Well, I don't know how exactly I should start this, but anyway: My name is Sylvia. I'm 18 years old, and, well… let's just say my life is a peculiar mess. You might be wondering, "Why start with such a dramatic introduction?" The answer is simple: I love reading. I mean, really love it. Books have always been my escape from reality. "Why?" you might ask. Well, that's a bit more complicated.

Since birth, my health has never been what you'd call robust. In fact, my entire life has been a cycle of medications, doctor visits, and long stretches spent at home—or more recently, confined to a hospital bed. While my friends grew up, went to parties, traveled, and discovered the world, I watched it all from a distance, like a spectator. I always thought, "One day, I'll get better." But as the years passed, I realized that no, I wasn't getting better. If anything, I was getting worse. By the time I turned 17, the doctors spoke with grim certainty: my fate was practically sealed.

In the midst of all this, my only solace came from novels. But not just any novels—The Miserable Life of the Cursed Prince in particular. Perhaps it was because, like me, the protagonist seemed to have bad luck as his constant companion. He was the prince of a kingdom where everything, absolutely everything, went wrong. Born with a stigma that brought misfortune wherever he went, he carried a dark prophecy on his shoulders:

"The one who bears the fate of the world will bring about its ruin when the blood moon rises, and the stars fade from the sky."

Yes, he was essentially a walking time bomb, and everyone in his world knew it.

The universe of this novel was incredibly rich. Entire religions revolved around the Four Great Spirits—Water, Fire, Earth, and Wind. Legends told of Selene, the goddess of light, who had sacrificed herself to seal away Caligos, the god of darkness, during the First Holy War. This ancient conflict was the source of nearly every problem in the novel's world: the emergence of monsters, the rise of demons, and, of course, the tragic fate of the cursed prince.

The novel was first published when I was 13, and I'd followed it religiously ever since. In its early days, it was a massive success, with thousands of readers flooding the comments on every chapter. But over time, the story grew too dark, too heavy, for most people. Hundreds of thousands of readers dwindled to thousands, then hundreds, until eventually… only I was left. Yes, I was literally the last loyal reader. It was a little depressing but oddly comforting, too. After all, it felt like I shared something deeply personal with the author.

The protagonist never got the triumphant "comeback" you'd expect in a story like this. He just kept fighting, suffering, saving the world, and being either ignored or hated for it. At first, he fought monsters. Then demons. And when I thought things couldn't possibly get worse, he was battling entities so absurdly powerful it was as if the gods themselves had outsourced enemy design to a team of lunatics. Yet, somehow, he kept going. I think I saw myself in that endless struggle—constantly fighting against the inevitable.

Today is my 18th birthday. But unlike what you might expect for such a milestone, there was no party, no presents, no visitors. Even my family was "busy." So, to forget about the day, I turned to the one thing that never let me down: the novel. After all, today was also the release date for the 1,002nd chapter! But instead of a new chapter, I was greeted by a devastating announcement:

Canceled.

The novel I had followed for almost half my life was ending without a conclusion.

That night was the worst of my life—or rather, it would be my last. My already fragile health took a turn for the worse. Doctors rushed around me, machines beeped frantically, but I… I knew it was the end. I felt nothing but an overwhelming emptiness. My vision blurred, the sounds around me faded, and a single thought echoed in my mind:

"If only I could enter that story… even as a dying side character… if only I could know how it ends…"

Those were my last words before everything went dark.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in a space of endless white. There was no floor, no sky, no walls—just light. It felt like a dream, but the sensations were so vivid I knew it wasn't. Floating in that void, I called out, "Is anyone there?"

No answer.

Then, without warning, the entire space trembled. I felt an invisible force pulling me down, as if I were falling off a cliff into nothingness. The impact should have hurt, but… nothing. It felt like landing on a cushion of air.

Slowly, I stood, disoriented. Before I could make sense of anything, a deep voice echoed around me:

"Wish granted."

Still, before I could process what had just happened, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind me. Without thinking, I spun around, and what I saw was unforgettable: a massive white tiger, its piercing eyes fixed on me. Despite its imposing presence, I felt no fear. Instead, a strange sense of comfort washed over me. We locked eyes for a moment, and then, to my surprise, the tiger opened its mouth and uttered words in a language I didn't recognize, "Awaken, child."

