> "Every story is a mirror. But what happens when the mirror doesn't reflect — it rewrites?"
—From the lost annotations of The Author Without a Name
---
I once read a novel so broken, it couldn't end.
Not because it was poorly written—
But because no ending could contain what it had become.
That novel…
was called The World of Record of the Demon War Saga.
A cult classic disaster.
A fanfiction stitched from tropes, bound together with raw ambition and zero restraint.
Heroes introduced mid-battle.
Villains redeemed before their crimes.
Power systems rewritten mid-arc.
Plot holes wide enough to fall through.
Its protagonist ascended to godhood by Chapter 37.
By Chapter 50, he was begging someone to kill him.
I read it out of boredom.
Then I forgot it.
The world kept turning.
My life continued.
Until the sky cracked open like torn parchment—
and a voice whispered through the seams of reality:
> "You've returned early, Reader. This time… you write the ending."
---
The sky turned to pages.
Gravity folded like a paragraph mid-edit.
And I fell—
Not through air.
Not through time.
But through the prologue.
---
Now I'm here.
Inside that very novel.
Not as a chosen one.
Not as a side character.
Not even as a glitch.
But as something worse.
An anomaly.
A Reader with no written purpose.
The story resists me.
The characters question me.
The world itself wants to forget me.
But the ending I remember?
I won't let it happen.
Because in that ending—
Everyone dies.
The protagonist loses himself.
The gods descend and overwrite everything.
The world resets.
And the final page isn't an epilogue.
It's an obituary.
---
But this time, I'm here early.
This time, I'm rewriting the rules.
This time, I'm not just reading the story—
I'm inside it.
Even if the logic bends.
Even if the gods return.
Even if the story starts writing me.
---
In the first fourteen chapters—
I've broken the tutorial.
Destroyed a Guardian before the third act.
Befriended characters from incompatible arcs.
Summoned Kairoz, the narrative janitor god meant only for final resets.
Now, the City of Beginning has collapsed under its own genre.
And ahead of me?
A desert of bone.
A black sun that refuses to rise.
And something watching.
Reading me back.
---
Because somewhere beyond the next page...
There's another Reader.
One who holds a book with my name on the cover.
And a pen that hasn't stopped moving.
> If I'm not careful...
I won't just read the ending.
I'll become it.
---
Welcome, Reader.
The story remembers you now.
Shall we turn the page?