I wrote this novel with the singular intent of condemning those who refuse to evolve—those who harbor endless excuses and are consumed by a toxic, wretched disposition. To those for whom nothing is ever right and who claim fate is but a cruel joke; that might refer to someone out there, or perhaps, to myself.
Is self-improvement truly as simple as they say? If I were to offer a genuine comparison, it would be no different from attempting to cease breathing or forgoing sustenance altogether.
Of course, in reality, ceasing to breathe is far more difficult—it is impossible. Yet, I believe that altering one's inherent nature and human depravity is only a single degree less arduous.
That a person's fundamental nature cannot be changed is no exaggeration. I understand this better than anyone. No matter how much I loathe being this way, I can neither change nor abandon it.
Everyone desires to be loved; everyone seeks happiness. It is all the same. Everything about me originates from my inherent nature—so why was I bestowed with this, the thing I despise most?
It is never easy to accept the truth and move forward.
Perhaps the shackles we call "ourselves" are the very things holding us back.
In truth, society does not mold us. Rather, we remain our original selves in the right society, and become hideous when placed in the wrong one.
It is not that everyone will love or hate us; even I constantly censure myself.
Have you ever felt so profoundly contradictory? That agonizing sensation of saying one thing while doing the quite opposite—it leaves one feeling utterly wretched.
Acting on impulse is the same; it is always a major grievance, one that easily shatters a person's self-restraint until they collapse.
Everything is discordant, forming the most disastrous composition for a human being. That composition is me.
Is the only recourse to die and be reborn?
Hearing such words is profoundly somber. No one wishes for death unless they suffer from depression.
If they were not at a total impasse, they would certainly never contemplate death; that is the fundamental human instinct.
There are countless words I wish to vent, surging like the waters of an ocean, but surely no one would bother to listen to such nonsense.
Everyone is the same: they listen, they "understand," yet they never truly reach the essence of one another.
It is even worse with those to whom you feel close. They often perceive it as a joke, or at most, offer a fleeting gesture of concern.
But what does that achieve? Clichés like "It's okay," "It will get better," or "Someday, experience will teach you."
That word—"experience"—is the most loathsome thing of all.
Whether bad or good, experiences stem from mistakes. While not true for every case, for the most part, experience is born from the ignorant and the short-sighted.
Has anyone ever truly pondered these things? The answer is a definitive yes.
There are many who think as I do but dare not speak, for it appears farcical in the social and digital worlds.
What I want to say is that I have been perpetually fleeing. Even now, I am running from reality, conjuring a thousand excuses.
It's pathetic, isn't it? But it is the easiest path. I chose to act that way, then tried to understand why I am like this, even though the answers are already written in my actions.
Because of that, I squander great opportunities and fail to learn a single lesson from those events.
Oh, yes! It is a recurring cycle of hell, is it not?
What I want to convey is that there are two paths: either erase your inherent nature, or die and be reborn.
As for being reborn, you ought to erase all your memories entirely; otherwise, everything remains exactly the same.
So, what is the ultimate cause? The answer is "everything." Your very identity is what made you this way. That is the only true answer I can find at this moment.
From the moment I was born—the genetic traits of my parents, the food they consumed, the moment I opened my eyes to the world, the society that molded me, the mind that happened upon everything, including your own choice to walk that path.
You can blame no one except your "Identity"—not just yourself.
And if you ask whether I, who say all this to myself, have tried to change? I can tell you that I have only managed to think it, but my body cannot even move.
Imagine you are in a ghost story, and a spirit is perched upon your shoulder. It clings to you all day and night, whispering in your ear, "Don't do it. It's too difficult!"
Yes, it is exactly like that. And whenever I try to rise and act, that ghost screams so loudly I nearly lose my sanity mid-task.
Ultimately, with my consciousness fading, I return to the same place: a spot that is comfortable, stagnant, and the absolute lowest point.
Ah! The problems are truly manifold, and eventually, when everything reaches this state, the systems of my life collapse entirely.
The people I love begin to hate me, viewing me as a madman. Even though this phantom clings to my shoulder, my parents, family, and even my friends begin to see me as a failure.
To be honest, it has always been this way.
I don't know how to fix it either. I am not a believer in any religion, so I do not offer prayers to the gods.
In the end, driven into a corner, I finally created this novel! Hoping that one day, I might understand myself when I look back upon this world.
A foolish novel about a tragic protagonist—born ill and near death—surrounded by a harem that helps him, and villains that prey upon his mind. Ultimately, the hero must progress and grow.
All of this might sound well and good, until I actually ended up inside this world.
