""This used to be peak... now it's barely mid."
"He fell off harder than my grades."
"How do you butcher your own story this bad? Actually impressive."
"Skip. Don't waste your time. Author gave up—so should you."
"He should just rewrite the whole thing at this point lol."
The screen dimmed slightly as the next
comment loaded. Then another. Then another.
Solas stared blankly at the flood of criticism, eyes slightly glazed over, head resting in one hand while his fingers hovered above the keyboard. A plate of untouched instant noodles sat on the desk, soup long congealed.
His apartment was dark except for the pale light of the monitor, casting shadows under his eyes that had long since stopped being poetic and were now just... tired.
He didn't even flinch at the words. He'd seen them all before. He used to respond to them.
He used to care.
Not anymore.
With a quiet sigh, he reached over and cracked open an energy drink. The hiss of carbonation filled the air—louder than it should've been in the silence—and he leaned back in his chair, the cracked leather creaking underneath him like it was groaning with the weight of failure.
"Three more chapters," he muttered to himself. "Just three."
Three more and Ashes of Ardentia would be done.
His "magnum opus."
The one that got him viral.
The one that ruined him.
He dragged the cursor across the screen, skimming through his outline. It wasn't even the version he wanted to write. It hadn't been for months.
The real plot—the version he once dreamed about—was buried under edits, reader polls, and crowd-pleasing twists he didn't believe in.
The war arc was cut short. The villain he loved became a comic relief side gag. The protagonist? A cardboard cutout of what the fans wanted last year.
They wanted wish fulfillment. He gave them that.
They wanted romance. He added it—badly.
They wanted more chapters. He wrote until he hated the thing.
Now they hated it too.
The irony would've been funny if it didn't hurt so much.
He stared at the latest comment again:
"He should just rewrite the whole thing at this point lol."
A dry chuckle escaped his throat before he even realized. It was hollow.
"Rewrite it, huh...?" he whispered, leaning back in the chair, eyes half-lidded. "Where the hell would I even start?"
His eyes drifted shut. He hadn't slept properly in three days.
Just a minute. Just a breather. Then he'd knock out one more chapter.
Just...
The scent was the first thing that hit him.
It wasn't the musty, ramen-soaked air of his apartment, or the metallic tang of energy drinks and LED glare. No. It was something cleaner, richer—sun-warmed stone, distant smoke, the earthy smell of old wood and heat.
Solas blinked.
A high ceiling arched above him. A wooden ceiling, dark oak, carved with ornamental vines and tiny emblems of houses and sigils he half-remembered writing four years ago.
He sat up, slowly, confusion settling like a cold stone in his chest. His arms felt... wrong. Lighter. Thinner. No soreness in his wrists. No desk. No chair. No computer.
The mirror caught his eye before anything else. It was nailed to the wall across from the bed. Polished silver. His reflection stared back at him—
And it wasn't his face.
The person in the mirror was younger, sharper-jawed, darker-haired, with pale skin and deep-set, serious eyes that didn't belong to him.
"What the...?" he breathed, standing on instinct and stumbling slightly. He padded barefoot to the mirror and stared harder. That was not a face he recognized from real life.
But it was a face he'd seen before.
No.
No way.
He punched his cheek. Hard. Pain bloomed.
Not a dream.
He rushed to the window, tugging the thick drapes aside with trembling fingers—and the sunlight practically slapped him across the face.
Beyond the glass stretched a city carved from stone and glasssteel, spiraling spires gleaming in the light of two suns. Banners fluttered on parapets. Airships drifted lazily in the clouds. Far below, narrow stone streets bustled with activity—knights in lined armor, nobles in cloaks, street vendors selling enchanted trinkets and fried bread.
But none of that registered.
His eyes locked on a single statue at the city square's center.
The Hero of Light.
Solas had written that statue into existence seven volumes ago. The man it depicted had been the protagonist—the golden boy, the
Chosen, the one who eventually destroyed the Shadow Guild in a glorious battle atop the ruined spires of the Eastern Reach.
Solas knew that statue. He'd made it. Line by line.
"This is... Ardentia," he said aloud, voice cracking.
His heart pounded so hard it felt like a drum behind his ribs. His breathing quickened.
Adrenaline kicked in like a delayed hit.
"I'm in the story."
He spun back to the mirror. His mind was racing, snapping through old outlines, character sheets, random throwaway arcs.
Who was this?
He narrowed his eyes at his reflection. It wasn't a noble. No crest. No official garb. Cheap boots. Belt with a curved dagger. Rough traveling cloak. There was a mark on the shoulder—two interlocking rings stitched in black thread.
The insignia of the Broken Fang, a low-tier mercenary guild from the southern border.
Wait.
He knew this guy.
Solas staggered back a step, the blood draining from his face.
He'd written him to die in Chapter 23. The character was barely a footnote—one of the mercs assigned to assassinate Prince Kael, the golden-haired heir to the Dawnspire Throne. A job that failed catastrophically.
They were all slaughtered by Kael's royal guardian—Lucien the Shadowblade. A fan-favorite character. That scene was one of his biggest fight chapters. It trended for a week.
This mercenary had been the last to fall.
Tougher than the rest. A bit more competent.
But not important. Just a name on the kill list.
The memory returned in perfect detail. Blood on cobblestones. A last stand in the rain.
One line of dialogue before a blade through the chest.
But... that was the thing. That character—this character—was from Virelle, a border nation, across the ocean. A political enemy of Ardentia.
So why the hell was he waking up here—in the capital city? The heart of the empire?
"What am I doing here?" he muttered.
A knock rattled the door suddenly. Loud. Firm.
He froze.
A voice called through, gruff and unfamiliar:
"You're late. The meeting starts in ten."
Solas didn't move. He stared at the door like it might burst open and devour him.
The voice repeated:
"Hey! You deaf in there?! Move it!"
He didn't answer. He barely breathed.
Only one thought echoed in his head, loud and sharp:
"I didn't write this part."