I believe some of you may be experiencing a sense of déjà vu. Don't worry—this is not a declaration of a rewrite.
Initially, I was afraid to admit it, but now I feel I must: I believe I've wasted some of the potential this story held.
To be honest, I didn't think much of it at first. But then I came across a comment by "Robi_Kenobi99"—thank you, by the way, for saying it out loud—that the last 60 chapters feel like filler. That comment struck a chord.
I'm not upset about being called out for filler content; rather, it made me realize something important. Thankfully, I think I've figured it out.
Yesterday, I went on a short trip—about 100 km away from my desk. And no, I'm not speaking metaphorically. I actually went that far, perhaps hoping to enjoy nature and take a break.
But I wasn't enjoying it.
Every moment, every scene I passed, I couldn't stop thinking about how it could inspire my writing. That's when it hit me: I've been pouring so much effort into writing deep and complex philosophies—but in doing so, I may have wasted their potential.
The philosophies of Confucianism, Taoism, and even extraterrestrial thought can each stand as compelling works of fiction on their own. But I integrated them too heavily, too deeply into the story.
Why? I think it stems from a long-standing tendency of mine—integration.
Since childhood, I've always enjoyed connecting concepts, making sense of different ideas, and presenting them in a way that others can understand. The more difficult the topic, the more fun I had breaking it down.
Yes, I was writing for fun—but in the process, I may have ended up making a mockery of the very philosophies I admire. Across nearly 60 chapters, I tried to articulate the core values of three major systems of thought. Perhaps too much, too fast.
I always liked the saying: "If you cannot articulate something simply, you don't truly understand it."
But there's one philosophy I completely forgot—one that, in hindsight, should have been at the center of everything: the philosophy of life's wishes.
Yes, I've written about wishes. I've crafted beautiful metaphors, dressed them in elegant prose, and wrapped them in wisdom. But the truth is—I've been a fool.
I wished for greatness. I still do. There's no shame in that. But in all my striving, I forgot something essential: the sovereignty of writing itself.
I was so focused on what my stories could achieve that I failed to honor what they were trying to be. And that disconnect… it all began with my wishes.
I've scribbled like a madman, bounced between platforms—Designer, stock image sites, AI tools—trying to pull fragments of my mind into picturous reality by generating pictures even.
I've used Grammarly, coded my own editing assistant using a fine-tuned API key, and done everything I could to shape the story just right. Context: Yes, I am an engineering student.
And yet, in the midst of all that ambition, I forgot to listen.
I now realize I've been caught in a treacherous cycle—the cycle of glorious wishes.
Each wish, no matter how noble, made me anxious about my work. That anxiety drove me to write deeper, then deeper still—until I found myself sinking into endless layers of philosophy.
And once I reached the bottom, another wish would arise: "Add more. Make it greater. Make it profound."
It became a vicious circle. Thoughts flooded in, ideas integrated, themes multiplied—Taoism, Confucianism, cosmic philosophy—and along with them came anger, greed, desire, and above all, worry.
The more I worried, the more stubborn I became. The more stubborn I became, the more I tried to out-write my doubt. I wasn't writing as a person anymore—I was writing as a machine chasing impact and perfection.
And now I see: impact was never the point. It was never the chase. It was always perfection, dressed in different names.
Yes, I wanted to write a novel. But out of fear that it wouldn't succeed, I tried to gather attention first—to get fans. And if I kept on writing in that mindset, I fear I would have become a machine forever.
That's why I've decided: it's time to change the script.
I now believe I've been glorifying the lessons instead of the characters. That's where I went wrong. From now on, I want the characters to become the living crescendo of those lessons, not mere vessels for them.
And in doing so, I've finally found a way to write Da Lain.
He doesn't need to be mangled by the plot. He doesn't need to be forced into the spotlight. He can simply exist—as a seasoning to the dish, or perhaps even a side dish, but not the main dish itself.
I've also come to see that I've perhaps disrespected the heart of WUWA. Rather than sprinkling creative thoughts into that world, I may have tried to override it. That was not my intention—but it's what happened.
So here's my decision:
I will no longer treat this as an original novel. I will write it as a fanfiction. Not to dim its meaning, but to honor the source and free myself from the pressure of making it stand as something it never needed to be.
Funny enough, I travelled a total of 200 km just to sit down and write this. But they are worth while the pain. And in doing so, I've found peace.
From the next chapter (might release today) onward—the true beginning—Da Lain will begin to fade from the main dish, and become more like a sprinkle of seasoning or a side dish to be enjoyed with the main one. He will simply be part of the story, as he should be.
Thank you for reading.
—HangingMan