Zekki sat at the edge of the bed, massaging his temples like someone who just swallowed the fact that his life… had gone completely off-script.
"Is this real…? Did I seriously end up inside my own novel…?" he muttered, dazed.
To confirm, he pinched his cheek so hard it turned red.
Then, without thinking too much, he marched straight to the kitchen.
"Alright! Let's see what we've got in here"
He opened the storage cabinet.
"…Hah? Carrots and… tomatoes? That's it?"
He stared blankly for a full second.
"Fantastic. Of course I end up in the body of someone broke."
"Unbelievable."
Since he hadn't eaten since yesterday—shock tended to kill hunger—he threw together a simple soup with whatever he had.
Zekki was quietly slurping his sad vegetable soup when something on the wall caught his eye.
A paper notice.
He nearly spat out his food.
"Help the farmer move sacks of wheat."
Zekki's eyes widened like he was staring at a utility bill.
He stood up, stomped toward the paper, and ripped it off the wall.
"I'M A GENIUS AUTHOR! And the first 'quest' I get is… becoming a laborer?!"
"WHO PUT THIS ON MY DOOR?! COME HERE, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!!"
He crumpled the paper, took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down.
"Okay… okay… breathe… slow… one at a time…"
His heart wasn't listening. It was pounding like it was trying to run away.
This world was too real to be a dream
and too absurd to be reality.
He straightened his new hair annoyingly tidy for someone who didn't even know his own name and began searching for clues.
Dresser drawer.
Empty.
Study desk.
Empty.
Bookshelf.
Full… but every title was foreign. Weird. Complicated. Like the author of this world had a personal grudge against simple names.
"Even the dictionary sounds fictional…"
He sighed and closed the book.
Stepping outside, the noise of Brasswell slammed into him like a festival that forgot to file a noise permit.
Merchants yelling.
Kids sprinting around.
A baker threatening to smack a bread thief with a hot tray.
"Brasswell… this really is Brasswell…"
He still couldn't fully believe it.
He wandered aimlessly, letting his feet follow the stone roads. His eyes absorbed everything: crystal lamps, strange clothes, the scent of unfamiliar spices.
Then he froze.
A child was drawing something on the ground with chalk.
Lines. Curves. A symbol.
A symbol Zekki recognized instantly.
He crouched down. "Hey, what are you drawing?"
The boy beamed.
"This is the Royal Crest! They said there's gonna be a big festival soon!"
That crest…
He created it.
For his story.
For chapter thirty.
A chapter he never even finished writing.
"How did you know this crest?"
Zekki asked quietly.
The child shrugged.
"Everyone knows it. It's super old."
Zekki fell silent.
The symbol he invented as an author…
was considered ancient history here.
For a moment, it felt like the world itself was laughing at him.
He stood and continued walking, his thoughts racing in circles.
As he passed through the crowd, a middle-aged woman eyed him warmly.
"Oh my, you must be new here. From the Northern village?"
Zekki offered a stiff smile.
"No… more like… someone just passing through."
"Oh, I see."
She chuckled. "Well, I hope your day goes well."
He returned the smile, but inside… the chaos only grew louder.
Just someone passing through.
That was all he was now.
A background character.
A face in the crowd.
A nobody in the world he created.
The irony was so big it was almost funny.
Almost.
By the time the sun climbed higher, Zekki headed back home. His mind was tangled with questions, and his body felt heavy from the weight of confusion.
He shut the door and leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.
He spoke again, this time in a whisper meant only for himself.
"I need to understand this place… before it swallows me whole."
Silence settled over the room.
But outside the window…
a small black bird perched quietly, watching him.
Its eyes glimmered faintly—studying, recording, waiting.
Zekki took a long breath.
"Alright… step one: stay alive."
He didn't know that this tiny first step….
would lead him straight into chaos far beyond his imagination.