I was a third-rate novelist.
Honestly, even calling myself "third-rate" felt too generous once you heard my story.
7 years of writing.
Eight completed novels.
I spent countless nights hunched over my desk, writing, revising, rewriting. Sometimes I pulled all-nighters until the sun came up. And yet, my latest chapters could barely scrape together double-digit views.
At first, I thought it was because I chose niche topics. Maybe my stories were just too obscure.
But no—that wasn't it.
I watched other authors take the very same ideas I had written first and turn them into bestsellers. Their works climbed the charts on sites like Webnovel's, while mine sank without a trace.
Their comment sections were alive, buzzing with theories and excitement. Meanwhile, my own page felt like a graveyard. Silent.
Empty. As if I was the only one left standing there, forgotten.
It was enough to drive me insane.
What was I missing? What did they have that I didn't?
Effort? No—it wasn't effort.
I'd worked myself to the bone, juggling part-time jobs just to keep writing. At one point, I was churning out three chapters a day like some kind of novel factory.
But factories break down. And when the fire that fueled me finally burned out, all I was left with was ashes.
And then, one day, I just… stopped.
The cursor blinked on the screen, mocking me with its silence. I tried typing something—anything—but the words wouldn't come out.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. Every sentence I wrote felt lifeless, meaningless. I would delete and rewrite, delete and rewrite, until hours passed and I had nothing to show for it.
I stared at my drafts, the stories I once loved, and felt… nothing.
It was terrifying.
Writing had been my identity for ten years. If I wasn't a writer, then what was I?
Friends and family had already stopped asking how my novels were doing. Their polite smiles and quick subject changes told me everything I needed to know.
I was a failure.
And the cruelest part? I had no one to blame but myself.
That night, I closed my laptop and swore I would never write again.
Or so I thought.
Days continued without a hitch.
Wake up. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
The routine was suffocating, yet strangely comfortable. For the first time in years, I wasn't tied down by deadlines or the guilt of an unwritten chapter. My laptop stayed closed, gathering dust on the desk like a tombstone for all my failed stories.
I never thought that I would enter world of writing again.
Not unless someone gave me some kind of life-line.
And someone did throw me an life-line that would change my world.
One day, a message appeared on my screen like magic.
[Rebecka: Hello, Author. I'm a fan. A very big fan]
"…Huh?"
The words felt strangely heavy, as if they carried some hidden truth—like the kind of wisdom only a sage could deliver.
Who was this "Rebecka"?
Their messages didn't read like the typical empty flattery I'd sometimes received in the past. No, these words were sharp, deliberate, almost surgical. They cut through the layers of doubt I'd built up around myself and went straight to my core.
I typed back, my fingers trembling over the keys.
[AuthorAvi: …Who are you?]
The reply came instantly.
[Rebecka: A reader.]
Vague. Maddeningly vague.
[Rebecka: I'll give you a story worth writing.]
My eyes widened. A story… worth writing?
For the first time in years, a spark flickered in the ashes of my burned-out soul.
But then reality sank in.
It wouldn't be my story.
Sure, writers often borrowed ideas or overlapped themes, but taking someone else's scenario wholesale? And if it wasn't born from me, how could it be called my novel?
Why had I struggled for 7 years?
Why had I sacrificed sleep, health, even friendships?
It was to write my ultimate story. To dedicate everything I had to it.
And now, this stranger was telling me to use their idea?
[Rebecka: The title is 'The Astral Empire's Fallen Crown Prince Will Rise Again.' ]
Before I could respond, another message arrived—longer this time.
A wall of text filled my screen, and as I scrolled, my mouth went dry.
This wasn't just an "idea."
It was a complete foundation—worldbuilding, characters, conflict—all carefully structured. Not a vague concept, but a living, breathing framework waiting for flesh.
And they were… entrusting this to me?
I kept scrolling.
The more I read, the colder my hands became.
