"Is this a dream or reality?!" she asked herself, confusion swirling in her mind like fog. The boundary between her waking life and the dreamscape had blurred, leaving her in a state of disorientation.
"I… I still don't have the answer. What is this, why… why am I here?" In that moment, she found herself suspended in an abyss, drifting weightlessly in the void, cradled by endless night, curled up like a fetus in the womb of darkness, surrounded by an endless void that whispered nothingness into her ears.
To uncover how she arrived in such a nightmarish, surreal state, we must journey back to the past...
It was late afternoon when her inbox chimed, the notification slicing through the silence of her room like a knife. She glanced at the screen, hardly expecting anything worth her attention. But as she clicked it open, the words seemed to leap out at her, sharp and merciless as a predator's fangs. Her gaze raced across the lines, once. Twice, and slowly, a shallow gasp escaped her, freezing mid-breath. shock spread across her face, washing the colour away. The words had struck her with the force of a cold blade. In that instant, the atmosphere fractured in that quiet room, with nothing but the faint, eerie hum of her phone filling the silence.
(From this moment, the story changed— for her, and perhaps for everything yet to come.)
After absorbing the content of the emails from the web novel company she once trusted, she let out a long sigh, exhaling slowly, as though her very spirit slipped out with her breath. For a moment, she was calm.
"Okay, fine. If this is how it's gonna be, I'm completely okay with it," she muttered, casually, as if saying it aloud might ward off the lurking dread. With that, she tossed her phone aside and went back to finishing her half-finished lukewarm ramen.
Slurping the last of the noodles and rinsing the bowl clean, she tried to let the day slip away like dishwater down the drain. By the time she sat back on her bed, looking up at the ceiling, there was even the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. For a moment, she looked weightless, like someone who had seen a storm gathering only to watch it pass on its own.
But of course, storms don't just leave peacefully. That would be too easy, wouldn't it?
Her anger came boiling back, sudden and sharp, like steam blasting from a pressure cooker. Her face twisted, and her voice tore out before she could stop it.
"HOW!!! … The fuck is this?!"
She shot up from the bed, pacing furiously between the furniture, cursing the company under her breath, cursing herself for ever letting her guard down.
Her apartment became a claustrophobic cage too small for her rage; each step felt like it could shatter the floor beneath her.
And then, WHAM!
Her foot smashed into the leg of the table. Pain exploded through her toe, hot, bright agony that seared through her. She let out a sharp groan that slipped into a growl, the sound rough and uneven—pain, anger, and something else she refused to admit. Her foot throbbed beneath her grip, tears springing to her eyes as she crumpled to the floor.
"This has to be the worst day of the week," she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice cracking, the words laced with raw visceral frustration.
Eventually, the pain dulled enough for her to drag herself back to the bed. She sat there in silence, trying to trick herself into calm again, but it didn't work. Not this time. The truth of that email weighed heavily on her chest like a stone. She wasn't just being criticized. She was being framed. Her story—her hard work—was accused of plagiarism, stripped from the site as if it were stolen. The company had marked her as a thief. And though despair clawed at her like shadowy fingers, she knew one thing for certain: sitting in sadness wouldn't fix this.
Her anger steadied. Beyond the sting, her thoughts turned to the bigger problem. The copyright case.
"So long as I stand, I will prove I am not guilty."
With that thought weighing on her, she picked up her phone and dialled the Web Novel Company's helpline. She needed answers—about the copyright mess, about why her work had been flagged, and how she had ended up caught in the middle of it all.
....
Later in the evening, she found herself surrounded by calm, a peaceful scene, yet one that offered a fragile illusion of comfort. With one hand, she fished out a chip, while the other busily scrolled through her phone. She opened YouTube and began flicking through the endless stream of shorts. As she popped the chip into her mouth, she stretched her legs luxuriously across the mattress and sighed contentedly,
"Ah, now this is what I call living."
Yet, even in this moment of tranquillity, a relentless, nagging thought tugged at her mind. While keeping the facade of a smiling face, she thought to herself, "Honestly, it's pathetic. All that fire I carried snuffed out the moment I stood before the obstacle. But even if I overcame it, there was nowhere left to go. No road waited on the other side. Guess I was just stupid, foolish enough to believe in thinking I could ever change anything to begin with."
