I blinked slowly, trying to clear the fog from my eyes. The room was unusually silent, save for the rustling of... wings? I squinted, and there she was—a woman with long, silvery hair and massive white wings, standing by my window like she owned the place. Oh, and she was holding a scythe. Great.
"Ah, you're awake," she said, her voice dripping with smug amusement. "You... Haha! You died because of poor health then your body gave in, HAHA!" She cackled like it was the funniest joke she'd heard all millennium.
"Seriously?" I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Is it really that funny to laugh at someone who died because of their poor health?"
Her laughter slowed, but she still looked like she was about to burst out again any second. "Humans are just so... fragile," she said, shaking her head. "You think it's unfair, huh? To die not in some epic blaze of glory but because your body decided to take an early retirement."
I sighed, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "So, what's the deal now?" I asked, already regretting the question.
She grinned, her teeth looking alarmingly sharp. "Now, you get to pay for your sins. Doesn't matter if they were accidents or on purpose. All sins count!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Let me get this straight. I'm going to be punished for accidental sins? Like that time I accidentally ran over my neighbor's prized garden gnome with my bike?"
She nodded, clearly enjoying herself. "Yep! Every little mishap adds up. You humans and your hilarious accidents."
"Wonderful," I said, rolling my eyes. "And what's your role in all this? Are you like, the Reaper? Grim's quirky cousin?"
She flicked her hair dramatically, wings fluttering behind her. "You could say that. I'm here to escort you to your afterlife."
I couldn't help but snort. "Great. I'm being escorted to eternal damnation by someone who looks like they stepped out of a gothic fashion show."
She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You think this is bad? Wait till you see the paperwork. Hell's bureaucracy is no joke."
I groaned, lying back down. "Can I at least get a coffee before we go?"
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Sure, why not? Hell's got a great espresso machine. Welcome to your afterlife!"
And with that, she twirled her scythe, the room spun around me, and I found myself thinking that at least Hell might have decent coffee.
Ah, so there I was, being dragged by this stunning Reaper, or maybe she was just some sassy chick with a thing for souls. As we traipsed along, memories flooded my brain like a tsunami of embarrassing moments and questionable life choices. I mean, sure, some of them were downright hilarious, like that time I tried to impress my crush by juggling oranges and ended up launching one into the principal's office. Classic me, right?
But then there were the moments that made me cringe so hard I think I pulled a muscle. Like the time I accidentally walked into the wrong restroom and had to explain to a group of startled women that I was just really bad at reading signs. Or that one time I thought it would be a great idea to try my hand at stand-up comedy and ended up bombing so badly I'm pretty sure the tomatoes thrown at me were ripe enough to start a salsa business.
But amidst the laughter and the facepalms, there were also those moments that made me stop and go, "What the heck was I thinking?" Like that time I thought it would be a good idea to dye my hair neon green for a dare, or when I accidentally let slip a secret that wasn't mine to tell and ended up in the middle of a friendship drama hurricane.
So here I am, reminiscing about my past adventures, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and regret, all while being dragged by this Reaper or whatever she is. Life sure has a funny way of reminding you of your past mistakes, doesn't it? But hey, at least it makes for a good story to tell at parties, right?
"Sigh..." The grim reaper let out an exasperated sigh, her expression as grim as her job title. "Are you really giving this guy a chance?" she muttered, as if debating with an invisible audience. It dawned on me that this Reaper was a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket.
"Hey!" she snapped, her expression growing more irritated by the second, her tone sharper than my high school math teacher's glare. "Your sins haven't registered." Huh?
I blinked, trying to process what she meant. "Um, excuse me, Miss Reaper, but could you kindly elaborate on that?" I asked, trying to keep my cool despite the increasingly bizarre situation unfolding before me.
She rolled her eyes, as if my confusion was the most exhausting thing she'd encountered in centuries. "Your sins, buddy. They're not showing up in the system. It's like you've been living under a rock or something," she grumbled, tapping impatiently on her scythe.
I scratched my head, feeling like I'd stumbled into a some kind glitch. "Uh, well, that's... unexpected?" I ventured, unsure of what else to say.
The Reaper let out another exasperated sigh, as if dealing with clueless mortals was her own personal version of hell. "Look, we've got protocols to follow here. You're supposed to have a rap sheet as long as the Nile, but instead, it's like you've been living the life of a saint. It's giving me a headache," she groaned, rubbing her temples with her pale skin fingers.
I shrugged, feeling equal parts perplexed and relieved. "Well, I guess that's a good thing, right? No sins, no problem?" I offered tentatively.
The Reaper shot me a withering glare, her eye sockets practically emitting sparks of frustration. "Tell that to the paperwork," she muttered, before disappearing into a puff of smoke, leaving me standing there wondering if I'd just dodged a bullet or stumbled into an even bigger mess.
Ah, the joys of being alive, eh? Never a dull moment.
As I staggered back into my body, exhaustion and insomnia decided to team up for a tag-team slapdown, sending me crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Blinking open my eyes, all I saw was darkness, like I'd somehow ended up lost in the void of space.
"Seriously, what in the hell joke is this?" I muttered, attempting to wriggle out of my prone position, but my limbs were playing a game of freeze tag without my consent. It was like my body had decided to unionize against me, leaving only my mouth on speaking terms.
And just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder, in saunters the sexy reaper from earlier, cackling like she's just won a jackpot in the afterlife lottery.
"Ah, the joys of sainthood, am I right?" she quips, clearly finding my predicament hysterical.
"Care to fill me in on the catastrophe I've stumbled into?" I groaned, feeling like I'd accidentally wandered into a B-movie plot.
