How many people dream of another chance?
A chance to start anew, to correct mistakes, to rewrite their destiny?
How many curse their luck, wishing they'd been born under better circumstances?
More beautiful, richer, stronger... but would their lives truly have improved?
Thoughts like these swirled in my mind as I lay on my tattered bed, staring at the darkness shrouding the ceiling.
A pitch-black darkness enveloped the entire dilapidated room, hiding its cracked walls and ceiling riddled with spiderwebs and scribbles from previous tenants.
Accompanied by the squeaking of rats, the curses of other renters, and the shouts of the building's guard.
And hurried footsteps hinting at some chase in the hallways.
All these sounds merged into a symphony of grating noise that intensified my headache.
A miserable scene to wake up to, but I've grown accustomed to it after three years here.
I still remember my first day in this apartment as if it were yesterday. Back then, I couldn't sleep due to the rats' squeaks, which sounded like demons whispering to my younger self.
Yet I had no other choice. Had my novel not gained some early popularity, I might not have even afforded rent for *any* apartment.
Now, I've grown used to this wretched life, though I still haven't adjusted to the bone-deep aches and headaches that greet me every morning.
Maybe I could make them disappear by changing my habits—exercising, avoiding late nights. But deep down, I knew I wouldn't.
All this pain and pessimism made me want to lie down longer, or sleep forever. But today was special.
If someone heard me say this, they might think I had a romantic date or landed a job to brighten my life.
But it was simpler: today, I would finish the novel I'd spent over four years writing.
Well, I should explain further.
It's not like I'm someone special. The only thing setting me apart is my love for fantasy stories.
Since childhood, I've adored fantasy—perhaps because it was my only escape from my bleak reality, letting me live adventures possible only in my delusions.
As I grew older and life hardened, my addiction deepened.
Until I lived entirely in imagination and beautiful dreams.
I neglected studies, health, everything—submerged in worlds beyond reality. But eventually, boredom crept in.
You see, when you reach my level—consuming endless entertainment across genres—
Works start to resemble one another. Fresh ideas dry up. Everything feels repetitive. At first, I didn't notice.
But after encountering the same storylines and characters twice... thrice... five times... it becomes unbearable.
So, sick of "trash stories," I decided to write my own.
But I was no genius writer. I couldn't craft a world like A Song of Ice and Fire or a magic system as intricate as Mistborn's.
Though imagination was my only possession, I wasn't even talented in that.
So instead of revolutionary work, I aimed for something simple, fun—something to make me smile.
Thus began my journey with Chronicles of the End.
I uploaded chapters slowly—not due to busyness, but laziness. Still, I pushed on until this moment.
The moment I'd end my story.
I rose from bed and shuffled toward my computer in the room's dark corner.
If you could even call it a computer, with its scratched screen. A relic barely functioning, but my only possession.
Truly, it was my entire world.
I pressed the power button and waited.
The screen flickered to life, gradually brightening enough to reflect my face.
What an unpleasant sight: pallid, sickly-yellow skin resembling a patient's, bulging eyes with thick dark circles, and a gaunt frame suggesting malnutrition—not far from truth.
If I ranked things I hate seeing most, my face would top the list, eternally reminding me of my worthless existence.
After seven minutes, the computer finally booted. Thankfully, publishing the final chapter wouldn't take long—I'd written it days prior and hadn't touched it since. Maybe I was too lazy to edit, or deluded myself into seeing it as perfect. Either way, it didn't matter.
Now, here I was, posting the last chapter of Chronicles of the End, titled:
[The Demon King's Victory]
After hitting publish, I waited... and waited... until boredom drove me to cook a bowl of Indomie.
I then read a light novel for hours before checking my story again. Dozens of comments had flooded in—a significant number.
Expected, given the finale's anticipation. I hoped they'd love it as I did.
Now, I leaned into the screen to read readers' reactions:
- [Trash ending]
- [Literally the worst ending in fantasy history. Worse than Attack on Titan.]
- [Anyone know where the author lives?]
- [Bravo, author. You turned gold into garbage with one chapter.]
- [If we ever meet, I'll…]
- [Followed since chapter one. Unique characters, original world… and you ruined it all.]
I stared silently, a dull ache in my chest.
I'd expected criticism—but not this vitriol.
I sighed, exhausted. In the end, I'd failed at the one thing I thought I could do: imagine. Not a single comment praised the ending.
Finally, I smirked bitterly.
"Well, maybe I never cared about others' opinions. If I had, I wouldn't be in this wretched state."
So I ignored them. I liked the ending—that was enough. Though regret lingered, it was too late for changes.
With another sigh, I shut down the computer and trudged back to bed for a nap, hoping to numb the headache.
Now, with Chronicles finished, I had infinite free time.
Maybe I'd start a new novel…
I lay down, closed my eyes, and reminisced about the story's journey. For the first time in months, sleep came easily.
But suddenly—a strange sensation.
As if the world began spinning, slowly at first, then violently.
I tried opening my eyes—couldn't.
Nausea churned my stomach, yet I didn't vomit.
Then, abruptly, everything stopped.
The air grew heavy… then light, as if the universe contracted and expanded instantaneously.
In that moment, I felt—nothing.