Every detail connected perfectly. The political factions of the Astral Empire. The ruined royal bloodline. The hidden corruption inside the Imperial Academy. Even the power system felt refined in a way I had never managed to achieve myself.
It was absurd.
No amateur could write something like this.
Who the hell was this person?
I swallowed dryly before typing another message.
[AuthorAvi: …Did you really make all of this yourself?]
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
[Rebecka: Does it matter?]
I frowned.
What kind of answer was that?
[AuthorAvi: Of course it matters.]
[AuthorAvi: You basically handed me an entire novel.]
This time, the reply took longer.
Long enough for me to hear the ticking wall clock in my apartment.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Then—
[Rebecka: I only gave you the beginning. Part 1]
My eyes narrowed slightly.
Beginning? Part 1?
There were already enough ideas here for hundreds of chapters.
[AuthorAvi: Then what about the rest?]
[Rebecka: That's for you to write.]
I leaned back in my chair.
Somehow, that answer irritated me.
Maybe because a small part of me had already started getting excited.
And I hated that.
After everything I went through… after swearing I would never write again…
Why was my heart beating faster?
I rubbed my face tiredly before replying.
[AuthorAvi: Why me?]
[AuthorAvi: There are thousands of better authors online.]
[AuthorAvi: If this story is really as good as I think it is, anyone could make it popular.]
The reply came immediately.
[Rebecka: No.]
Just one word.
Yet strangely firm.
[Rebecka: They would ruin it.]
I stared at the screen silently.
[Rebecka: They would turn it into another shallow power fantasy.]
[Rebecka: Fast rewards. Cheap emotions. Disposable characters.]
[Rebecka: But you…]
The typing stopped.
Then started again.
[Rebecka: You know how failure feels.]
My chest tightened.
[Rebecka: That's why you can write despair properly.]
I froze.
Something about those words felt uncomfortably personal.
Like this stranger knew me far better than they should.
I quickly typed back.
[AuthorAvi: You talk like you know me.]
No response came for several seconds.
Then—
[Rebecka: Maybe I do.]
A chill crawled down my spine.
I laughed nervously and shook my head.
What was I even thinking?
This was probably just some overly dramatic fan messing with me.
Still…
I couldn't deny it anymore.
I was interested.
No—worse.
I was already imagining scenes in my head.
Damn it.
I clenched my jaw and typed again.
[AuthorAvi: Let's say I agree.]
[AuthorAvi: What exactly do you want from me?]
The response came instantly, as if Rebecka had been waiting for those exact words.
[Rebecka: Write.]
[AuthorAvi: That's it?]
[Rebecka: That's enough.]
I frowned harder.
[AuthorAvi: You're seriously giving all this away for free?]
[Rebecka: It isn't free.]
My expression stiffened.
There it was.
I knew there had to be something.
[AuthorAvi: Then what's the price?]
For the first time since our conversation began, the typing bubble appeared… then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Stopped.
Almost like hesitation.
Finally, a reply came.
[Rebecka: Someday… this story will become yours.]
I blinked.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
[AuthorAvi: It would already be my story if I wrote it.]
[Rebecka: No.]
[Rebecka: I mean truly yours.]
A strange discomfort settled in my chest.
I didn't understand why, but those words felt heavy.
Almost ominous.
I tried to laugh it off.
[AuthorAvi: You're talking like some fortune teller now.]
[Rebecka: Maybe.]
[AuthorAvi: …You're weird.]
For the first time, there was a delay before the response.
Then—
[Rebecka: You'll understand eventually.]
The moment I read that line, the lights in my apartment flickered once.
I looked up instinctively.
Then my laptop screen suddenly froze.
"...Huh?"
The chat window glitched violently.
Lines of distorted text stretched across the monitor like broken code.
And right before the screen went black, one final message appeared.
[Rebecka: Just Write.]
Just write.
The words echoed in my head like a command.
And for the first time since I'd sworn never to touch a keyboard again…
I wanted to obey.
My fingers hovered over the keys. The blank document waited.
The cursor blinked.
And I began to type.