"Hard work never betrays you." What a load of crap.
It's one of those quotes plastered everywhere—on motivational posters, gym walls, even my old high school's newsletter. People eat it up, chanting it like a mantra to justify their grind. "Work hard, win big!" Sure, some swear by it, and yeah, you've got movies like The Pursuit of Happyness—a broke dad claws his way to millions through sheer grit. Touching story. But then you've got the other side: kids with trust funds, silver spoons, or dumb luck. Want a mansion? "Hey, Dad, hook me up." New car? "Yo, Pops, that sports model's calling my name." And don't get me started on lottery winners. "Congrats, here's 50 million!" Effort? Pfft. Where's the effort in a random ticket?
Me? I'm with the skeptics. "Hard work never betrays you" is straight-up nonsense. Grinding gets you further than slacking, but it's not the golden ticket. The real key? Talent. Picture a composer—some grind for years, scribbling notes, but they'll never match a prodigy who hears symphonies in their head. Blood, sweat, tears? Doesn't matter. Talent's the wall you can't scale without a gift.
Why am I so salty? I was one of those idiots who bought the effort hype. At sixteen, my world collapsed. A drunk driver smashed into my parents' car, leaving me an orphan. No siblings, no grandparents—just me, crying myself to sleep, wondering why life screwed me over. Their savings got me through high school, so I studied like my life depended on it. Spoiler: it did. I burned through textbooks, skipped meals, pulled all-nighters, dreaming of a scholarship to Barrowcliff University, the only decent college nearby. No family, no assets—banks laughed at my loan applications. A scholarship was my only shot.
Barrowcliff University offered one scholarship a year for kids like me—poor, desperate, no connections. Teachers hyped me up: "Joren, you're smart, you've got this!" I ditched friends, ignored prom, studied until my eyes burned. I hit the top 1% in national exams, acing every test. But the scholarship? Went to a rich kid ranked lower than me. His dad, some big-shot donor, pulled strings like it was nothing. The guy didn't need the money—his family could've bought the campus. Meanwhile, I was eating instant noodles, rationing my last bucks.
I tried other schools, but they were out of state, and I couldn't afford the move. Rent, travel, food—impossible. By eighteen, my savings were gone. I dropped out, grabbed part-time jobs—cashier, delivery, anything that paid. Depression hit hard. I drowned it in junk food, manga, web novels, piling on pounds until standing ten minutes left me gasping. My life was eat, sleep, work, repeat, no light at the end.
Then I found writing. Web novels, my escape from a garbage reality. My first novel, Dawn of the Scribe, was a hit. An orphan kid in a fantasy world rises to master mage—classic underdog tale. 3.6 stars, 14 million views, 1.5 million words. Money rolled in, enough to ditch the jobs. For a moment, I thought I'd cracked it. Effort paid off, right?
Wrong. The high faded. My next novels tanked. Readers wanted fan service, harem crap I hated writing. As a thirty-two-year-old virgin, steamy scenes were torture. I scoured the internet for "inspiration," but it killed my passion. I was churning out what readers demanded, not what I loved. My latest, Veil of Vaeloria, was my shot at something fresh—a modern-fantasy, weak-to-strong story after two cataclysms. One continent, humanity squeezed into cliffside cities like Vaeloria, fighting Veilspawn with Crystal Weaves, rune-based magic. The protagonist, Sira Kade, was a badass, but readers called her a Mary Sue, whining about plot holes and pacing. Comments tore me apart:
CoolDude99: "Author, your writing's gone downhill." WeebLord: "Sira's OP as hell. Dropped." HeroHater67: "Where's the ecchi, bro?" WhyJoren: "This novel's a mess. Fix your plot holes!"
Bang! I slammed my laptop, rage boiling. "What do you mean my writing's gone downhill?" I'd poured my frustration into Veil, trying to spark the fire I'd lost. My health didn't help—high blood pressure, asthma, depression, a walking pharmacy. Another outburst, chest tightening, pain stabbing like a knife. I stumbled to my desk, fumbling for meds. "Gotta… get the pills…"
The room spun. Vision blurred, breaths short. "This… how my shitty life ends?" Darkness swallowed me.
~~
Chirp chirp chirp chirp.
Birds woke me, their chirps loud. Sunlight hit my face, pulling me from a haze. I was on a thin mattress, not my sagging couch. The room was wrong—stone walls, crystal lanterns glowing like stars, not my apartment's peeling paint and flickering bulb. My body felt off—too light, awkward, like I'd been stuffed into a game avatar.
