The world was gray, the coffee was cold, and the relentless blinking of the cursor on his screen was a ticking clock.
Arthur Finch stared at the blank page, a gaping void where his creative genius was supposed to be. His fantasy epic, Alfred Aether: The Scion of Mercia, was a phenomenon in South Korea, celebrated for its intricate game-like system and a plot that had now spiraled out of his control.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with the name "Jinwoo" — his Korean editor. A knot of dread tightened in his stomach. He sighed, a tired, defeated sound, and answered the call.
"Arthur-ssi, good morning! How is Chapter 567 coming along?" Jinwoo's voice was bright and cheerful, a stark contrast to the despair Arthur felt.
"It's... progressing," Arthur lied, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. He hadn't written a single word. He was stuck on the part where Alfred was supposed to face the Dread Lich of Shadowspire.
"That is great news!" Jinwoo exclaimed. "Because we are in a bit of a bind. The readers are going wild with theories about the Dread Lich. They are saying it is the final boss, the main villain of the entire series! They love the slow burn."
The slow burn is because I have no idea what I'm doing, Arthur thought bitterly. I just made the Lich a minor villain to set up the real antagonist.
"The issue is time," Jinwoo continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Our schedule is very tight. We need Chapter 567 by tomorrow at the latest. The fans are expecting a major battle, and if we delay, they will... well, they will riot. You know how passionate they are."
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, picturing the digital mob he had unintentionally created. They loved the suspense he was no longer capable of writing. The irony was almost too much to bear.
"I understand," Arthur mumbled. "I will do my best."
"Excellent! I knew I could count on you, Arthur-ssi! Don't forget, the readers love your intricate stat system. Make sure Alfred's new legendary sword feels... epic!" Jinwoo said before hanging up.
The call ended, but the weight of it remained. Chapter 567. A major battle. A legendary sword. The Dread Lich of Shadowspire. Arthur's mind was a whirlwind of half-formed ideas and impossible deadlines. He was trapped, a prisoner of his own success. He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and gripping the cold coffee mug. He wished, with a desperate sincerity he hadn't felt in years, for an escape. A break from the world he had created, just for a moment, to find the inspiration that had long since abandoned him.
The strange sensation started small, a low hum that seemed to vibrate in his bones. It was a creeping unreality, a feeling as if the air around him was growing thin, transparent. The familiar grayness of his apartment began to fade, replaced by a warm, sickly yellow light that made his stomach churn. A high-pitched whine filled his ears, and his reality dissolved into a maelstrom of electric static and warped colors. He felt his consciousness being stretched, pulled, and then violently compressed, like a star collapsing into itself. He couldn't scream, couldn't move. He was just a passenger on a journey to an unknown destination.
When the sensation finally ceased, it was replaced by a jarring silence. He lay on a bed of soft moss, his head throbbing. He took a deep, ragged breath, the scent of damp earth and pine filling his lungs. It was cool, clean, and unlike anything he had ever smelled before. He slowly opened his eyes. The gray ceiling of his apartment was gone, replaced by a canopy of towering, impossibly green trees that reached up to a sky so blue it was blinding. The light was different, richer, more vibrant.
"What… what is this? This isn't real," he whispered, his voice a faint whisper, choked with disbelief.
He pushed himself up, his body feeling oddly heavy, his muscles protesting the simple motion. He was no longer in his pajamas. He was wearing the ridiculously over-the-top adventurer's garb he had designed for his protagonist, Alfred Aether: a deep forest-green tunic, a thick leather belt with a strange assortment of pouches, and heavy, oversized boots. He looked down at his hands, pale and uncalloused, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of genuine terror.
And then, it came. The tell-tale ping he had written to signal a system alert. A shimmering, translucent screen flickered into existence before his eyes, a perfect holographic display. He stared at it, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was no dream. This was the system he had created, the very mechanic that made his novel famous. He slowly, agonizingly, read the words.
NAME: Arthur Finch
CLASS: [Unassigned]
LEVEL: 1
STATS:
STRENGTH: 4 (Abysmal)
VITALITY: 5 (Poor)
DEXTERITY: 3 (Pathetic)
INTELLIGENCE: 25 (Exceptional)
CHARISMA: 12 (Average)
LUCK: 1 (Dreadful)
A profound, sickening despair washed over him. The stats... he recognized them. He had written them for a random, throwaway character he had planned to kill off in the first act. "I wrote a character with a Dexterity of 3. I could trip over a flat surface," he mumbled to himself, the absurdity of it all hitting him with the force of a punch. The man with the exceptional intellect had no physical abilities. And now, that was him.
Below the stats, an unsettling message glowed with a sickly green light.
System Alert: The Author has been bound to the Narrative. Main Quest: Survive.