Dante never quite fit in. Not in the way society expected him to.
While kids his age were outside playing soccer or obsessing over the latest video games, he was inside, nose buried in books. Fantasy, sci-fi, historical dramas, thrillers—if it had a compelling story, he would devour it. He found comfort in the words, in the universes crafted by minds far more imaginative than his own.
His parents often teased him about it. His mother, a florist, and his father, a mechanic, could never understand why their son would rather stay indoors, lost in fiction, rather than make friends or explore the real world.
"You'll ruin your eyes," his mother would say, shaking her head as she arranged bouquets.
"Books won't pay the bills, son," his father would mutter, grease-stained hands adjusting a wrench.
Dante had friends, sure, but none who truly understood his obsession. His best friend, Greg, was a casual reader at best, often rolling his eyes whenever Dante would go on a tangent about a book's world-building or an author's brilliant use of foreshadowing. His childhood friend, Emily, was more understanding—she enjoyed romance novels and would sometimes lend him books she thought he'd enjoy—but even she couldn't match his enthusiasm.
It wasn't just reading that held his attention. Stories, in any form, fascinated him. Movies, anime, comics—if it had an engaging narrative, he was hooked. He wasn't just a consumer; he was a critic. Even as a teenager, he found himself analyzing plot structures, pointing out inconsistencies, and lamenting wasted potential in stories that could have been so much better.
That's when he realized something.
It wasn't just stories he loved. It was the art of storytelling itself.
—
Dante's habit of critiquing stories evolved into something more over time. He couldn't read a novel without mentally correcting its grammar. Couldn't watch a movie without spotting plot holes. He started leaving reviews on online forums, dissecting the strengths and weaknesses of every book he read.
It was fun at first—just something he did in his spare time. But then, he started getting messages from amateur writers asking for feedback. Some wanted advice on world-building, others on character development. And some? They just needed someone to fix their grammar.
That was when it clicked.
People were willing to pay for this.
At first, it was small-time gigs—freelance jobs editing short stories or cleaning up translations for webnovels. It wasn't glamorous work, but Dante didn't mind. If anything, it was a dream come true. He got to read stories for a living, help shape them into something better. Sure, it wasn't his writing, but it was the next best thing.
Over time, he built a name for himself in online communities. Writers recommended him to other writers. His inbox filled with requests from webnovel authors seeking an editor to polish their work. The pay was decent—nothing that would make him rich, but enough to sustain himself.
Dante wasn't sure if this was what he wanted to do forever, but for now, it was enough.
Then one day, he received an email that changed everything.
The email was simple, almost suspiciously so.
Subject: Urgent Editing Request
From: Anonymous Author
'Hello, Dante.
I've heard about your editing work and need someone to review my novel before publication. It's already finished—2,250 chapters in total, including the epilogue. All I need is a second pair of eyes to refine the grammar, pacing, and dialogue.
I'm willing to pay handsomely for your time.
$50,000 upon completion.'
Dante blinked. Then reread the email.
$50,000?
That had to be a joke. No one paid that much for an edit—especially for a webnovel. Maybe if it was a high-profile book from a major publisher, but this? It sounded too good to be true.
He was about to delete the email when another one popped up.
'To prove my sincerity, I've sent a deposit of $10,000 to your account. The rest will be paid upon completion.'
Dante hesitated. Then, with shaking fingers, he opened his banking app.
The money was there.
$10,000.
His breath hitched. His mind screamed scam, but there it was, clear as day. He hadn't given them his banking details, hadn't even responded—yet the money was there.
Heart pounding, he switched back to his email and typed out a response.
'I accept the job.'
'Please send me the files.'
—
Within minutes, a folder appeared in his inbox. The novel's title was simply:
"The Hero's Ascent"
The sheer size of the file was intimidating—2,250 chapters was insane. Most webnovels didn't even make it past a few hundred.
Still, the money was real, and so was the job.
Dante cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and got to work.
Days turned into weeks. He barely left his apartment, surviving off coffee and instant noodles as he powered through the mountain of text. The story itself was… interesting. Not groundbreaking, but well-written. It followed the typical power fantasy structure—an overpowered protagonist rising through the ranks, defeating enemies, gaining allies, and uncovering a grand conspiracy.
But one character stood out to him.
Vryne El Drexsic.
The villain's son.
At first, Vryne seemed like a promising character—intelligent, ambitious, with a tragic backstory that should have made him a compelling antagonist. But as the story progressed, Dante couldn't help but feel that Vryne… didn't belong.
He wasn't evil enough to be a true villain. Not memorable enough to be a major antagonist. He was wasted potential.
By the time Dante reached the epilogue, he was certain—Vryne should have had a different role. Maybe as a rival, or even an unexpected ally. But as a villain? He just didn't fit.
So, on a whim, he added a final note before sending the file back.
'By the way, I think Vryne El Drexsic would be better suited for a different role. He doesn't quite fit as a villain. Just my two cents.'
Satisfied, he hit send.
His job was done.
Exhausted, Dante shut his laptop and collapsed onto his bed. He hadn't slept properly in days, but it was over. He could finally rest.
Little did he know, it was only the beginning.
Because when he woke up the next morning…
Dante.
Was no longer, Dante