No one had an easier life than Jarren Fletcher.
The twenty-two year old boy was hunched over his work desk, his eyes plastered on the screen of his computer. His ceiling fan whirred faintly above him, the mouse clicked at intervals, and the scent of the hot coffee on his desk all combined to create a picture of someone who worked with comfort.
As Jarren liked to presume, it was a comfort he had earned. This presumption couldn't be argued. After all, Jarren was the author of the hit webnovel, Gates of the Primordials.
Only being a rookie author when he started, the novel was a smash hit, a juggernaut in the world of webnovels, breaking records on the site. He had practically owned the leaderboard for months, and now, as the final chapters were on the horizon, the attention was more intense than ever.
But instead of the usual praise, today's comments had a different flavor.
Luka746 wrote; "Why does Jarren even bother with these extras? They're just cannon fodder for the MC's growth. No personality, no development, nothing. Just there to die!"
Just_here_2_read had this to say; "Eye roll emoji. Here we go again. Another chapter, another nameless extra meets a tragic end. What's the point if they're all just meat shields? It's lazy writing, plain and simple."
Even Jaydenfan, one of his most devoted readers commented; "Jarren is a great writer, no doubt and I was really invested in this world, but it's quickly starting to feel hollow. I love the MC and other side characters, but everything else around them is so shallow. Can we please get some decent extra characters instead of disposable ones?"
Jarren's finger scrolled down furiously as he skimmed through the flood of comments, his heart pounding from rising anger rather than excitement.
It just didn't make any sense!
'I created such an amazing world, a great magic system, actual meaningful power progression and intense fight scenes. Yet all everyone wants to talk about is extras!'
He tightened his jaw as the words 'Meat shields,' and 'Lazy writing' seemed to slap him across the face. There were many more comments about this, and he still couldn't wrap his head around the point of the criticism.
"I mean, seriously, who cares?" he muttered, angrily clicking through to the next page. "Who picks up a novel because they're fascinated by the random people in the background? It's the protagonist that matters. The plot, the action—the main characters! The extras were never supposed to be the focus."
His voice sounded like a growl, though the empty room, devoid of any witnesses, simply absorbed his outburst.
Jarren scrolled again, determined to find at least one comment praising the final arc's direction. Instead, another one caught his eye:
"It's a shame. The world could be so much more immersive if the people in it felt real, instead of just stage props for the MC to look cool."
Alright. That was it.
Jarren slammed his laptop closed and leaned back on his chair, trying to control the angry pounding in his chest and the frustration that kept rising up.
'Props? Extras? Stage fodder?' He scoffed, letting the words roll around bitterly in his head. 'Duh! That's all they ever were meant to be! You don't invest in a story because of the nameless faces that die along the way!'
Extras didn't matter. They couldn't matter. The readers were here for one thing: his protagonist—Zenith, the Flamekeeper. They wanted the epic battles, the world-shattering revelations, the rise of a hero from the ashes of nothingness.
Who cared about some faceless soldier who died in the process? The world didn't need to mourn them, and neither should he.
However, in all fairness, the criticism was a valid one. But Jarren would never see it or agree to it.
After all, he was the author of such a universally loved and appreciated novel. He was the one who had created the three overlapping realms, the paragons from the Middle Realm, their attacks on mortals, and the Gates that granted the MC his power to help defeat them.
He was a master of worldbuilding, of crafting epic tales, suspenseful battles and intricate magic systems.
And everyone knew him for this. He had received these praises not so long ago when he debuted the novel. Now, 1433 chapters later, some people were beginning to turn on him simply because their favorite extra got killed or was written off the story.
Womp! Womp! Deal with it.
Still seething, Jarren reached for his coffee and took a long sip, sighing after as a way to calm himself.
When he was half-sure that he was calm, he set the coffee down, clicked his pen absently and turned his attention to the scribbled outline spread across his desk. The last fifty chapters were right there, waiting, all plotted out.
