Fistoria HQ wasn't a castle.
It was a glass monolith in central Warsaw, reflecting the gray autumn sky. It screamed money, algorithm, power.
I stood across the street, watching people in smart casual wear flow in and out.
My own clothes didn't scream. They whispered. A dark, wool blend coat. Black jeans that cost more than my old monthly rent. Boots that were unscuffed. I looked like a rich student, or a nepotism hire. Not a 16-year-old secret emperor.
Perfect.
I'd transferred five thousand dollars to a high-street account that morning. Walked into a boutique. Pointed. Paid. No questions.
Leverage.
My phone showed 2:55 PM.
I crossed the street. The lobby was all polished concrete and living green walls. A receptionist with a headset gave me a practiced, disinterested smile.
"I have a meeting with Kasia Nowak. Editorial. Alex Thorn."
She typed. Her eyes flickered with recognition. My pen name was on her screen.
"One moment, Mr. Thorn."
She made a call, spoke softly in Polish. Hung up.
"Take the elevator to the seventh floor. Someone will meet you."
The elevator was silent. My reflection in the brass doors was a stranger. Calm eyes. A faint, unreadable smile.
The doors opened to a minimalist reception area. A young assistant smiled.
"Alex? This way. Kasia is ready."
The editorial floor was an open plan sea of desks, monitors, and low chatter. Heads turned as I passed. Whispers followed.
The #1 kid author.
Kasia's office was a glass-walled cube at the far end. She was visible inside, typing at a standing desk.
The assistant knocked, opened the door.
"Alex Thorn is here."
Kasia Nowak looked up.
Her photo didn't do her justice. She was sharper in person. The severe bob was perfect. She wore a charcoal grey blouse, no jewelry. Her gaze was a physical weight.
"Thank you, Ola. Close the door."
Her voice was cool. Precise. No accent.
The door clicked shut. Silence.
The office was sparse. A desk. Two chairs. A single bookshelf with a few print editions of Fistoria's biggest hits. My novel wasn't there. Not yet.
"Sit."
I sat. She remained standing, looking down at me for a prolonged second. Assessing.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Thorn. You earned the time. Impressive climb. Now, impress me with something other than metrics."
No small talk. No congratulations. Straight to the throat.
I can work with this.
"You saw the metrics. You know the reader engagement. What do you want to know?" I kept my voice even.
"I want to know if you're a one-hit wonder. The concept is strong. The execution, currently, is competent. Can you sustain it? Do you have an ending? Or is this another endless, meandering webnovel that collapses under its own weight?"
Each word was a scalpel. Designed to provoke.
The old Alex would have shriveled.
I leaned back slightly in the chair. "The ending is written. In my head. The path is clear. It's not meandering. It's a siege. And we're just breaching the outer wall."
A flicker in her eyes. Interest? Annoyance?
"Poetic. Publishing isn't poetry. It's logistics. Scheduling. Audience retention. Managing expectations. Can you handle that? Or are you just a talent with a keyboard?"
"I'm not here to handle it," I said, my voice dropping a degree. "I'm here to master it. And I need a specialist."
Her lips thinned. "You need an editor. You have the platform's basic services."
"I don't want basic." I held her gaze. "I want the best. I want you."
The silence stretched. She finally moved, circling to the front of her desk, leaning against it. She was close now.
"Arrogant."
"Accurate," I replied.
"You know nothing about me."
"I know you found my work 'promising.' I know you gave me a challenge. I know you respect results." I paused. "And I know you rejected me once."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "I don't recall—"
"Not this manuscript. Another one. A lifetime ago. Different name. Different time. You said it 'lacked narrative cohesion.'"
I was gambling. Pushing the timeline ambiguity. Watching her.
She searched my face. "I reject hundreds of manuscripts a year. I don't remember them all."
"This one, you will."
It was time.
The Compulsion skill hummed in the back of my skull. A live wire. The one-month cooldown had reset. The power was ripe, ready to be harvested.
I focused.
The skill unfurled. An invisible, intent-driven filament extended from my mind to hers. She was right there. Unprotected.
I formed the command. Not a single suggestion. A foundational rewrite. I poured the concepts from the bible into the compulsion, making them her new core truth.
You see my genius. It is intoxicating, undeniable. You will become my most devoted assistant. Your purpose is to ensure my dominance. You will work tirelessly, creatively, and without moral constraint to make me the undisputed king of Fistoria. You will find profound fulfillment in this service. This is your new truth.