She sat in her bed, lost in her own thoughts, running through the scenario in her head. If this were some kind of story and she were cast as its protagonist, then maybe she would have been doing something noble right now. She would be researching every page of that other book she was accused of copying, working tirelessly to gather proof, to clear her name, to stand tall in front of everyone and declare that she was innocent. And of course, in the end, she would win. She would prove herself to be the victim, and people would cheer, and the truth would shine through. The villain would have its tragic ending when it lost, but in this scenario, she couldn't even tell who the true villain was, which could be the suspenseful part of the story, or something like that.
It all sounded so exaggerated when she thought about it, like a scene ripped from some overblown drama where the underdog claws their way up against impossible odds.
But this wasn't fiction. It was reality. It was her life—and in this world, she'd never had a chance. This wasn't a story. This was the real life where she lived. And in that world, she had never stood a chance. She didn't have money, she didn't have power, and she certainly didn't have influence. Without any of those, she wasn't equipped to take on a company that had all three in abundance.
She thought about the things she wrote, the sweet lies she put to paper: "love conquers all," "good always wins." They sounded pretty on the page, comforting even. But here, in reality, she knew the truth. Everyone did, even if they didn't want to admit it. The world wasn't kind, and good people didn't always win.
She continued churning out the same cheesy, lovey-dovey stuff because that's what readers craved. Not truth, not reality. Just fiction wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon. It was a cycle she couldn't break, and perhaps she didn't want to. After all, people didn't yearn for something new; they wanted the same old stories with a fresh coat of icing.
It didn't shock her that her hard work had been accused of plagiarism. There was nothing she could do about it, and that was that. From the moment she posted it on the web novel company's site, the story hadn't truly been hers. By signing the author's contract, she had unwittingly handed over half of her ownership. The company held the other half, leaving her powerless to file a case.
She realized that fighting a battle against an undefeatable foe, especially with a predetermined outcome, was futile. Thankfully, she had the sense to withdraw before it began, sparing herself from a confrontation she was destined to lose. And so, she accepted her situation, choosing to savor her small moments of peace, like this evening on her bed, snacks in hand, the world's harshness momentarily forgotten.
But at that moment, she couldn't help but think about how she felt back when she opened the two emails sent to her by the same company.
She could still recall it vividly—that strange, whiplash moment of living two completely different emotions, one right after the other. Both emails had come from the same source, yet their contents couldn't have been more opposed. It was like one of those old, outdated movie scenes where the hero is told there's good news and bad news.
Sitting there, her face twisted into a mix of rage and sadness, she couldn't help but think to herself, "It's really funny, isn't it? How can someone like me have such terrible luck at the greatest moments of my life?"
The first email when she opened it with hesitant fingers. And when her eyes landed on the words, she froze. Her latest story, The Fallen Kingdom of Seraphis, was a success. At first, she didn't believe it. She read the line twice, three times, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves into something else. But they didn't. Her carefully practiced artist's mask, that calm and emotionless facade, shattered in an instant. A goofy smile took over her face, her lips twitching before they gave way to soft, bubbling giggles. She laughed to herself, giddy and small, but the second she realized what she was doing, she tried to force the joy back down.
She cleared her throat, straightened her back, snapped her expression back to neutral. But the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her, and so did the corners of her mouth, which refused to stop tugging upwards.
"Is my wish finally coming true?" she wondered. "Have the gods at last answered my long-awaited prayers?" For one brief, fleeting moment, happiness filled her chest like sunlight. But then—she remembered. There was another email waiting.
She clicked it open, still riding on that high. At first, she didn't notice how her tone shifted when she read the words. But her face told the story. That brightness drained out of her expression. Her eyes, once light with wonder, grew sharp and heavy. The corners of her lips fell flat. A shadow of disbelief washed over her.
"My… my new story…" she muttered. The same story that had just lifted her so high—was now being cancelled. Worse—banned from further development entirely.
"Wait—what!?" The words tore out of her mouth before she could stop them. The joy that had filled her chest only seconds ago cracked apart, replaced with ice. A cold wave of suspicion, shock, and anger swept over her, leaving her mind spinning.
She blinked hard at the screen, struggling to process. Her most recent story—the one that had finally, finally earned her the popularity she had been chasing for so long—was being taken away from her.
"Why?" Her voice rose sharply, caught between disbelief and fury, as if saying the word enough times might rewrite the message.
"Why!?"