The next Wave was about to hit the Mortal Realm. And indeed, there was another extra, an unremarkable figure who would help the MC escape the jaws of defeat, then die tragically moments later. He'd already written their death in vivid detail—blood, agony, the heroic sacrifice that would propel Zenith forward.
Extras were convenient like that. They kept the plot moving, saving him numerous times from the stress of figuring out a way to save the MC's life in dire situations.
He had only written a few words before his phone buzzed.
Jarren really disliked being interrupted while in his 'writing grove' and so he answered the call with a displeased scowl on his face, not even bothering to glance at the name.
"Yeah?" he said distastefully.
"Oh. Someone must have been writing." The voice on the other end instantly snapped him out of his haze. It was Alison, his girlfriend.
"Alison?" he pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the caller ID. "Alison! I'm so sorry, I didn't check the caller ID."
"Which means I was right," Alison said playfully. "You were writing."
Jarren smiled. "I was. So what's up?" He could hear the bustling sounds of an airport in the background, so he guessed she was getting in to enter her flight over there.
"I'm at the terminal," Alison announced. "My flight came in early, and I thought I'd surprise you."
Jarren's heart skipped a beat, and out of nowhere, he became extremely excited. Seeing Alison, pulling her into his arms was something he really needed at that moment.
"You're back already?" he asked with a big smile, putting his glasses in place. "You should've called me sooner. I'll head over and pick you up."
"Surprise ruined, huh?" she laughed softly. "Yeah, I'll wait here at the arrivals. Don't take too long. I'm starving."
Jarren glanced at the clock on his wall. He had planned to dive headfirst into his next chapter, but that could wait. Alison couldn't. "Alright, I'm leaving now. Be there in twenty."
With her still on the line, he slipped into his jacket and grabbed his keys while they talked about random stuff such as Alison's education in art school.
As he headed out the door, locking it after him, the conversation managed to arrive at Jarren and his present struggles with critics of his novel.
"Are you okay?" Alison asked softly.
"What do you mean by that? Of course I'm okay." He walked briskly down the steps of his apartment, hurrying outside while they continued. "They're just critics, I have way more praise to keep feeding my ego. I'll be fine."
"But don't you ever worry that they may be right?" she asked him.
Jarren pulled open the main entrance's door and slipped out. "Ally, whether they're right or not isn't the point. The point is that it doesn't matter, because they're extras."
The street was very busy, but Jarren's attention was completely given to his girlfriend.
"Well, Jarren. I know you think they don't matter, but extras are heroes of their own stories."
"Yeah, so is everyone," Jarren shrugged. "But I'm not writing everyone's story, I'm writing Zenith's."
"Alright then. Whatever you s—" Alison's voice came through the speaker, but Jarren only half-heard it, distracted by the distant hum of a vehicle approaching.
He stepped into the road and then the hum became a loud blare! A horn! He heard someone yell "Get out of the way!"
Jarren glanced over his shoulder instinctively, and then his stomach dropped.
A truck. Speeding.
His body froze for a split second, and there was suddenly no time to react after that. No time to move. The headlights burned into his retinas, and his heart stopped.
No.
Thud!
Jarren felt an immense pain strike him in his chest and ribs. He tumbled through the air, and his body spun helplessly as the phone flew from his hand. Then he crashed on the asphalt.
Jarren could feel every bone in his body broken, and he knew he was losing blood but he did not know from where.
He realized then that he was going to die.
'No! Not like this.' His mind screamed as the world began to fade. 'Not like a damn cliché.'
He had been struck by a speeding truck, like some cheap, overused trope in the webnovels he despised. The irony burned as much as the pain in his chest.
Alison's voice was still faintly echoing from the phone, lying somewhere on the pavement, yelling his name as a crowd slowly surrounded his dying body.
Then, with a bitter curse leaving his lips, Jarren's eyes closed in death.
...When they opened once again, he was holding a gun, and the barrel was pressed against the inside of his own mouth.