"What… what the hell is going on?"
The words slipped out before I could stop them. There wasn't a soul in sight, but the absurdity of the situation demanded at least a little commentary.
Even Schrödinger's hypothetical god would've tilted his head, clapped three times, and muttered, "Yeah, I've got nothing."
Right.
So I've… transmigrated?
If not that, maybe I died in my sleep and got reborn.
But transmigrating into a novel? Somehow that actually sounded more believable than quietly dying in my bed.
No—wait. That's nonsense. There's nothing believable about either of those options.
I forced myself to breathe and finally took in the room.
It wasn't mine.
Not even close.
The air smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper. Heavy curtains filtered soft morning light across walls covered in elegant wallpaper. A massive bed—draped in fabric so rich it probably cost more than my entire apartment—sat behind me. Even the full-length mirror had delicate golden ornaments curling around its edges.
Definitely not my cramped studio back home.
Still clinging to a shred of hope that this was some elaborate prank from my very few, very bored friends, I pushed myself off the bed and walked to the mirror.
Maybe there'd be a hidden camera. Maybe someone would yell, "Surprise!" and I'd laugh it off.
But the moment I looked into the glass, that tiny hope crumbled.
A stranger stared back at me.
A man with striking silver-gold hair, sharp features, and eyes that held a dangerous kind of beauty—one that no amount of makeup or digital filters could fake.
"…No," I whispered, my stomach sinking. "No, no, no. This doesn't make any sense."
Because I recognized that face.
That impossibly handsome reflection was Nigel Caritas.
The final boss.
The serial killer.
The monster I created in my own abandoned novel, Sword Saint of the Academy.
And now… he was me.
********
Here's what happened.
My name is Isaac—just an ordinary writer who abandoned his serial novel.
Though, now that I think about it, ordinary might not be the right word for someone who gave up halfway through a story they swore they'd finish.
To be fair, I didn't want to drop it.
It's just… the stream of imagination that used to flow so easily while I wrote suddenly dried up overnight.
No warning. No reason. One day the words were there, and the next, nothing.
I should've expected the backlash. Negative comments are the natural price of abandoning a story people were invested in.
— Sigh, seeing trash like you writing makes me think the world's gone mad. Did you drop the novel because you had nothing better to do? Just go die, you worthless piece of shit. And seriously, why did you kill Elia there? You don't even understand basic narrative coherence, you blockhead.
Harsh, but… they weren't wrong.
Abandoning the novel was pathetic.
And killing Elia like that? Yeah, that was a narrative crime.
Still, I don't know why that one comment made me so angry.
Maybe it was because I replied—politely, even—and somehow that made it worse.
Looking back, maybe losing my temper at a troll was the real mistake.
Because if there's some cosmic rule about transmigrating after an online argument, well… I guess I qualified.
"Ah, life really… What am I supposed to do now…"
The first thing I did when I woke up in this world was check the mirror.
The second thing I did was try to jump out the window.
For the record, falling from the second floor is a terrible way to confirm whether you're dreaming. The pain was very, very real.
So, let's review.
The character I've transmigrated into is Nigel Caritas—professor of Divinity at the Academy and priest of the Elohim Church.
On paper, he's supposed to be holier than anyone else.
In reality, he's a serial killer who smashes people's skulls in with a mace.
Great.
First, the good news:
I'm not an extra.
I'm not part of the protagonist's group.
I'm not even a supporting character.
I'm the final boss.
That's… kind of nice.
At least I won't get randomly beaten to death in some alleyway.
The bad news?
Final bosses are magnets for every terrible incident imaginable.
And sooner or later, the protagonist is supposed to kill me.
On the bright side, I'm not a student at the Academy.
Thank God for that.
I'm the one who wrote how those students are crushed under mountains of assignments and exams.
I'd rather be the villain than a sleep-deprived sophomore.
Being a priest is also… appealing.
Priests are high-class personnel, welcome almost everywhere.
Healers and buffers are valued far more than cannon fodder or disposable magic batteries.
And if you're worried about self-defense—don't be.
Nigel isn't just a priest. He's a battle priest.
One who kills people with a mace.
…Not that a modern college dropout like me could actually smash someone's skull in.
Probably.