the world I created." 

I was jolted back to my senses by a sharp, throbbing pain in my throat. My mouth burned as if I’d swallowed fire, bitterness coating my tongue. The stench of corpses hit me next, heavy and rancid, making me gag.

Was this a dream? Maybe I’d fallen asleep thinking about my novel and my brain was just running wild.

But instead of pinching myself, I focused on the pain in my throat — a sensation far too vivid for any dream. My hands were sticky with blood. My clothes were no longer shorts and a T-shirt but a black coat over a white shirt, black polished shoes gleaming under the dull light. My right ear still had my earring.

Then I saw it — my reflection on the battered surface of a dented, blood-smeared breastplate.

Wait… I wasn’t transmigrated as someone else. I was me.

That’s not how this is supposed to work.

And why was I even here? The apocalypse in my novel was over. The story had ended. What possible reason could there be to drag me into this world now?

My thoughts were interrupted by a wave of pain and a far worse sight — the village.

If you could still call it that.

Blood covered every wall. The ground was littered with corpses — men, women — twisted and broken in grotesque poses. Some had arrows lodged in their eyes. Others had their throats slit, heads lying several feet away. Guts spilled from torn stomachs.

It was pure gore. And seeing it in real life was far more nauseating than when I’d written it.

I wandered through the wreckage, looking for water, my mind racing.

Why here? Why after the end of the story? I had no skills to survive here. I wasn’t “The Greatest Estate Developer.” I didn’t know how to produce a “Bountiful Harvest.”

By standard novel logic… that would make me the protagonist now.

But at what cost? My privacy was gone. I’d rather be a background character than have my life paraded around for readers. And only one person knew how the story ended.

Wait. Don’t tell me… Editor?

Mf, when I get back, I’m shoving my desk lamp— cough, cough — never mind.

This was the third house I’d searched. Still no water. Just as I was about to leave, my vision blurred, darkness flooding my sight, and I collapsed.

Thud.

---

Something wet splashed against my face. Slowly, I blinked open my eyes. A boy, maybe twelve, was crouched in front of me. Brown hair, ocean-blue eyes, and a face too calm for his age.

Those eyes…

I knew who they belonged to.

I sat up, realizing I was no longer in the village. We were in some kind of fortified stronghold. All around were women and children. But they weren’t huddled in fear. The women carried weapons or cradled infants with the same steady grip. These were not survivors because they were weak — they were the last line of defense. Protectors. The ones who would rebuild what had been destroyed.

A massive banyan tree towered ahead. Beneath its branches sat five women in gowns, their presence commanding even without words. Two armored women stepped forward toward me — one wielding a French cuttoe sword, the other a rapier. Judging by their ease, the twenty kilos of metal they wore was nothing to them.

One spoke. Her voice was firm.

> “The Elder Council wants to speak with you. Come.”

I got to my feet with the boy’s help. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen too much, too soon.

As we approached the banyan tree, I saw the elders more clearly. All were in their forties, battle-worn but dignified. One held a Yari spear, another a medieval spiked axe. The three in the middle carried no visible weapons — which, of course, meant they had something hidden.

They had the faces of European nobles, but the air around them was heavy — the kind of presence forged only through surviving countless battles. My life could end here with a single wrong word.

And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think of the irony. In my world, some women demanded equality with speeches. Here, equality was written in blood and corpses. Here, it was earned.

These women had lived ordinary lives… until I wrote the apocalypse. I had dragged them into war. Not to kill, but to protect.

The woman in the middle spoke, her voice carrying the weight of command.

> “What is your name, child?”

I had been expecting this question ever since I arrived. I couldn’t give them my real name — the readers couldn’t know.

I let my voice tremble, playing the part of someone frightened.

> “A–Ash Tennisson.”

The woman to the left of the middle leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

> “You’re not from this world… are you?”