The Eternal Being—that is the world I established.
I am someone obsessed with eternal life and everything stable—things I have never possessed.
I once thought that with my supreme lack of talent, a lifespan of fifty or eighty years was simply insufficient for any practical use.
I felt that humans were worthless. You spend decades training, but how many days do you actually get to use those abilities!?
Drawing skills, mathematical prowess, or the things you've toiled for—they are all diminished as you work through the years. Finally, as you age, you are left with nothing.
So, I bypassed the problem by filling this world with Mana. The higher the Mana within a person's body, the longer their life could be extended.
Then, I created a lead character with no innate Mana, who was also afflicted with a terminal illness.
And yet, I eventually ended up in this mad world.
"Rainhardt, you see..."
That was my mother's voice.
With shimmering silver hair, vivid ruby eyes, and a radiant, soft complexion that would draw every man's gaze.
She sat looking at me as I lay in bed, her expression filled with profound sorrow.
She slowly took my hand and spoke with great reluctance.
Beside her stood a man in a pristine white coat, wearing thick spectacles. His hair was a mottled grey and his skin wrinkled, yet he exuded a sharp brilliance.
It wasn't hard to guess: he was the Imperial Court Physician.
He remained silent, while my mother hesitated in an indescribable way. She began to utter the words that made my heart sink.
"The doctor says... you are dying."
That was the first thing I encountered in this world—the world I created, and the life of a protagonist I also designed.
"Haha..."
Rainhardt swallowed those feelings back down his throat and squeezed his mother's hand in return.
"It's alright. I believe as long as I'm not dead yet, we still have time for a cure."
Rainhardt smiled.
"Let's try together, Mother."
'Are you serious? Am I actually dying!?' Rainhardt cried out inwardly.
'After death, I have to face death once again.'
Rainhardt screamed in his mind repeatedly while maintaining a face full of hope before his mother and the physician.
The Court Physician felt a swell of emotion, wiping a tear away with the thought, 'I will do my absolute best, Young Master.'
This is the story of Rainhardt—a man who is the protagonist, and now, like a god fallen from the heavens. He must face the disastrous foundations he laid himself until everything concludes. However...
If I weren't the author or the reader, but someone else, I wouldn't know.
Because the duration of the story from start to finish is exactly "two hundred years"—the time from when Rainhardt began seeking an escape from death and started training his combat skills.
He joined the Empire to fight the villains known as the "Angels of the Colorless World," entities who used divine power to achieve their own ends.
That was entirely contrary to Rainhardt's principles, leading to a conflict between the two factions that nearly brought the world to ruin, spanning two centuries.
If you think escaping is easy, you are gravely mistaken. For that is an unavoidable destiny.
There are characters more twisted than you can imagine, characters always ready to turn and harm Rainhardt.
And no matter which path is chosen, those characters are positioned across the world by my own hand.
Whether it be his father, the Empire, or the three kingdoms—with Rainhardt's sky-high talent, he became a primary target the moment he escaped death's door.
What must be done? The simple answer is to halt this desperate fate.
I myself know exactly how to cure this condition and escape death. I wrote this novel with immense detail and high-level intricacy.
However, this is the year 1291 according to the Blue Moon Calendar.
It is somewhat later than usual; therefore, various characters will be displaced from the positions I anticipated.
There are many characters who should be on the protagonist's side, but upon consideration, I must first recruit the characters expected to cause massive global damage as my allies.
After the Court Physician departed, Rainhardt pondered for a moment before looking up at his mother.
This beautiful woman with silver hair and ruby eyes was Aira Edenhardt, the Saintess of Destiny.
Rainhardt gazed at her with a calm face and opened his arms with a smile.
"Mother."
He simply opened his arms, waiting for her warmth. Soon, she regained her composure, slowly stood up, and reached out to embrace Rainhardt.
This feeling... it truly felt as though she were his real mother. But...
If he stayed with her any longer, she would die just to protect the foolish Rainhardt of that time.
He stroked her head and back with a sense of guilt, for he was the one who had set her death flag himself.
"I'm sorry. But everything is fine now."
She didn't quite understand, only hugging Rainhardt tighter. The two spent a long time in that moment before time began to move.
The world clock is ticking, counting down to catastrophe.
The moment the Edenhardt family will fall, annihilated by the Archduke's family of the Empire, after 9:00 PM on April 16, Year 1291.
Which is ninety days from now.
In the original plot, Rainhardt chose to spend all his time seeking a cure. But if it is him now, he must do what the protagonist of this world could never achieve.
Though there is some fear, he will not bow to the things he himself created.
Because this world is his world.