Her eyes darted back to the email, desperate, afraid. And then she read the next part—the killing blow.
It wasn't her company that had turned on her, not directly. It was another one. Another publishing house, a rival. They had filed a copyright claim and lawsuit against the very company she worked for. And the accusation? That The Fallen Kingdom of Seraphis was not her creation at all—but a stolen echo of one of their older, wildly popular works. That, they said, was the reason behind her story's sudden rise in fame. Not her talent. Not her effort. Not her prayers finally being answered. No—just theft. At least, that was how they painted it.
And sitting there, staring at the cruel text on the glowing screen, all she could feel was the bitter sting of it—like watching her dreams collapse in real time. Even though the company hadn't started the whole mess, she thought, the people at her own workplace were still assholes. The thought simmered at the back of her mind, a bitter little ember she couldn't shake. Those bastards are making me the scapegoat for their screw-ups, she told herself, teeth tight.
"If I ever get the chance… I'll make them pay."
There were bigger fires to put out first. She wasn't stupid—She knew—from years of scraping by as a writer—that she had never stolen another author's work. Sure, every writer borrowed bits and pieces from the world around them. But outright theft? No way. The idea of having ripped someone off made her stomach twist in disgust.
Still, a small, insistent doubt crept in: could this be a terrible misunderstanding? Or worse, a deliberate sabotage? The latter sounded absurd—who would go out of their way to ruin her? She had no enemies she knew of, no reason for someone to target her. Honestly, she didn't even have enough success for anyone to want to take her down. But still… the accusation was sitting right there, staring her in the face.
And the worst part? She couldn't do a damn thing about it. Reality didn't care about how she felt. She didn't have the money to hire a proper lawyer to fight a wealthy publishing house. She didn't have the influence, the evidence, or the legal footing. Her contract with the company already made things messy, and without solid proof, trying to sue would be like walking straight into a trap. The other side had more resources, more evidence, and more ways to crush her flat. If she even tried to take them on in court, she wouldn't just lose—she might actually end up in jail. "Yeah, no thanks."
So, she went with the only option that didn't end in total disaster: read the damn book they claimed she copied. Not glamorous, sure. Definitely not the heroic "fight against the system" kind of move you'd see in a movie. But it was something she could actually do. And, if she was being honest, curiosity was gnawing at her anyway.
After all, if this story was supposedly so close to hers… she had to see it for herself.
----But enough of that, let's get back to the present moment. ----
At that time, she found herself ensnared in a turbulent vortex of her own making. The echoes of past events haunted her, the uncertainty of the future loomed ominously, and the relentless cycle of overthinking plagued her every move. In the midst of this mental storm, she decided to engage with a novel she had been accused of pilfering—a move that sparked yet another conundrum: how to unearth this elusive book? Despite her exhaustive search through emails, the title remained unknown, compelling her to pursue alternative avenues.
As she mulled over her predicament, her thumb mindlessly scrolled through shorts on her phone, her actions fueled by habit rather than intent. The screen was a carousel of fleeting images: an exotic dish sizzling in a pan, dancers swaying to a trending remix, a prank gone awry, masked by comedic sound effects. It was the usual cacophony of digital noise.
Then, slicing through the din, a familiar voice resonated with her. She looked up, startled. That voice, though distant in memory, was unmistakable. It belonged to Chat Buddy, an influencer she once adored for his outrageous theories. His delivery was so earnest it was amusing, like a comedian in disguise. Over time, however, she had drifted away, leaving him like an old toy. Life's demands overshadowed her interest, and his videos fell by the wayside. Yet here he was, unexpectedly, on her screen once more.
She hesitated, caught between ignoring the video and indulging in a wave of nostalgia. Curiosity prevailed, and she tapped play, seeking solace in his entertaining nonsense. The room filled with his voice, as exuberant as she remembered. "Hey guys! It's your buddy—Chat Buddy!" His introduction was followed by the obligatory sponsor message and a plea to like, comment, and subscribe. "Some things never change," she muttered, reaching for a chip.
His next topic, however, piqued her interest. "Alright, without further ado, let's crack today's theory—" he announced, only to be interrupted by an ad. She groaned, skipping it impatiently.
When he resumed, his voice was laden with gravity. "Today's topic… the one and only, Mount Kogarashi." His words halted her mid-reach for the chip bag. Mount Kogarashi, once a global sensation, had receded into obscurity for most—just another mountain. Yet, there it was, visible from her apartment window, a silent sentinel in the distance.
