The cursor blinked mockingly at me from the screen.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My fingers moved across the keyboard with mechanical precision, muscle memory taking over where inspiration had long since abandoned me. Another chapter. Another deadline. Another day of barely scraping by in this miserable existence I'd somehow convinced myself was a career.
Web novel author. That's what I called myself these days. Not that the title meant much when your bank account was perpetually flirting with zero and your dinner came from whatever convenience store had the best expired food discounts.
But what choice did I have? The "normal" job market had made its decision about me years ago. Not attractive enough for customer service. Not fit enough for physical labor. And my degree in political science? Might as well have been printed on toilet paper for all the good it did me. So here I was, hunched over a laptop in my cramped Seoul apartment, churning out power fantasy slop for ungrateful readers who seemed to take personal pleasure in reminding me how terrible I was at the one thing I could actually do.
New comment on Chapter 147:
*"This is garbage. The protagonist is too OP. No tension. Dropped."*
I stared at the notification, jaw clenching. Then why the hell did you read 147 chapters? I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I never did. Just like I never fought back against anything else in my pathetic life.
The cursor continued its rhythmic blinking. Mocking. Waiting.
I'd always loved stories. That much was true. As a kid, they were my only escape from a reality that seemed determined to crush me. Web novels, light novels, manga—anything that could transport me to a world where heroes had power, where justice actually meant something, where a nobody could become somebody.
My father made sure I understood I was a nobody. Every drunken rage, every bottle thrown against the wall, every time he raised his fist—it all reinforced the same lesson: I was weak. Powerless. Nothing.
And my mother? She just watched. "It's temporary," she'd say, her voice hollow. "It'll stop eventually."
It never stopped.
Books became my fortress. In middle school, while other kids made friends and lived normal lives, I buried myself in fantasy worlds. Protagonists who gained SSS-rank abilities. Heroes summoned to defeat demon kings. Characters who had the strength I'd never possess. The strength to fight back.
I learned to be invisible. Keep my head down. Don't cause problems. I already had enough of those at home—I didn't need more at school.
Then came the day that shattered whatever fragile normalcy I'd managed to construct.
I can still see it. The apartment door swinging open. My mother standing there, hands trembling, covered in red. My father on the floor, the kitchen knife buried deep in his chest, his eyes staring at nothing.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what I was seeing.
The police came. The reporters swarmed. "Mother Stabs Husband to Death in Front of Child" screamed the headlines. And just like that, I went from invisible to infamous.
The bullying at school intensified tenfold. "Murderer's son." "Freak." "Bet he's just like his psycho mom." The adults who should have intervened? They looked the other way. After all, I was already damaged goods.
I pushed through somehow. Studied obsessively, convinced that if I could just get into Seoul National University, everything would change. I'd become someone different. Someone worthy. Someone with power.
I failed the CSAT exam.
The dream died. I ended up at a mediocre university with a scholarship that barely covered tuition, earning a degree that opened exactly zero doors. Political science. What a joke. As if understanding governmental systems would help someone like me navigate a world that had already decided I didn't belong.
Which brought me full circle to this: writing web novels in a shoebox apartment, living on 1,000 won convenience store meals, reading comments from people who hated my work yet somehow kept reading it.
"The Hero is Born is the worst kind of power fantasy. Predictable, shallow, derivative trash."
I slammed the laptop shut so hard I worried I'd cracked the screen.
"Fuck this."
My voice echoed in the empty apartment. Four walls closing in. The weight of every failure pressing down.
The Hero is Born. My magnum opus. My meal ticket. My prison.
The story was simple enough: In the continent of Elysia, humanity thrived until the Demon King emerged, bringing death and destruction. When hope seemed lost, the gods blessed a single human with overwhelming power—the Hero who would save the world. On his deathbed, this Hero prophesied his return: when the Demon King rose again, so too would a new Hero be born.
Enter Alex Clay. A commoner. A nobody. The prophesied Hero reborn.
The novel followed his journey from powerless peasant to world-saving champion. He'd face arrogant young masters, corrupt nobles, and eventually the Demon King himself in an epic final battle.
At least, that was supposed to be the plan.
I'd been stuck on the ending for six weeks now. Six weeks of staring at that blinking cursor, trying to figure out how to conclude this mess while readers demanded daily updates and called my work "slop" in the same breath they used to beg for more chapters.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd created a protagonist who gained ultimate power, who could overcome any obstacle, who never had to feel weak or helpless.
Everything I wasn't.
Everything I'd never be.
My stomach growled, loud enough to jar me from my spiral of self-pity.
"I need to get some fresh air," I muttered, grabbing my apartment keys. "Maybe some food too."
The evening air hit me as I stepped outside. Across the street, I could see the golden arches of McDonald's calling to me like a beacon of greasy salvation. My mouth watered. I was hungry enough to demolish fifty McChickens.
I started crossing the street, already imagining the taste of processed chicken and cheap buns, when I noticed her.
A high school girl, judging by her uniform, walking across the road with her face glued to her phone. Earbuds in, completely oblivious to the world around her. She had that look of pure contentment, probably reading some web novel or chatting with friends.
Completely oblivious to the bus barreling toward her at full speed.
Time seemed to slow. I could see everything with crystal clarity: the bus driver's panicked face as he slammed on the brakes too late. The girl's peaceful expression. The impossible distance between them rapidly shrinking.
