You can find advanced chapters on my patreon.
.
.
.
Patreon.com/simpysensei
___
Michael sat in the plush leather chair of his newly furnished home office, taking a slow draw from a premium mini-cigar.
A thick stack of financial reports rested on the mahogany desk in front of him.
"This is a massive number, Evans," Michael exclaimed softly, exhaling a thin, fragrant plume of smoke as he scanned the bottom line of the quarterly projections.
Evans, who was currently draped over the office sofa like a victorious Roman emperor, practically beamed.
"You are looking at the Picasso of contract negotiations, boss. I squeezed those those companies until they wept."
Michael raised an eyebrow, a dry, witty smirk playing on his lips. "Picasso painted abstractly, Evans. Let's hope these numbers are actually rooted in realism and not just your creative imagination."
Evans chuckled, sitting up. "Oh, they're real. Actually, they're conservative. Every single book you have under your name has seen a massive, unprecedented spike in sales since the Wuntch footage leaked. The 'Protector Prodigy' narrative is selling out bookstores worldwide. But it's not just your books, Michael. The UNICEF donations? They've skyrocketed. Millions of dollars pouring in from everyday people who just want to support 'the author with a heart of gold.'"
Evans leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Honestly, Michael... did you know this would happen? Did you orchestrate the UNICEF deal knowing the PR from a public incident would funnel straight into the charity?"
Michael took another draw of his cigar. "No."
It was the truth.
In his mind, his reasoning was far more personal. "I love Kafka," Michael thought to himself, staring at the ash of his cigar. "This world needs his literature, his brilliant, agonizing depictions of existential dread and the human condition. But I never wanted to personally profit from him. I am biased towards that one author only. It felt wrong. Giving all the proceeds to UNICEF was the safest, most moral option."
"Speaking of money," Michael pivoted, setting the cigar in an ashtray. "How much does a scriptwriter actually make in Hollywood?"
Evans rubbed his chin, switching into manager mode. "Depends on the tier. A complete newbie selling a spec script might make $70,000 to $100,000. An intermediate, established writer can pull $300,000 to $500,000. A guaranteed, top-tier A-lister? They can command anywhere from $1 million to $3 million upfront."
"And what about backend?" Michael asked. "Are there instances where writers get a percentage of the box office revenue?"
"Extremely rare," Evans scoffed. "Almost mythical. Listen, Michael, in Hollywood, scriptwriters are not respected. They're treated like replaceable typists. The studios ignore their original vision, the directors overwrite the script to fit their own egos, and the actors? They never go to the writers for advice. They go to the director. If you want control in Hollywood, you don't just write."
Michael was silent for a long moment, digesting the brutal reality of the film industry.
His eyes darkened with calculation.
If he was going to conquer Hollywood, he couldn't play by their rules. He had to be the exception.
He had to create a world so massive, so undeniably brilliant, that they would have to bow to him.
"I know what I'm going to write next," Michael said quietly.
Evans blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "Already? What genre?"
Michael picked up his mini-cigar, nipped the end, and looked Evans dead in the eye. "Fantasy."
Later, the house was quiet.
Michael sat alone in his study.
He had spent the last hour searching the internet, typing in names that should have yielded millions of results.
Harry Potter.
The Lord of the Rings.
A Song of Ice and Fire.
The Chronicles of Narnia.
Nothing. Zero results.
Michael leaned back in his chair, genuinely baffled.
"How is this timeline surviving without any fantasy?" he wondered. "No Hogwarts to dream of? No Middle-Earth to explore? No Westeros politics to debate?"
It was a cultural tragedy.
He had to fix it, but he faced a massive dilemma: what to write first.
Harry Potter would be an incredible choice. It had universally beloved themes of magic, coming-of-age, and the battle between good and evil.
Not to mention, it had historically made its author a billionaire and spawned a relentless, decades-long empire of merchandise and theme parks.
Then there was The Chronicles of Narnia.
It was a beautiful choice, filled with profound allegories, talking animals, and the pure, whimsical escapism of finding a magical world inside a wardrobe. It was a simpler, more innocent kind of magic.
But then there was the granddaddy of them all.
The Lord of the Rings.
The reasons for choosing Tolkien's masterpiece were undeniable.
The world-building was unmatched. It wasn't just a story; it was an entire mythology, complete with fully functioning, invented languages, thousands of years of deep, recorded history, and themes of unyielding courage, the corrupting nature of power, and the unbreakable bonds of fellowship.
It was the blueprint for all modern fantasy.
"What should I write?" Michael pondered, tapping his fingers against the desk.
His mind drifted to Emma.
He remembered her bright, sparkling eyes when she talked about her favorite games and movies.
He remembered her sweet, genuine laughter. He wanted to write something for her. He couldn't let people-and especially Emma-be deprived of the simple, grand, sweeping joys of a true, epic adventure.
He made his decision.
He was going to bring Middle-Earth to this world.
He mapped out the canonical chronology in his head.
First was The Silmarillion, the creation myth and First Age history, but that was too dense and biblical to start with.
Then came the Third Age.
He had to start where the magic first truly bloomed.
Michael placed his hands over the keyboard. A big, triumphant smile spread across his face.
"The Hobbit," he whispered to himself.
Instantly, the familiar, glowing blue hologram of the System flared to life in front of his eyes, downloading the complete, flawless text of J.R.R. Tolkien's masterpiece into his mind.
But, miles away, the atmosphere was entirely devoid of magic.