Step 1: Trying, Trying, Trying (Time Travel Round 2)

The crimson ink on the parchment shimmered, swirling like smoke under Jikirukuto's calloused fingertips. Each word, etched with the blood of a moonmoth, spun a new thread in the tapestry of time, replaying the disastrous dragon fight in countless variations. He was the Reader, the keeper of Reading Steiner, burdened with the awful knowledge of every "world line" the chrono-jump had spawned.

This time, Jikirukuto had seen himself as a whirlwind of steel, dancing with the obsidian dragon beneath the smoke-choked sky. He'd parried claws like burning scythes, his own blade a sliver of moonlight singing through the air. Astley, his fiery-haired cousin, would have cheered from the ramparts, a beacon of defiant beauty. But then, chaos had erupted. A stone gargoyle, dislodged by the battle's fury, had toppled from the crumbling castle, tumbling down like a monstrous comet.

King Reginald, a portly man with a crown perched precariously on his bald head, had stood directly in its path. The impact was a sickening crunch, bone and stone mingling in a macabre tableau. Astley's scream, sharp and raw, had pierced Jikirukuto's heart like a dragon's talon.

He slammed his fist on the desk, ink splattering across the parchment. In this world line, the kingdom would drown in grief and anarchy. No, he couldn't accept it. He dipped his quill, its tip shimmering with amethyst dust, and rewrote the scene. This time, he'd be quicker, a silver blur deflecting the gargoyle with a whisper of steel. But then, a stray dragon-fire breath licked the castle's roof, igniting the aged timbers. Flames roared, devouring the ramparts, threatening to engulf Astley in a fiery tomb. Her whimper of fear echoed in Jikirukuto's soul, sharper than a dragon's screech.

He crumpled the parchment, frustration biting at his gut. Every change, every heroic act, seemed to spawn another disaster, a hydra of unforeseen consequences. Was he cursed to witness countless tragedies, a puppet master forever trapped in a macabre play?

Then, a memory flickered – John Titor's cryptic messages on the Time Travel Forum, whispers of convergence points, where world lines intertwined, destinies clashed. Could there be a world line where both Reginald and Astley survived, where heroism didn't breed catastrophe?

He straightened, a spark of defiance igniting in his eyes. He wouldn't be a passive observer, a chronicler of doom. He was the Reader, the weaver of worlds, and he would find that convergence point, that sliver of hope where victory danced in the dragon's shadow.

With a deep breath, he dipped his quill, its tip humming with newfound resolve. This time, he wouldn't just fight the dragon; he'd fight the very fabric of time itself. The ink flowed, not as a chronicle of tragedy, but as a battle cry, a testament to the enduring human spirit, a song of hope sung in the ashes of countless failed world lines.

For Jikirukuto, the Reader, wasn't doomed to witness tragedy. He was destined to write a new ending, a world line where dragons fell, kingdoms stood, and Astley's laughter once again echoed across the smoke-streaked sky. The quill danced, etching a future where courage, not chaos, reigned supreme. The battle for tomorrow had begun, and Jikirukuto, armed with ink and determination, was ready to write his cousin's, and his own, happily ever after.