The dim city lights bled through the tinted windows, gliding over his face in fleeting ribbons of gold and gray. Each flash exposed a different emotion—unease, guilt, and something like fear. Every few seconds, he tried to meet my eyes, but his gaze faltered, slipping to the floor or the window instead.
Fuck. Fuck!What happened? Why… why is he not dead?It failed? But how? They said everything went according to plan.Ahh… my head's killing me.
He shifted uncomfortably, stealing a glance at the kid sitting across from him.
And to make it worse, why did he ask me to sit in the back with him?It's strange three just three months since I last saw him—how can someone change that much?
He used to look hollow, detached… now there's something alive behind his eyes. It's unsettling.
"You're not nervous, are you?" I asked, voice calm but edged with quiet amusement. "Don't be ... It's not like you were the one who tried to kill me."
He let out a shaky laugh—too quick, too forced. "H-Haha… n-no, of course not. I—I was just—"
For a moment, the only sound in the car was his uneven breathing. He forced a broken smile. "Huh?"
The words withered on his tongue as my meaning sank in. His pupils dilated; his lips twitched open, then closed again. The color drained from his face as the truth settled in—slow, dreadful.
The realization that - I knew.
"Transfer all the money except a thousand," I said, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, tone low and deliberate. "The advance payment. Whoever sent you must've already paid up."
He stiffened, a flicker of panic in his eyes. His fingers twitched against his knees.
Before he could respond, I continued, eyes fixed on him. "Think carefully. Do you really believe they'll let you live, even if your part was small—a simple confirmation?" I paused, voice dropping to a whisper. "No one likes leaving a pawn loose."
He swallowed hard. The tremor in his hands betrayed him more than his voice ever could.
After a long pause, he spoke, tone cautious, tight. "So… you want me to work for you."
He gave a shaky laugh, trying to sound braver than he felt. "You're just a kid. What guarantee do I have that I won't be killed helping you?"
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the limo's engine and the soft rhythm of rain against the glass.
I smiled faintly. "Precisely. I am just a kid. I don't have my father's power, and I'm not the heir to the family. That makes me weak." I leaned forward slightly, clasping my hands over my knee. "But I'm not asking you to work only for me. You'll be a double agent."
His gaze flickered—uncertainty shadowing his face.
I waved a hand lazily. "Tell them what they want to hear; it doesn't matter to me."
He hesitated, jaw tightening.
"Truth is," I said quietly, "they've probably already erased everyone involved in poisoning me. So stay useful… and I can promise you won't die easily."
He swallowed hard, voice trembling just enough to betray him. "Do you… want to know who sent me?"
Without missing a beat, I replied, my gaze still fixed ahead. "There's no fun in finding out right away."
I turned toward the rain-streaked window, watching the blurred lights smear across the glass.
"Besides," I added softly, almost to myself, "I probably already know who it is."
Beyond the glass, the city thinned into open road. In the distance, the academy's massive dome loomed—silver-gray and silent against the clouds.
Almost there. Guess it's time to start sorting through what I know—about this world, and the author who built it.
This world—everything about it—was definitely from that novel written by that man. Funny thing was, I couldn't even remember his name. But his voice from that last call still echoed in my head—calm, confident… unmistakably male.
The first contact we had was through an email, if I recall correctly, it was something like-
-
From: [email protected]
Subject: Proposal for Collaboration and Editing Opportunity
Hi,
I recently read some of your writing, and the way you craft scenarios—especially how your characters handle problems—really caught my attention.
I'd love to collaborate with you, as I believe your unique style could elevate my story. Would you consider being its editor?
Please let me know what you think.
-
It would be a lie if I said I wasn't interested.
We exchanged a few emails after that—enough for me to get a sense of his background, who he was, and the kind of story he wanted to tell.
At first, I was skeptical about collaborating. And honestly, I had every reason to be.
He had no prior experience writing books, and, frankly, I didn't think of myself as particularly skilled at crafting deep characters or intricate storylines. Yet, somehow, my second book had gained unexpected traction.
It was a simple death-game story—straightforward in concept but built around inventive challenges and the clever ways the protagonist overcame them. My focus had always been on tight, engaging plots rather than complex character arcs. To keep the story sharp and focused, I capped it at 120 chapters, avoiding the usual drag and filler that bog down most serials.
Still, the main reason I decided to work with him was simple: Money.