Those words resonated deep within me, and once again, I lost consciousness.

When I opened my eyes, what greeted me was a completely foreign yet oddly familiar sight: a vast green field, stretching out under an endless sky, with a small wooden cabin sitting quietly on the horizon.

I felt disoriented as I sat up on the soft grass. Despite the fact that I had never seen this place before, it felt as though I had. There was something about it that triggered an eerie sense of familiarity. Without thinking, I whispered, "Is this heaven?" It was the only explanation that seemed to make sense in the moment. The field was unnaturally green, and tiny white particles of something—dust? pollen?—drifted lazily through the air before disappearing into nothingness. The ethereal quality of it all made me think that perhaps I had crossed into another world. Heaven seemed like the only plausible answer. Or so I thought, at least, until my gaze shifted toward the cabin.

The cabin, though old, was in surprisingly good condition. It stood still in the center of the field, exuding a sense of quiet solitude. I hesitated for a moment, scanning the area, and then decided to approach, hoping to find someone who could explain where I was and why I was here. Standing before the door, I hesitated for only a second before pushing it open. A loud creak rang through the cabin as the door moved, causing me to step back slightly.

Inside, everything was remarkably clean, even though it carried the same old yet well-maintained feeling that the outside had. The furnishings were sparse—a bed, a desk, a mirror—but something caught my attention. On the desk lay an open book, its pages inviting me with an inexplicable pull. Almost against my will, I felt drawn to it. My feet moved of their own accord, creaking against the wooden floor as I approached the desk. It was as if the floor itself had not felt a step in years.

I reached for the book, and my fingers brushed the pages with a sense of anticipation. As I read the first words, disbelief flooded me: it was the prologue to The Miserable Life of the Cursed Prince. The same novel I had been so obsessed with. My heart raced. How was this possible? Was this some kind of dream? I looked around, half-expecting the environment to change, but everything around me remained just as it was—calm and serene.

I couldn't stop myself from turning the page. It was as if the book itself was calling to me, urging me to keep going. As I touched the next page, a warmth unlike anything I had ever felt surged through my hand, almost mystical in nature. Intrigued, I slowly turned the page, wondering what awaited me.

But what I found was nothing.

The page was completely blank.

Puzzled, I stared at the empty page, searching for any clue that might explain what was happening. I reached to turn it again, and as I did, a blinding white light exploded from the book. The heat was intense, forcing me to shut my eyes and step back in reflex. I stumbled backward, losing my balance and falling hard onto the floor. I covered my eyes, trying to shield myself from the overwhelming brightness, but the light kept pushing me backward.

It felt like an eternity before the light faded, and when I opened my eyes, everything had changed. The cabin, once pristine, now looked ancient. The floor was covered in black dust, and spider webs clung to the corners of the room. The desk, once neat, was now worn and covered in grime. The book that had been open was now closed, and just like the rest of the cabin, it was coated in dust.

"What…?" I muttered under my breath. I was disoriented, still trying to process what had just happened. Before I could reach for the book again, a realization hit me: those weren't my hands.

Frozen in shock, I looked down, confirming my fear. I wasn't seeing my own hands. They were pale, with slender fingers, and my heart started pounding. I ran to the mirror on the wall, cleaned it frantically, and gasped at what I saw.

"Is that… me?" I whispered, placing my hand over my face in disbelief. My once brown hair had turned white as snow, and my eyes, once a warm brown, were now a piercing blue, like the sky itself.

It hit me then—the truth I had been denying. I had become the Saintess of the North, the figure from the novel... the one who would be sacrificed in a desperate attempt to save the world, ensuring that the story could continue.

I collapsed to my knees, the weight of my realization crashing over me. Tears filled my eyes as I understood my fate. The last words I had spoken before dying echoed in my mind, and I couldn't stop the sobs that wracked my body.

"Did I really the saintess destined to die?" I cried, my voice breaking with the despair that had finally taken root in my heart.

To be continued in the next chapter!