"Seems your sins didn't make it onto the celestial spreadsheet, so management's decided to toss you into your own webnovels, as your punishment for your sins." she explains, her tone dripping with irritation.
"Great, so I get to be the protagonist in my own literary disasters?" I grumble, eyeing the ominous blue screens she's conjured up like some twisted game show host.
And there they were, my literary masterpieces laid out before me like a buffet of bad decisions:
[The Demon King Was Dumb Enough] - my debut novel, where the villain was about as menacing as a wet sponge.
[The Temple Yesterday] - featuring characters so bland they make cardboard cutouts look lively.
[Long Lost Apocalypse] - my collegiate attempt at crafting an end-of-the-world saga, complete with more plot holes than Swiss cheese.
[5 Fingers After The Demon King Was Killed] - my latest brainchild, still languishing in the depths of writer's block hell.
So now I had to choose my own personal purgatory? Well, isn't this just the cherry on top of my existential crisis sundae?
"Oh, so it's like a game of literary roulette?" I exclaimed, my excitement bubbling up faster than a shaken soda bottle. "I mean, who wouldn't want to ditch this reality for one of my own making, right?"
"Exactly!" she chimed in, as if plucking characters from novels was just another day at the office for her. "But here's the kicker: you won't know if you'll be the dashing hero, the dastardly villain, or just a random background extra. It's like playing dress-up with a twist!"
"Well, color me intrigued!" I grinned, ready to roll the dice and see which role fate had in store for me. After all, life's too short not to embrace the absurdity of transmigrating into your own stories, right?
I pondered harder than I ever thought possible, trying to decide which of my five novels was the cream of the crop. The first four? Oh, they were set in times when chaos reigned supreme, like trying to navigate rush hour traffic in a clown car. But then there was my latest masterpiece—a peaceful slice of life series, where the biggest threat was running out of milk for morning cereal. No demon lords in sight, thank you very much!
Ah, the not so famous "5 Fingers After The Demon King Was Killed." If ever there was a literary safety net, this was it—a cozy slice-of-life tale where the biggest threat was running out of milk for morning cereal. Choosing this novel was like wrapping myself in a fluffy blanket of predictability, hoping it would shield me from whatever chaos lay ahead.
"So, you've made your choice," the Reaper remarked, her expression a mix of surprise and... disappointment? "Well, well, well, aren't we playing it safe?" she teased, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
I shrugged, feeling a twinge of uncertainty gnawing at the edges of my resolve. "Hey, when in doubt, go for the low-stakes option, right?" I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
She chuckled, the sound echoing through the room like a spectral symphony. "Oh, you humans and your penchant for playing it safe," she mused, twirling her scythe with a flourish that bordered on theatrical. "But remember, safety isn't always synonymous with survival in the grand scheme of things."
I swallowed hard, feeling a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. "So, what does that mean for me? Am I in for a smooth ride or just setting myself up for a curveball?"
The Reaper's eyes sparkled with amusement, as if she knew something I didn't. "Let's just say that life—or in your case, the afterlife—has a funny way of defying expectations," she replied cryptically, her words hanging in the air like a riddle waiting to be solved.
I nodded, trying to mask the tremor of uncertainty coursing through me like an electric current. "Well, here's hoping for the best," I muttered, steeling myself for whatever rollercoaster ride awaited me in the pages of my own creation.
And with that, I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the unknown as the Reaper waved her hand, sending me hurtling into the world of "5 Fingers After The Demon King Was Killed" like a literary protagonist on a quest for survival in the face of chaos.
Ah, the joys of being alive... or whatever comes after it. Here's to hoping my decision to play it safe pays off in the end. After all, in a world where the only certainty is uncertainty, sometimes the safest bet is to trust in the power of a good story to see us through the darkest of times.
As I blinked open my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the striking crimson hue of my hair, cascading down in waves like a fiery waterfall. But it was the reflection staring back at me in the mirror that truly caught my attention—a figure dressed in an elegant western-inspired formal suit, with a sense of regal grace that seemed almost out of place in the mundane world.
And then I saw them—those piercing red cat-like eyes, gleaming with a hint of something primal and untamed, as if they held secrets that even I wasn't privy to. But it was the pair of horns protruding from the top of my head that truly sent a shiver down my spine—black as midnight and as sharp as the edge of a blade, they seemed to whisper of ancient power and hidden depths.
I reached up tentatively, tracing the curve of one horn with trembling fingers, half-expecting them to vanish into thin air like some kind of ethereal mirage. But they remained solid and real, a tangible reminder of the surreal reality I found myself in.
"What... what am I?" I whispered, my voice barely above a hoarse whisper, as if afraid of the answer.
But there was no one to answer my question, no reassuring voice to guide me through the maze of uncertainty. Just me, alone in a room that felt like the epicenter of a profound revelation, with nothing but my own reflection and the weight of the unknown pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket.
And as I stared into those crimson eyes, I couldn't help but wonder: What kind of world had I stumbled into? And more importantly, who—or what—was I now?
Out of freaking nowhere, this red screen pops up, like something straight out of the games I used to play, and what do I see? A freaking status window with all this info about me.
[Omega - Last and First Son of the Demon king.]
[Level: 3
Agility: E
Strength: D
Endurance: E
Magic: B
Luck: C
Charm: A (to demons), E (to humans)
Skills: Demon Control - can boss demons around like it's nothing. Required the trust of the monster.
Talent: N/A]
[What kind of dumbass status is this?!]
And then, like the cherry on top of this absurd sundae, the system from the game decides to pop up and roast the living daylights out of me. Great. Just great.
To be continued.