As an independent author, I typically earn only a few thousand dollars once platform fees, ad costs, and revenue sharing are accounted for. Royalties per chapter were modest at best, especially considering the sheer number of hours each one demanded.
But this man offered something unheard of—fifty dollars per chapter. Over a thirty-one-day month, that would amount to nearly the same income I'd make after four months of steady work.
At first, I assumed it was a scam or some kind of joke. The promise of consistent, upfront payment was almost too good to be real, especially in a field where income was uncertain and often delayed for weeks.
But it wasn't a scam.
The payments came in on time—sometimes even early. Clean transactions, consistent communication. No red flags. For the first month, I was convinced he was just another rich hobbyist with more money than sense.
But as our exchanges continued, something shifted.
At first, it was subtle. The tone of his emails, the way he phrased his questions—something about them felt… off. Too deliberate. Too personal.
That's when I realized he was truly serious about writing this novel.
He wasn't just asking for feedback on structure or pacing anymore. Instead, he'd write things like, "Why do some fathers have to be so cruel?" or "Do you think someone like him can still be saved?"
I told myself it was just creative curiosity—writers often get too attached to their characters, especially in darker genres. Still, I couldn't help but notice inconsistencies in his drafts: minor lapses in continuity, dialogue that felt off, and pacing that stuttered between chapters. Typical first-draft stuff, but combined with the odd tone of his emails, it was… unsettling.
But after about a month of back-and-forth edits, comments, and clarifying questions, the manuscript finally arrived.
Cycle of Ends.
It wasn't a complete story—just the opening arcs and a few scattered notes about the world and its rules. He never mentioned what the end goal was supposed to be, only that we'd "figure it out along the way."
That didn't bother me much at the time. Most authors don't start with the full picture; they build forward from a foundation, shaping the world as they go. As long as there's vision—something solid to anchor the story—I can work with it. And I'll admit, despite the gaps and odd phrasing, there was something strangely compelling about it.
And, of course, there was the money. Fifty dollars per chapter—guaranteed, upfront. That kind of deal was too good to walk away from.
Cycle of Ends was set in a hybrid world—sci-fi with a touch of fantasy.
The story took place in the year 2315, centuries ahead of my own time, unfolding in a world scarred by World War III—a conflict that raged from 2031 - 2038. It began with a massive cyberattack on NATO systems, triggering global retaliation and eventually splitting the world into two major alliances: the Western Coalition—led by the U.S., Europe, Japan, and their allies—and the Eurasian Compact, headed by China, Russia, and Iran.
The result was catastrophic. Entire cities—Warsaw, Guam, Shanghai—were wiped out in nuclear strikes. Neither side won. The war ended not in victory, but in exhaustion, leaving the planet scarred and divided until the formation of the United Earth Assembly (UEA) in 2042—a new peacekeeping body rising from the ashes of the old United Nations.
That was the backdrop. Just the basics of the setting. Nothing too original at first glance—
52 years following World War III, the world was just starting to recover with the built momentum, but...Thirty years after the war, the world was finally finding its rhythm again—cities rebuilt, trade routes reestablished, a fragile sense of normalcy returning. And then everything changed.
It started subtly—stronger storms, earthquakes in unlikely places, and volcanoes stirring after centuries of dormancy. At first, governments chalked it up to climate shifts, tectonic quirks, the usual "nature being unpredictable." But then the disasters escalated: massive volcanic eruptions darkened the skies, tsunamis swallowed coastal cities, and quakes ripped through regions that hadn't seen tremors in generations. Crops failed, rivers changed course, and entire ecosystems collapsed in months, not years.
Humanity had survived war, but now it faced a planet fighting back. Out of the billions who had rebuilt their lives after the conflict, only 3.7 billion survived by taking refuge underground for seven years, enduring the supervolcanic ash, climate collapse, and tidal devastation until the surface slowly became habitable again.
And now, this was where the fantasy tag of the genre began to take hold.
After 7 long years—coincidentally, the author seemed to have an obsession with the number— seven rifts in space suddenly appeared, stretching across the Amazon Rainforest in Brazil, the Himalayan Mountains of Nepal and Tibet, the Norwegian Fjords, the Icelandic LavaFields, the Sahara Desert, and Erta Ale Volcano in Algeria and Ethiopia, the Siberian Tundra in Russia, and—
And the final crack appeared in Death Valley, California, USA.