My name is Kim Cheol, and I'm the one nobody notices. Or rather, the one everyone prefers to ignore, except when they need a punching bag. Obese, face covered in acne, I'm the perfect stereotype of a high school loser. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is being an orphan in a Korean society obsessed with family ties.
At Glory High School—the irony of the name escapes no one except the administration—I'm the antithesis of what this institution claims to mold: tomorrow's elite. Even today, as I drag myself through the hallways, I hear the snickering. I ignore it, as usual. It's a skill I've perfected over the years.
"Hey, fatso! Did your parents die of shame when they saw you or what?"
Park Jiwon's voice echoes behind me. The basketball team captain, son of some CEO. I keep walking, eyes fixed on the floor. Don't react. Never react.
A kick to my backpack makes me stumble. My belongings scatter across the polished hallway floor. Laughter erupts around me. I bend down to pick up my books, but a designer shoe—probably worth more than everything I own—crushes my hand.
"I'm talking to you, trash."
Pain radiates through my fingers. I look up at him, at his perfect smile, his teeth aligned by years of expensive orthodontics.
"Sorry," I mumble, hating every syllable that leaves my mouth.
"Sorry who?" he insists, pressing harder on my hand.
"Sorry, Jiwon-sunbaenim."
He finally releases the pressure, satisfied. Then, as if by accident, he spills the water bottle he was holding onto my books before walking away with his court of lackeys.
I gather my soaked belongings, ignoring the half-amused, half-disgusted looks from other students. Nobody helps me. Nobody ever helps me.
That evening, in my tiny studio apartment that social assistance barely allows me to afford, I settle in front of my second-hand laptop. This is where I feel alive. This is where I become God.
My webnovel has been taking shape for months now. "Twilight of Heroes," I called it. A mundane title for a story that isn't mundane at all. In this world, I created twenty-four demon lords. Each represents a facet of my daily suffering.
The Lord of Humiliation, with his constantly changing face, capable of revealing your worst shames. Inspired by that time they stripped me in the locker room to take pictures of my body and spread them throughout the school.
The Lord of Isolation, who traps his victims in bubbles where they can see the world but never participate in it. Like me in the cafeteria, alone at my table, watching others live.
The Lord of Physical Pain, who bears a striking resemblance to Park Jiwon, with his ability to inflict wounds that leave no visible traces but never truly heal.
The Lord of Despair, who feeds on broken dreams and shattered hopes. I created him after my literature teacher, the only one who seemed to believe in me, told me that my writing was "interesting" but "not refined enough" to consider a career in this field.
The Lord of Insatiable Hunger, an obese creature that devours everything in its path, unable to feel satisfied. A cruel mirror of my own eating disorders, of the way I throw myself at food to fill a void that nothing seems able to fill.
Above them reign the Demon King and Queen. The King, I molded after the school principal who turns a blind eye to bullying as long as the bullies' parents continue to generously fund the establishment. The Queen is that guidance counselor who once told me I should "have more realistic expectations" about my future, given my "family context and limitations."
And then there are the six great vampires, those creatures that feed on others' suffering. The Vampire of Indifference, the one of Betrayal, the one of False Compassion... Each with their servants, representing all those students who look away, who laugh with the bullies, who pretend to be kind when teachers are around.
I spent entire nights perfecting every detail of this world. The artifacts of mass destruction, like the Orb of Eternal Chaos, capable of erasing entire continents. Or the Chalice of Infinite Tears, which transforms sadness into deadly poison. Objects that, in my mind, represent ultimate power: the power to make those who hurt you suffer.
Tonight, I finalize the chapter where my protagonist, a hero who bore a striking resemblance to an idealized version of myself, fails. Not a noble failure, not a heroic sacrifice. A pathetic, useless failure, facing the Demon God I created as the ultimate antagonist. Humanity is annihilated. End of story.
I publish the final chapter on the webnovel platform, then collapse onto my keyboard. Three months without sleeping more than four hours a night. Writing, always writing, to escape my reality. Comments flood in. They love it. They call it a "masterclass," a "subversion of expectations," a "nihilistic masterpiece."
They don't understand. This isn't art. This is my revenge against a world that never gave me the slightest chance.
I close my eyes, just for a moment. Fatigue crushes me like a lead blanket.
When I reopen them, I'm no longer in my studio. I'm floating in a strange space, neither black nor white, where fragments of reality drift like islands in an ocean of nothingness. Pages from my webnovel turn around me, the words glowing with their own light.
"Fascinating work, Kim Cheol."
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. A silhouette materializes before me, constantly changing, as if it couldn't decide on a form to adopt. Sometimes it resembles a wise old man, the next instant a young woman with delicate features, then a child with eyes too ancient for his age.
"Who are you?" I ask, strangely calm despite the absurdity of the situation.
"I am known by many names. But you can call me THE OMNISCIENT READER."
The letters of this title literally float in the air between us, as if the words themselves had physical substance.
"I'm dead, aren't I?" My voice is flat, devoid of emotion. Even death doesn't seem like a great loss to me.
"Technically, yes. Overwork. Your heart gave out."
He—or it—gestures with his hand, and an image of my body slumped over my desk appears. Pathetic to the end.
"But that's not the most interesting part," THE OMNISCIENT READER continues. "What's fascinating is this."
Another gesture, and I see my world. My webnovel. But alive, real, in three dimensions. The twenty-four demon lords, my creations, terrorizing entire cities. The vampires feeding on human fear. The Demon King and Queen on their bone thrones.
"It's... real?"
"As real as the world you just left. You see, certain stories have such power that they come to life in other dimensions. Yours is one of them."
I should be shocked, but I mostly feel a strange satisfaction. My work exists. It's real. I created an entire universe of suffering.
"Unfortunately," THE OMNISCIENT READER sighs, "I don't really approve of your ending. The extinction of humanity? A bit excessive, don't you think?"
I don't respond. I don't have to justify myself, even to this cosmic entity.
"So I've decided to offer you a chance to... revise your work. From the inside."
Before I can protest, the space around me distorts. I feel my being compress, stretch, transform.
"No, wait—"
Too late. A sensation of dizzying fall, then impact.
I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. A ceiling adorned with golden moldings. I sit up abruptly, and the first thing I notice is my body. Slim. Muscular. Hands with perfectly manicured nails.
This isn't my body.
A mirror on the opposite wall reflects back the image of a handsome young man with aristocratic features, perfectly styled blond hair, dressed in silk pajamas.
I recognize him immediately. June Van Naver. The perverted noble, the secondary villain I created to serve as a foil to my story's protagonist. The one who, in my scenario, was supposed to be expelled from his prestigious family and academy before dying miserably at the hero's hands after sexually assaulting one of the female protagonists.
I've become my own character. The worst of them all.
"No," I murmur, my voice—his voice—trembling with rage and panic. "NO!"
My cry echoes in the luxurious room, but no one comes. Of course not. June Van Naver, despite his wealth and status, is despised by his own family. Isolated. Alone.
A cosmic irony. I've reincarnated as another outcast. A golden outcast, but an outcast nonetheless.
And I know exactly what awaits him. What awaits me now.
Death. Humiliation. Failure.
Unless...
Unless I change the story. My own story.
I know all the events to come. All the dangers. All the opportunities.
Hysterical laughter rises in my throat as the realization hits me. I'm trapped in my own webnovel, but I know every line, every twist, every character.
For the first time in my life—my lives—I possess real power.
The question remains: how to use it.