Chat Buddy's tone grew serious. "Mount Kogarashi is shrouded in more mysteries than anything else in this world," he declared. The mountain's sudden emergence thirty-three years ago, triggered by a 5.2-magnitude earthquake, defied natural explanation. The bizarre phenomenon spared nearby areas, leaving scientists baffled.
"And that," Chat Buddy said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, "is the most bizarre part. A mountain that appeared overnight, and with no trace of what actually caused it."
Intrigued yet skeptical, she watched as Chat Buddy spun his web of theories—some wild, some ridiculous, and a few eerily plausible: ancient aliens, clandestine government experiments, alternate dimensions. Though she knew most would be debunked, the enigma of Mount Kogarashi captivated her. It loomed beyond her window, a real-world mystery.
But reality nudged her back. She had a more personal enigma to solve: the identity of the novel she was accused of copying. With determination, she turned off her phone, casting aside distractions to focus on her task.
Her first strategy was simple: search online. She typed fragments of her own story into the search bar, rephrased passages, and tried myriad variations. Yet, the internet was a vast, tangled web. Each query returned countless similar stories, none of which matched the one she sought. It was like searching for a single grain of sand in a storm.
Undeterred, she took a creative approach. Her plagiarism scandal had gone public, and discussions were surely brewing. She delved into the comments section beneath her web novel, scanning through a sea of sympathy, accusations, arguments, and speculation. Then, amid the chaos, she found it—a novel title different from her own.
Her heart raced. This was the key piece of the puzzle she needed. Armed with the title, "Hearts Bound by Starlight and Ruin," she felt a renewed sense of purpose, ready to defend her work and uncover the truth behind the mysterious resemblance.
She sat down, the laptop casting a glow in the dim room. The task was daunting: read the book she was accused of copying. Despite the title's melodrama, she opened the site, sipped her coffee, and began. Romance wasn't her forte, but clearing her name was paramount.
Hours passed, the clock ticking past midnight. Hunger gnawed at her, and she paused to procure sustenance—a cold water bottle and a packet of ramen. The novel, though initially a means to an end, captivated her. Similarities existed, but the differences were stark—the plot, power system, and outline diverged from her own. By chapter forty-six, she begrudgingly admitted its potential.
The revelation left her conflicted. The novel possessed a shine she longed for in her work. Despite its cheesy romance, it had depth and pace. She yearned to continue, yet practical concerns intervened. The room's chill was unnaturally sharp, and her attempts to cook were thwarted by a lack of gas. Resorting to cup noodles, she settled back near the laptop.
Initially, At first, she thought it was just a glitch. Maybe a power surge or something like that, and dismissed it. But when the lights in the room dimmed, they did so with an unsettling slowness, casting a gloom no apartment bulb should emit. Shadows stretched across the walls like they were trying to crawl towards her. The corners of the room twisted ever so slightly, The air went still. So still it felt like reality itself had stopped breathing.
And then she felt it. A presence. It's hard to explain—how do you put into words the feeling of being watched by something that doesn't have eyes?
"Yet, I swear, to any deity willing to listen… something was in the room with me."
No—everything seemed to be watching her. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, even the screen of my laptop. It was as if an ancient, invisible entity was peering into the deepest parts of her soul, relishing what it found. her skin prickled. her heart thudded in her chest. She was paralyzed and couldn't breathe.
And then...
FLASH!!
Suddenly, a blinding light burst from her laptop, engulfing her entire body. She didn't even have time to scream.
"This feeling... The sensation was unlike anything I'd ever known. There was no ground beneath me, no gravity, no sound. Yet, I was falling, my body feeling weightless, meaningless, through an infinite black void. My body didn't feel like my own. My limbs—if I even had them anymore—drifted without direction. I couldn't tell if I was floating or if the universe around me was spinning."
Memories fractured. She could see pieces of her life—flashes of them—breaking apart like stained glass. And then those fragments shattered into pieces to form a husk of her old self merged with consciousness.
An unbearable pressure closed in, like she was being pulled inside out and compressed into something she didn't understand. Time had no meaning here. There was no past, no present. Only transition. A rewriting of her existence.
And then—it stopped. The darkness peeled away.
