Elijah Kane wasn't extraordinary in appearance. Average height, brown hair always a little messy, and a face that could disappear in any crowd.
But what set him apart was his mind.
His worlds, his characters, thousands of readers online were hooked to his stories.
Elijah was a successful webnovel author, though he rarely talked about it to anyone outside his small online bubble.
"Ten million views," he muttered, staring at the stats on his laptop. "And they still want daily chapters. Vampires, demons, and gods can wait, I need a coffee."
He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles as he walked to the kitchen.
The small apartment was cluttered but livable.
A few framed posters of fantasy worlds hung on the walls.
The desk by the window was his sanctuary, his battlefield, and his source of income.
He grabbed a coffee mug with a quote: "Worlds Are Built by Words".
It was a quiet life, often monotonous, but it was his.
Elijah worked every day. Wake up, write, read comments, plan the next arc, repeat.
His world revolved around his laptop. Most of his readers loved him, praising his storytelling and plot twists.
But there were always the occasional trolls.
"You killed the protagonist's sister?! I hate you, man," one comment read.
Elijah smirked as he replied, "It's called conflict. Keep reading."
Then there was Indian_Painter, one of his most loyal readers and his strangest.
They left cryptic comments like: "I know how this ends, Kane. Do you?" or "The cycle repeats."
Elijah ignored them.
Fans were weird sometimes.
The truth was, writing paid well. It wasn't glamorous, but it gave him freedom.
And yet, he sometimes felt trapped.
Trapped by deadlines, trapped by the same four walls, trapped by the endless demand for content.
"Take a break," his best friend Alex had said over the phone. "You've been cooped up for months. Go outside, touch grass. Live a little, man."
"I do go outside," Elijah had replied. "I went grocery shopping last week."
"Real funny. Listen, there's a trail up north great for hiking. Quiet, no internet. Perfect for someone who needs to recharge their brain."
Elijah wasn't an outdoorsman, but the idea of disconnecting sounded... refreshing.
So here he was, miles away from his apartment, hiking alone in the wilderness.
He had his backpack, some water, snacks, and a camera to capture the scenery.
The trail was beautiful, surrounded by tall trees and the sound of rustling leaves.
The air was crisp, the kind that filled your lungs and made you feel alive.
"For once," Elijah muttered to himself, snapping a picture of the mountains in the distance, "no deadlines, no comments, just peace."
As he climbed higher, thoughts of his stories crept back into his mind.
He couldn't help it.
"What if a dragon lived in these mountains?" he murmured. "Maybe it guards some ancient secret, something that could save or destroy the world."
He laughed. Even on a hike, his mind wandered to storytelling.
He pulled out his camera again, framing the sun breaking through the trees.
"That'd make a good chapter cover," he said to no one in particular.
But as much as he loved writing, there was always that nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
Was this it?
Was this how life would always be?
Typing words on a screen, living through fictional worlds, and barely experiencing the real one?
Shaking the thought away, Elijah pressed on, the trail getting steeper.
It happened so fast.
One moment, he was stepping over a log.
The next, pain shot through him like fire.
"Shit!" he yelled, dropping to the ground.
He looked down and saw the culprit a snake slithering away into the underbrush.
His leg trembled as he checked the wound, only to realize the bite wasn't on his leg.
It was worse.
Much worse.
The snake had bitten him in the most sensitive, humiliating place imaginable.
"Are you kidding me?!" he groaned, half in pain, half in disbelief. "This is how I go out?!"
Panic set in as his thoughts raced.
He was miles away from anyone, no phone signal, and venom was already coursing through his veins.
Elijah stumbled back to a clearing and sat against a tree, his breathing shallow.
The pain was unbearable, but the worst part was the loneliness.
He thought about calling for help, but no one would hear him.
His mind drifted to his stories, his readers, his unfinished arcs.
"I guess... I'm leaving a cliffhanger," he muttered, a weak smile on his lips.
As the venom spread, the forest around him grew blurry.
The sound of birds faded, replaced by the pounding of his heartbeat.
He thought of his mother, of Alex, of his small but dedicated circle of readers.
"I hope someone... finishes the story," he whispered.
And then, silence.
Elijah Kane's life ended alone in the wilderness.
It wasn't until two days later that a group of hikers stumbled upon the lifeless body of Elijah Kane.
Nestled against a tree in a quiet clearing, his face was pale, but his expression was calm, almost serene.
The sight sent shivers through the group as they called for help.
The local police arrived swiftly, carefully retrieving his body from the wilderness.
A wallet in his pocket made identifying him easy: Elijah Kane, age 30, a resident of the city.
However, it wasn't until they searched his name online that they realized who he really was.
"He's that author, right? The one who writes those web novels?" one officer muttered, scrolling through Elijah's online profile.
The news spread quickly.
Within hours, headlines popped up across social media and news outlets:
"Famous Webnovel Author Elijah Kane Found Dead in Hiking Incident"
Readers worldwide were stunned.
Elijah's stories had reached millions, his words weaving worlds that felt more alive than reality for many.
He wasn't just an author, he was an escape, a friend, a constant presence in their lives.
Outside his modest apartment, a small crowd began to gather.
Fans of all ages brought flowers, candles, and even handwritten letters.
One fan, a young woman with tear-streaked cheeks, placed a bouquet on the growing memorial.
"He was my favorite author," she whispered to no one in particular.
"His stories... they got me through so much."
A man beside her nodded, clutching a notebook filled with sketches of characters from Elijah's novels.
"He made us believe in something bigger," he said quietly.
"Now it's all... gone."
Elijah's unfinished stories, his characters, his worlds they had all vanished with him.
His laptop was locked, his notes hidden, and his vision for the future of his beloved novels lost forever.
As night fell, candles flickered in the growing crowd.
Strangers became friends, united by their shared grief for a man most of them had never met.
"Elijah Kane," one fan said, their voice breaking, "you may be gone, but your worlds will live on in us."
Elijah wasn't just a storyteller. He was a legacy.