She was going to die.
My body moved before my brain could catch up.
"HEY! WATCH OUT!"
She didn't hear me. Of course she didn't. The earbuds blocked out everything.
I was running. Legs pumping. Heart hammering. For the first time in my miserable life, I wasn't thinking about consequences or self-preservation or the weight of my failures.
I just moved.
My hands connected with her shoulders, shoving her forward with every ounce of strength I possessed. She tumbled to the pavement, safe.
Then the bus hit me.
The impact was beyond pain. Beyond description. My body became a ragdoll, physics taking over, bones shattering, organs rupturing. I was airborne for what felt like an eternity, then the asphalt rose up to meet me with brutal finality.
The world faded to black.
My last coherent thought was almost funny: At least I finally did something that mattered.
-----
Shing. Shing. Shing.
The sound of metal scraping against stone pulled me from the void.
I became aware of sensations slowly, like emerging from deep water. Warmth. Softness beneath me. The faint smell of lavender and old wood.
Am I dead?
The question seemed absurd the moment I thought it. Dead people didn't think, did they? Unless there was an afterlife. Or unless this was some dying hallucination, my oxygen-starved brain's last desperate fiction.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me definitely wasn't a hospital. No fluorescent lights, no sterile white tiles. Instead, I saw ornate molding, painted frescos, the kind of craftsmanship you'd find in a period drama or historical mansion.
I sat up, shocked that my body responded without protest. No pain. No injuries. Nothing broken or bleeding. I should have been a mangled corpse, but I felt… fine. Better than fine, actually. Stronger somehow.
The room around me was absurdly luxurious. A four-poster bed with silk sheets. Mahogany furniture that looked like it cost more than my entire apartment building. Paintings in gilded frames. A massive wardrobe carved with intricate designs. Even the walls were covered in expensive-looking tapestries.
This wasn't a hospital. This was the bedroom of someone wealthy. Aristocratic, even.
Where the hell am I?
I stood on unsteady legs and began exploring. Everything felt surreal, dreamlike. My footsteps were silent on the plush carpet. The furniture was cool to the touch, solid, undeniably real.
Then I saw the mirror.
At first, I just glanced at it in passing. But something in my peripheral vision made me stop. Turn back. Approach slowly.
The reflection staring back at me wasn't mine.
"What the fuck…"
The words came out in a voice that was mine but also… different. Younger. Smoother.
The person in the mirror looked about sixteen or seventeen. Pure black hair fell past his shoulders in a way I'd never worn mine. Sharp, aristocratic features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose. And his eyes… my eyes… were a striking light blue, almost luminescent in the dim room.
He was handsome in a way I'd never been. The kind of face that belonged in a historical drama or fashion magazine.
But it was the eyes that held me frozen. They were my eyes. I could see my consciousness behind them, my awareness staring back at myself from this stranger's face.
The pieces started clicking into place with terrifying clarity.
I'd been hit by a bus. Should have died. Instead, I woke up in a luxurious bedroom in a body that wasn't mine.
This was… this was like…
My heart started hammering as the full realization hit.
Isekai. Transmigration. Reincarnation. Whatever you wanted to call it—the scenario I'd written about hundreds of times, had read thousands of times in other people's stories.
I'd been reincarnated into another world.
But which world?
My mind raced through possibilities. A game I'd played? No, I barely had time for games. An anime? I hadn't watched any recently. Another author's novel? But which one?
The luxurious room. The aristocratic setting. The vaguely European fantasy aesthetic…
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK!"
I punched the wall next to the mirror, leaving a surprising dent in the plaster. My knuckles should have hurt but didn't.
I wasn't in just any world.
I was in my world.
The Hero is Born.
The shitty power fantasy I'd been writing. The derivative, predictable, poorly-plotted mess that readers called "slop." The world I'd created as pure escapism, never considering the actual implications of living in it.
A world where commoners were treated like dirt. Where corrupt nobles ruled with impunity. Where monsters and demons posed constant threats. Where political intrigue ended in assassination. Where the strong trampled the weak at every opportunity.
A world I knew, intimately, was filled with suffering and death.
And I had no idea who I was in it.
But then again… I paused, forcing my racing thoughts to slow. This wasn't necessarily bad, was it?
Yes, this world was dangerous. But I created it. I knew its secrets, its power systems, its future events. I knew where the hidden treasures were, which characters would become important, how major conflicts would resolve.
Information was power. And I had more information than anyone else in this entire world.
Plus, judging by this room, I'd been reincarnated into wealth. That was another form of power. Money could buy equipment, training, influence. In my previous life, I'd had nothing. Here, I was starting from a position of privilege.
And this body… I flexed my hand, examining the unblemished skin, feeling the lean muscle beneath. This was a young body. Healthy. Strong. I had time to grow stronger.
A smile tugged at my lips, growing wider.
"This is a world I created," I said aloud, testing how the words sounded.
For the first time in either of my lives, I felt something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Hope.
And beneath it, something darker. Something hungry.
Power. Real power. The kind I'd always fantasized about but never possessed.
In my old world, I was nobody. Worse than nobody—I was a victim, a failure, a cautionary tale.
But here?
Here, I could be anything I wanted.
The smile on my face turned into something sharper. More dangerous.
I had been given a second chance. And this time, I wasn't going to waste it being weak.