This is the story of how I died.
No, that's not quite right. Let me start again.
This is the story of how I, Choi Taehyun, a broke novelist surviving on cheap instant noodles, became Cheon Taehyun, the doomed eldest son of the Heavenly Divine Demonic Cult. And it is, against all odds, the story of how I decided to tear up the script and became the absolute ruler of this world.
But every story needs a beginning. Mine began with a deadline.
The flickering cursor on my screen, Chapter 2647 of "Heavenly Divine Demonic Cult Saga" was due in three hours, and my mind was as empty as my bank account.
But the words wouldn't come. I was burned out. The weekly uploads, the demanding comments, the relentless pressure to one up my previous plot twists, it had sucked all the joy out of the story I once loved.
FZZZT POP!
The lights died. The fan whirred to a halt. My laptop screen, my lone beacon in the darkness, flickered a warning 10% Battery Remaining.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I slammed my fist on the wobbly desk. Of all the nights for a blackout.
Driven by a mix of desperation and the need for fresh air, I unplugged my laptop and moved towards the balcony. The city was dark, swallowed by a sudden, violent summer storm. Rain lashed against the railing, and thunder grumbled in the distance. The air felt charged, electric.
A stupid idea sparked in my tired brain. Maybe some grilled meat would help me think. I fired up the small portable grill I kept for such emergencies, As I watched the rain sizzle on the hotplate, a piece of cheap beef sizzling beside it, my thoughts drifted back to my novel.
The wind howled, whipping rain sideways under the balcony awning. A large droplet hit my keyboard. I jumped back, scrambling to save my laptop ,the only thing standing between me and eviction.
That's when the world turned white.
There was no sound. No time to think. Just a blinding, absolute whiteness that consumed everything. It was as if the universe itself had taken a flash photograph, and I was at its center. I felt a jolt ,not of impact, but of pure, fundamental energy unraveling the very fabric of my being.
Then, nothing.
The first thing I registered was sound. A loud, blaring whistle, the kind used to announce the start of a gladiatorial match. It cut through the fog in my head, sharp and commanding.
My eyes snapped open.
I was no longer on my rain-soaked balcony. I was seated on a high, ornate chair, draped with black silk. I was in a colossal hall, its vaulted ceilings lost in shadow. Torches flickered, casting dancing light on hundreds of faces, men and women in dark, formidable robes, their eyes fixed on a central dueling ring.
And in that ring, a young man was fighting.
My breath hitched. I knew him. I knew the way he moved, the desperate yet determined glint in his eyes, the way he favored his left foot because of an old training injury I had given him in Chapter 1.
It was Cheon Jin-Woo. My protagonist.
This was the scene from Chapter 6. The first public duel where the scorned, "weak" youngest son secretly uses a trick from his System to humiliate a bullying disciple. I had written this scene in my bedroom, fueled by cheap coffee. Now, I was witnessing the very fight.
A cold, profound horror began to crystallize in my gut.
"First Young Master," a soft, hesitant voice beside me broke through my paralysis. A young maid in a simple grey dress bowed deeply, a porcelain teacup held out in her trembling hands. "Would you like some tea?"
"First Young Master"
The title echoed in my mind, a death sentence wrapped in courtesy. My eyes drifted down. I was wearing robes of the finest black silk, embroidered with subtle, terrifying patterns of coiling dragons. My hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were not my own. They were strong, pale, with long fingers and the faint scars of a swordsman.
I looked at the maid, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I saw my own reflection, distorted but unmistakable, in the polished surface of the teapot she held.
Sharp, arrogant eyes. A cruel twist to the lips. The face of Cheon Taehyun.
The eldest son of the Cult Leader. The character fated to be beheaded by Jin-Woo in the Fifth volume.
The teacup in the maid's hand rattled on its saucer.
The duel in the ring reached its climax. Jin-Woo executed the move exactly as I had written it, a clever, low sweep that sent his opponent crashing to the ground. The hall erupted in a mixture of cheers and shocked murmurs.
But Jin-Woo's eyes weren't on his defeated foe. As he straightened up, panting, his gaze swept across the high platform. For a single, heart-stopping second, his eyes met mine.
And in that moment, I saw it, a cold, calculating gleam. The look of a conqueror taking stock of his future enemies.
The story of my death was already in motion. And I was the only one who could rewrite it.