I rubbed my eyes, blinking hard. "Am I… dead?" No hospital, no monitors. Just a small room: clean bed, old wooden desk, wardrobe, bathroom. A rune-etched tablet glowed on the desk. I stumbled over, legs shaky, and tapped it. A holographic screen flared, showing a 3D figure: a scrawny kid, messy brown hair, one red eye and one purple eye gleaming in a forgettable face. I blinked, touching my cheek—pale skin, way too pale. This wasn't my chubby Earth body. It felt wrong, like a laggy game avatar, but those weird eyes stared back, mine now. The stats hit like a punch:
User ID: Joren Vale
Rank: E
Strength: E
Agility: E
Stamina: E
Intelligence: E
Mana Capacity: E
Luck: D
Charm: E-
Profession: Rune Magician, lvl. 1
Academy: Emberhold
Rank in Year: 2100/2100
User ID: Joren Vale," I read, then froze. Joren? My name? And did that just say Emberhold?! Isn't that the academy I wrote for Veil of Vaeloria? Wait… does that mean I'm stuck in my own damn novel as a mob character with my own name? Some cosmic joke? Or did I write more of myself into this world than I thought? My eyes flicked down to the holographic stats, and my stomach sank. "E-rank across the board, except Luck—thanks for the optimism," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "And Charm E-minus? Universe, you're really out to get me."
From what I could remember, the ranks ran from E at the bottom to SS at the top, where legends like the Council's Twin Sparks ruled. E-ranks were cannon fodder, their runes weak, their bodies frail. Climbing to D or C meant grueling training or rare Weave crystals, which the High Council hoarded to keep punks like me down. But I knew a cheat: the Veil Shard, hidden in Dusk Ridge's caves, could shatter my E-rank cap, letting me train past human limits. Sira never got it—her rival did, in a throwaway scene. If I nabbed it, I could hit D-rank, maybe higher, and rewrite my fate.
I sat on the bed, needing a moment to wrap my head around everything. Relax. Breathe. Think. Wait—didn't I make a death flag for this mob character in Chapter 23? I should be okay… right? I know the system, I know this world.
Crystal Weaves powered everything—runes etched into weapons, trams, even spires, all fueled by mana and crystals. As a Rune Magician, I could scratch out spells, but my E-rank mana was pathetic. The Shard would change that, giving me a shot at real power without bowing to the Council—or making shady Veilspawn pacts like the rogue Scribes.
I hated my old life—broke, alone, raging at comments. A second chance here? Hell yeah. But as Joren Vale, a nobody with a death flag in Chapter 23? That sucked. Sira got the spotlight, the cheat items. Me? Just a ticking clock. No way I'd play hero—too much danger, too many eyes. Sira could keep her drama. I'd cheat to survive.
~~
I tested my spark, scratching an E-rank rune on the desk with a rune pen. A faint glow flickered, then fizzled—pathetic, but proof I was a Rune Magician, barely able to channel sparks. My hands shook, this body weak. The dorm door slid open, two students barging in—a girl with glowing arm-runes, a guy with a crystal-hilted sword. Who the hell are they? I thought, heart spiking. "Joren, still alive?" the girl sneered. "Thought you'd flunked out."
"Got places to be," I muttered, shoving past. The guy laughed. "E-rank trash, running to die?"
Screw you, I thought, heart pounding. Barging into my room and calling me trash? No manners. I'd remember their faces and deal with them when I'm stronger. Their runes and that sword screamed higher rank—probably B or C, way above my pathetic E. Emberhold was a shark tank, and kids like them owned it. The halls buzzed with students, their rune sparks flashing, the air thick with tension. I'd written the city's skyline, with crystal-lit spires looming over a shadow-filled rift. Seeing it now gave me chills.
I pushed through the crowded halls, desperate to escape Emberhold's chaos. I tapped the rune-etched tablet again, hoping for a clue. A map flickered on, glowing with the city's layout—spires, cliffs, and a tram station marked a mile from Emberhold. I'd written this place, but seeing it was a whole different beast. My legs wobbled, this scrawny E-rank body barely able to keep up as I slipped past the academy gates, flashing my ID to the guard. A mile sounded easy, but the streets were a maze—winding, packed with vendors shouting, rune-lit carts nearly knocking me over. The air hit me, heavy and weird—an alien sensation I couldn't name, like breathing something alive. It weighed on my lungs, nothing like Earth's air. My head spun, this city nothing like the one I'd written.
The tram station rose before me, grander than anything I'd written. Crystal arches soared, their Weave glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Crowded platforms buzzed with travelers shouting over humming cables, a chaotic beauty I hadn't captured on paper. A faint, eerie hum from the rift sent a chill through me, a subtle reminder of Veilspawn lurking beyond the city's edge. Council guards patrolled, their crystal blades gleaming, eyes sharp for any threat. My ID's seal glowed, letting me board as a student. An air-tram to Dusk Ridge was leaving soon. I'd dreamed up this place, but standing here, lungs heavy with that weird air, it felt way too real. The stone buildings loomed, and Sira's spotlight would draw every beast out there. I'd steal the Veil Shard, rewrite my arc, and dodge that death flag.
I boarded, sinking into a seat, heart hammering. The tram's crystal shell gleamed, promising a 700 km/h ride. I leaned back, forcing my breaths to slow. My old life—noodles, trolls, a flickering laptop—was gone. If I was stuck here, I'd use what I knew. The Veil Shard in Dusk Ridge's caves could break my E-rank limits. I'd grab it, stay alive, and rewrite my fate. Time to play my game, and I'd cheat to win.