In the end, I reached this point.
From this height, I could see everything…
Down there, the city was simply living its own story—as if it didn't care about anyone else's. I only wanted to go higher, but not to this rooftop.
I had tried every genres, every themes, every characters.
Yet none of them became anything.
When I jumped, the silent wind wrapped around me, strangely light.
The city lights shone brightly, but not for me.
It was more like they were proving that they could shine—
while I… couldn't.
I slowly closed my eyes, and everything—
went dark.
When I opened them again, there was no heaven or hell like people always said.
There was only endless darkness, and I was alone within it.
When I looked down, a single point of light appeared beneath me.
Just a tiny speck, yet somehow it kept growing.
No—it wasn't growing.
It was rushing toward me at an unbelievable speed.
The light crashed into me like a wave, carrying countless sheets of paper with it.
The empty space was no longer empty.
It was filled with glowing pages.
One of them brushed past my face.
Written on it was a single sentence.
"Every power demands a price."
Without realizing it, I read those words aloud.
The surrounding pages were drawn toward that sentence, gathering at one point, merging together—until they formed a figure that looked just like… me.
"Why didn't you finish it?"
He asked, as if he had known me for a long time.
"Finish what? If you mean my life, then I'm already done."
"Not that.
Your stories."
I froze.
He didn't just know me.
He knew every story I had never finished.
Every story I abandoned because no one cared enough to read them.
"Because it was pointless. No one was reading them anyway."
The words that left my mouth hurt more than I expected.
Because the truth was, I really had tried everything—
and it had all been meaningless.
"Does that really matter?"
For some reason, that question sounded more like a statement.
"What do you mean? Of course it does. Stories are written so others will read them."
"Then what about you?"
"Did you ever think about why you started writing in the first place?"
I remembered it then.
The day I decided to write my own story for the first time.
Not to please anyone.
Not to become famous.
Just to write a story that was truly mine.
"I… remember."
"Then why did you run away from your responsibility?"
"Don't you think the worlds you created deserve to be finished?"
Those words struck me hard.
I wasn't just a failure.
I was a coward—someone who didn't have the courage to finish his own stories.
"It's already too late. Even if I wanted to finish them now…
I'm the one who ended first."
It was bitter.
But that was the truth.
There was nothing left to fix anymore.
"There's no such thing as 'too late' for an ending."
"I will give you a chance.
Finish your stories.
Guide them toward a true ending.
Only then will you understand the meaning of… writing."
The papers began to spin around me.
Faster.
Brighter.
Until everything—
went dark once more.
"Wo… Ye… Woon… Yeo Woon. Wake up. Hey…"
That voice pulled me back to consciousness.
Where was I?
Was this heaven?
When I turned my head to the side—
a man was sitting next to me.
Black hair.
A sharp gaze.
A stern face.
"Are you okay?" he asked, worry clear in his voice.
"Where am I?"
My head throbbed as I tried to sit up.
"Uh… how many fingers am I holding up?"
He raised his index and middle fingers.
"Two."
"Haaah… thank goodness. I thought you might've lost your memory."
He let out a long sigh of relief.
"How is that even related?"
"Isn't it? Well, at least you're fine. Haha.
I was worried when you collapsed earlier."
He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
That foolish gesture.
Black hair.
Sharp eyes.
A stern face.
I remembered him.
He was the main character of the Murim story I had written.
The story I abandoned because I was afraid of competing with countless other Murim novels.
So I had transmigrated into this story to finish it.
But how?
I didn't even know what kind of ending this story was supposed to have.