ill; Liu Yuyan urgently takes over the billion-dollar empire."

Su Chen clicked on the news and saw the photo.

Long straight black hair, professional attire, cold and stern features.

Twenty-seven years old, the actual controller of a billion-dollar group.

He didn't linger on her face, his gaze falling on the body of the news:

Terminal cancer, global experts are helpless.

Su Chen's fingers stopped.

"Wealthy. Capable. Has a weakness."

He closed the computer.

"Perfect."

Next is the price inquiry session.

"Pill to treat terminal cancer—100 points."

Acceptable.

"Spatial ability—"

"Don't give me the all-powerful one; I want the lowest spec."

"Directional teleportation within 100 meters, consumes stamina when used—500 points."

Six hundred.

Sixty percent of the total one thousand points spent.

Su Chen stared at the number for two seconds and clicked confirm.

The first step must be taken.

A dark golden pill appeared in his left palm, and at the same time, a strange perception appeared in his body.

Su Chen could feel the spatial structure within a hundred-meter range; the location of every wall and every floor was laid out in his mind.

Remaining points: 400.

Su Chen dug out a black trench coat from under the cupboard.

He ordered a bronze half-mask online, expedited delivery, arriving in one hour.

When the mask arrived, he used a small knife to carve a few cracks on the edge and soaked it in overnight tea.

He fished it out after twenty minutes, wiped it dry, and put it on.

The person in the mirror looked like a chuunibyou youth who had run out of some cosplay exhibition.

Su Chen was silent for a while.

Then he adjusted his breathing, his posture, and his gaze.

Having written three books, he had created gentle, violent, restrained, crazy—all kinds of characters.

Aura isn't something mystical. It's rhythm, the focus of one's gaze, the placement of pauses when speaking.

In the mirror, those eyes slowly changed.

They didn't become sharp, but empty.

The kind of emptiness that doesn't care about anything; it wasn't the coldness of acting, but what was left after truly emptying himself out.

Su Chen nodded at himself in the mirror.

"That's it."

"The script I'm writing this time, the audience is the whole world."