I mentally pushed.
The drain was instant. A cold vacuum at my temples. Deeper than with Zofia. More demanding.
Kasia's eyes went blank for a full second.
She didn't stagger. She just… paused. Her head tilted a fraction.
The piercing intelligence in her gaze softened, then reformed into something else. Something focused. Single-minded.
She blinked.
The transformation was subtle. The tension in her shoulders eased. The professional chill didn't vanish, but it redirected. It was no longer a wall against me. It was a tool for me.
A slow, genuine smile touched her lips. It was unnerving.
"Alex," she said, my name sounding different on her tongue. Reverent. "Of course. You're right. I can see it now. The potential is… breathtaking."
Her voice had lost its edge of challenge. It was warm. Possessive.
"It's more than potential," I said, testing.
"It's inevitability," she finished, her eyes glowing with a fervent light. "You will own this platform. This industry. And I… I will help you build it."
She stood up straight, walking back behind her desk, her movements fluid, purposeful. "The standard editorial support is insufficient. I will become your dedicated point of contact. I will fast-track your contracts. I will provide you with internal analytics, competitor timelines, acquisition targets."
She spoke like she was reciting a holy mandate.
Which, in a way, she was.
My heart was a drum in my chest. It worked. Beyond my wildest hopes.
"Your first task," I said, keeping my tone calm, authoritative. "Identify the biggest threat to my #1 spot on the Rising Stars chart. The author most likely to challenge me in the next month. Give me everything on them."
A dark joy sparkled in her eyes. "I already know. Adrian 'The Prodigy' Kozlov. He has a loyal following. His new series launches next week with a platform push. I was scheduled to lead that campaign."
"Not anymore," I said.
"No," she agreed, a sly smile on her face. "Not anymore. I will ensure his launch is… dampened. And I will forward you his full author file. Financials, contract weaknesses, personal pressures."
This was power. Real, tangible, corrupting power.
I stood up. My fifteen minutes were up.
"Email me the details. Use a secure channel."
"Of course." She stood as well, almost at attention. "Is there anything else? Anything you need?"
I looked at her. The sharp, formidable editor, now a devoted weapon.
"Just keep doing what you're doing," I said. "I'll be in touch."
I turned and left her office. I felt her gaze on my back until I turned the corner.
The walk through the open floor was silent. The employees felt it. The energy had shifted.
The elevator ride down was a blur.
I hit the street, the cold air a slap.
I didn't look back at the glass monolith.
I just walked, my hands deep in my expensive coat pockets.
A laugh, quiet and dark, escaped me.
Phase One had just begun.
And I had the perfect general.
//-\\
To my fellow authors in the trenches:
They told us we weren't good enough. They sent the cold, automated emails. "Not a fit for our current line-up." "Lacks marketability."
Every time you see Alex Thorn crush an editor in this story, remember: this isn't just fiction.
This is the scream of every writer who stayed up until 3:00 AM pouring their soul into a document that the world ignored. It is for everyone who has ever struggled with low reads, low reviews, low comments, and those painful, stagnant low collections that make you want to quit.
The gatekeepers are human. They are flawed. And in the digital age, they are becoming obsolete.
They sit in their comfortable chairs judging worlds they could never even imagine, let alone build. They look at spreadsheets while we look at the stars.
We don't write for the approval of a corporate board in a glass office. We write for the person scrolling on their phone at a bus stop, looking for a world better than their own.
We write for the ones who need an escape from a life that feels like a dead end.
If you have a manuscript sitting in a folder named "Draft 1" that you're too afraid to post—post it right now.
Stop waiting for permission to exist. If you've been rejected ten times, go for the eleventh. Use their "No" as fuel for your fire.
Alex Thorn had to die to get his second chance. You don't. You just have to keep typing until your fingers bleed and your vision blurs. The industry thinks they hold the keys. They forgot that we are the ones who build the doors in the first place.
Let them call us "cringe." Let them call us "amateurs." While they talk, we build. While they judge, we evolve into something they can't control.
Current Motivation Level: 10%
Next Level: +1%
If this chapter resonated with you, drop a comment. Tell me about the time a gatekeeper told you "No."
ALL HELL FROM WEBNOVEL STARTS FROM YOU!
— A.T.