“This is a story of tragedy, ruthlessness, and action—a true staple of sorrow,” reads a critical review, highlighting the depth of my writing. 

The reporter leans in, microphone ready. “Mr. Soo-hyun Bae, what first inspired you to write?”

I smile at the memory. “My mother,” I begin. “When I was eight, she read me bedtime stories. She said she loved mine and thought I could do something with them, and—”

BANG!

The sudden crack of a gunshot reverberates through the room, shattering my sentence. Pain tears through my abdomen as I look down, shocked, blood spreading from the wound. In the distance, a blurred figure in a dark hoodie slips through the crowd, vanishing like a ghost.

The world slows, my vision narrowing as fatigue overtakes me. I fall, the floor cold beneath me as everything fades to black.

I awaken in a boundless white void, feeling a presence that defies time and reality itself. Before me stands a being—a dark silhouette with a shattered halo of obsidian fragments floating around its head. I instantly recognize its identity.

Bowing to the floor, I stammer, “O Great ??r, I am unworthy to stand before your Divine presence.” His aura weighs on me like the sun itself, oppressive and unyielding.

He speaks, his voice a booming echo across eternity. “MY CREATION FROM THE FRAY, ORION. YOUR LIFE WAS NOBLE, BUT YOUR STORY ENDING DISPLEASES ME. SO AS A REWARD, YOU WILL BE REBORN. AS A PENALTY FOR YOUR ENDINGS, YOU SHALL LIVE WITHIN YOUR OWN CREATION.”

I realize what he’s saying, the horror dawning. “No…”

“THIS LIFE STORY ENDS HERE, SOO-HYUN BAE, AND A NEW ONE BEGINS. WE SHALL MEET AGAIN AT THE END. I WONDER WHAT CHOICES YOU WILL MAKE, SEO-JUN LEE.”

The void fades as I feel myself being pulled, descending into darkness.

I open my eyes to find myself in a nursery, tiny hands and feet. Hovering over me are two familiar faces. They coo over me, calling me a name I know all too well: Seo-jun Lee, one of my own characters. Only 17 years remain until the apocalypse I wrote, where horrors emerge from the pillars to lay waste to humanity. I realize what I have to do: survive. No, more than that—change the ending.

In this new life, I quickly stand out. The irony of being praised as a prodigy of writing is not lost on me—characters I created complimenting my penmanship. I’ve written their fates; I know the future they’ll face. My parents are good people. I want to save them, but the realities of survival mean I may have to leave them behind.

When I turn 15, I prepare myself physically and mentally. Two years remain until the pillars descend. The most valuable resource for survival will be pearls, precious stones with the power to heal any wound or disease. Over time, I build a small stockpile, knowing it’s my only chance to heal in the new world.

At 16, I set out to find Yong-ho Kan, a key player in my story who lives in Gyeonggi-do, a couple of hours from Seoul. In my story, Kan is a cunning thief. I know the only way to gain his trust is with money. So, after a train ride and a bit of searching, I find him lurking in the alleys, scoping out his next target.

Clearing my throat, I approach him. “Hey, I’m Seo-jun Lee. I want you to be my friend. I can pay you if you want.”

He grins, naming a price that would drain most wallets. I hand over the money without flinching. Kan raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Alright, Jun. So, what’s your story?”

“Personal reasons,” I reply vaguely.

Kan looks at me for a moment, then smirks. “Alright, I’ll bite. And for now, let’s just say you’re my friend.” He gives me his number, and despite my reluctance, he insists on calling me *Jun.* I grit my teeth at the nickname but swallow the irritation. I need him, so I let it slide.

In the months leading up to the apocalypse, I push my training to new limits. My body grows stronger, and I begin developing mental fortitude to withstand the power strain I’ll need. Kan becomes a constant presence, mooching off my food and clothes as he visits Seoul every few weeks. The playful banter belies a deeper bond, one I might have to sever when everything begins.

About a month before the event, we pass a shop with a rare sight: the Sword of Alexandria. Encased behind glass, it gleams with runic symbols and history. This weapon, once the apocalypse begins, would make its wielder a target worldwide, even attracting the attention of the Demon King himself. I memorize the store’s location, silently vowing to retrieve the sword.

Kan notices me staring. “Good luck. They nearly shot me when I tried grabbing it.”

I laugh it off, but the memory of its power fuels me.

One week before the apocalypse, I train past my limits, nearly killing myself. I think of my parents and weigh the risk. Saving them would slow me down. I hate the thought, but anchors don’t survive in the world I wrote. I clench my fists and swallow the guilt. Survival is everything now.

Finally, the night before it all begins, I lie awake, bracing for the end.