Kael Ardyn was late. Again.
He sprinted through the narrow streets, his hunter's license card bouncing against his chest. The guild gates were already closing. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but he forced himself to push harder.
"Wait! Don't shut it yet!"
The guards gave him a look he knew too well—half pity, half annoyance. They opened the gate just wide enough for him to slip in.
Inside, the Hunter's Guild was alive with energy. Parties of armored adventurers laughed over completed quests. Merchants shouted prices for rare monster cores. Banners celebrating A-rank achievements hung proudly on the walls.
Kael tried not to notice how out of place he looked—wearing patched-up boots, a secondhand coat, and a cheap dagger strapped to his belt.
"Ardyn," the receptionist sighed as he walked up. "You're late for the slime cleanup quest. Again."
"Yeah, but I'm here now," Kael said, trying to smile. "Still counts, right?"
She hesitated, then slid the quest slip across the counter. "One day you're going to miss your chance completely. And then what?"
Kael didn't answer. He knew the truth already: he was an E-rank hunter with no prospects, barely scraping enough to afford food. Worse, his "real dream"—writing novels—was going nowhere. Every draft he submitted got rejected. His inbox was a graveyard of polite "we regret to inform you" emails.
But quitting? That wasn't an option.
That night, after the slimes were gone and the guild was quiet, Kael returned to his apartment. His body ached, his dagger was chipped, and his wallet was nearly empty. He tossed his hunter's gear aside and collapsed at his desk.
Stacks of unfinished manuscripts stared back at him. He picked one up, flipping through pages filled with scribbles, cross-outs, and red marks from editors who hadn't even finished reading.
"…It's useless," Kael muttered. He dropped the manuscript and stared at the ceiling. "I fight monsters by day, write garbage by night. What's the point anymore?"
The silence of the room pressed on him.
Almost without thinking, he pulled one of his old notebooks closer—the very first draft he had ever written, back when he still believed he could create something great. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but as he flipped through it, he felt something stir inside.
A scene he had written years ago described a hero entering a dungeon, guided by a mysterious book of light. Kael ran his fingers across the lines. "Man… if only I could write something that real."
A cold breeze slipped through the room, though the window was shut. The lamp flickered. The ink on the old page shimmered faintly, like it had absorbed his words.
Kael blinked. "What the…?"
The letters began to ripple, spreading like ink dropped in water. He rubbed his eyes, but the glow remained. For a heartbeat, the whole room felt alive with silent whispers, as if the pages of every unfinished story he had ever written were murmuring back to him.
Then—darkness.
The lamp went out.
Kael's heart pounded. "Okay… okay, I'm tired. Too much work, too much instant ramen. This isn't real. Just go to sleep—"
The notebook's pages turned on their own, stopping at the center. Ink bled across the sheet, rearranging itself into words he had never written:
> "A story forgotten longs to be told.
The author's fate shall be rewritten."
Kael stumbled back, knocking over his chair. The glow spread, filling the entire room in pale light.
His hand trembled as he reached out toward the page—hesitant, almost afraid. And just as his fingers touched the words—
The notebook burst into light.