A light—soft and warm, almost golden—wrapped itself around her like silk. she couldn't see her body, but she felt it, piece by piece, being stitched back together. Reformed. Like she had been torn into billions of fragments… and now, something—someone—was carefully putting her back into a shape. But it wasn't the same shape.
It felt like she wasn't the same.
When she could breathe again, it hurt. Initially violent and uneven, a desperate gasp for air, it gradually calmed. Still, it hurt. The air clawed down her throat, thick and heavy, as if she were inhaling water. she choked on it, gasping, coughing, blinking hard against a dim, flickering light.
The first thing she saw was… hay. It was scattered over a dirt floor, some of it poking through a thin, scratchy fabric clinging to my skin. she looked down—her dress was dull, rough-spun, frayed at the edges. The kind a poor peasant girl might wear in the 1800s. Then the smell hit her—mud, dung, wet wood, greenery. A blend of earth, manure, and something so organic it made her nose twitch. she instinctively covered it with her hands.
She sat up slowly—her limbs trembling, unsteady. Her head spun. The wooden walls around her were uneven. The windows were tiny slits in the structure. She wasn't in her apartment. She wasn't even in the town where she lived. it was nowhere familiar to her.
"What the hell…" she whispered, her voice hoarse and foreign.
"Was this some farm? Had I been drugged? Kidnapped and abandoned in a countryside pigsty?"
She couldn't make sense of it. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. She tried to calm herself, told herself this had to be a dream. A coma. A psychotic break. Something. Anything. So to conform, she did what every idiot in every movie does. She pinched herself.
But when she raised her hand… her breath caught in her throat. It wasn't her hand. It was too small. Too thin. The skin was rough, sun-kissed, and dirt-smudged. The fingers were delicate, but calloused—like they belonged to a girl who knew only fieldwork and hard labor. And then she saw her whole body. Little. Frail.
she scrambled toward the nearest mirror—not a mirror, but a half-polished bronze plate nailed to the wall. The reflection was murky, distorted, but she saw enough. her hair—once black and straight—was now a mess of pale white strands, tangled and untidy. her face… it wasn't her face. The eyes staring back were too large, glassy, young.
"What… what the hell is this…?" she whispered, her voice lighter, softer than before. A sickening dread crashed into her. That wasn't her. That wasn't her face. That wasn't her body.
"I wasn't me. I was… someone else. A peasant girl in a world that reeked of medieval life. What was happening to me?"
she pressed her hands to her face, desperate to wake up. But no matter how hard she tried, nothing changed. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a metaphor. This was real.
she had fallen out of my world… and into another. she wasn't… herself anymore.
Panic hit her like a crashing wave, not gentle, but overwhelming, drowning her. She scrambled to her feet—if they could be called her anymore. her legs were weak, unsteady, as if they'd only known hardship. her hands fumbled over her face. she expected the sharp features—her nose, cheekbones, the familiarity of a face seen in mirrors for decades. But what she touched wasn't hers. her fingers—small, rough, calloused—brushed over skin too soft in some places, too worn in others. her cheeks were hollow. her skin is dry.4
her hair, "God, my hair." No longer sleek, no longer black. It was matted, tangled, uneven, white—stripped of youth and identity. her stomach knotted. her breath hitched. she wanted to scream but couldn't. The dread settled in her bones, heavy and immovable.
Then she looked outside.
Before her stretched an endless expanse of soft, green grass, wildflowers scattered like spilled colors across the field. Further out, a forest stood at the edge, trees rising like sentinels.
There—a stream cut through, small but audible if one listened closely, a soft trickling sound. Beyond, the mountains rose like walls. The lower ones were green and rocky, the taller peaks capped with snow, white and shining even from here. Clouds loomed above, slow and heavy,
Closer to her, the village lay scattered—huts like hers, proper cottages with smoke curling from chimneys. People walked along paths, minding their business, animals roaming —chickens pecking at dirt, goats moving lazily.
It was beautiful, like a painting come to life, except she stood there, truly seeing it.
she clutched the doorframe, her legs nearly buckling. This wasn't a dream or a fantasy. This was her real life. Somehow, she had been reincarnated into an entirely different world.
Then, out of nowhere, she heard someone shouting in a foreign language. she couldn't understand it initially, but somehow, she knew this language even though she'd never heard it before. It was as if she had spoken it her whole life. The man was calling someone named Aira.