Chapter 1: If This Is a Loser's Life, Then I'll Rewrite It
I slammed my phone onto the bed.
Hard.
So hard that for a second, I thought I'd cracked the screen.
"…Are you fucking serious?"
The room was silent except for my heavy breathing and the low hum of the ceiling fan. Midnight light from the streetlamp outside leaked through the curtains, casting a dull orange glow over my messy bedroom. Empty snack wrappers. A half-finished energy drink. My phone buzzing faintly from notifications I was trying very hard to ignore.
On the screen—still glowing mockingly—was the final chapter of the novel I had just finished reading.
Completed.
That single word felt like a personal insult.
I stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, replaying the ending again and again in my head like a cursed loop I couldn't escape.
The protagonist stood victorious, stronger than ever, praised by everyone. The villains were defeated. The world was saved.
And yet…
Evelyn cried.
The childhood friend.
The girl who stayed with him from the very beginning. The one who cooked for him, trained with him, worried about him, believed in him when he was weak, and supported him when he had nothing.
She stood alone at the edge of the celebration.
Smiling.
Crying.
Unchosen.
Ununderstood.
Unloved.
All because the protagonist was a dense idiot.
I sat up abruptly, grabbing my phone again, fingers trembling—not with sadness, but pure, boiling rage.
"This… this is trash."
I scrolled back through earlier chapters. Scene after scene replayed in my mind.
Confession hints ignored.
Blushing faces misunderstood.
Clear romantic tension brushed off with lines like "She's just being nice" or "We're just friends."
Every female lead—friend-zoned.
Every emotion—wasted.
Every reader—blue-balled.
And the worst part?
The protagonist wasn't even trying to be cruel.
He was just stupid.
Dense to the point of insanity.
"Who the hell writes a main character like this?" I muttered.
My thumb hovered over the comment section.
Then I snapped.
I started typing.
Fast.
Hard.
No filter.
---
[Comment by User: NightReader_Zero]
This has to be the most frustrating ending I've ever read.
Your MC is so dense it's actually painful. Every female lead got friend-zoned like it was a competition.
Especially the Evelyn—are you serious? She was literally crying at the end and he STILL didn't understand her feelings.
Do you even know how human emotions work? Or are you just writing self-insert garbage?
Honestly, this feels like it was written by a fucking virgin who's never talked to a woman.
You ruined your own story and wasted the readers' time.
Fucking loser.
---
I hit post.
For a moment, I felt… relieved.
Like I'd finally punched something that deserved it.
I tossed my phone aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling again. My heart was still racing, but the anger slowly cooled, replaced by something heavier.
Disappointment.
I had invested hours into that novel. Days. I stayed up late reading it. I defended it in comments when others complained.
And this was how it ended.
"…What a waste," I muttered.
My phone buzzed.
Once.
I ignored it.
Then again.
And again.
Annoyed, I grabbed it, expecting random notifications or replies from other readers.
But what I saw made my blood run cold.
---
[Reply from Author: ???]
So you think I'm a loser?
---
My brows furrowed.
"…Huh?"
The username wasn't the author's usual name.
No profile picture.
No stats.
Just three question marks.
Before I could reply, another message appeared.
---
You think writing is easy? You think emotions are simple? You think you could do better?
---
My grip tightened.
"Is this guy actually offended?" I scoffed.
I typed back.
---
[NightReader_Zero]:
If you can't handle criticism, don't publish. That ending was trash.
---
The reply came instantly.
---
Then let me give you a taste of being a loser.
---
The screen went black.
At first, I thought my phone had shut down.
Then the room went dark.
The fan stopped.
The streetlight vanished.
Sound disappeared.
"…What the—?"
A pressure wrapped around my chest.
Not pain.
Weight.
Like gravity itself had doubled.
I tried to sit up.
Couldn't move.
My vision blurred, colors smearing into darkness.
The last thing I heard was a faint voice—calm, cold, amused.
"Let's see how well you survive my story."
---
I woke up choking.
Air burned my lungs as I gasped, coughing violently. My body curled instinctively, fingers digging into something soft—fabric.
Real fabric.
"Cough—! Hack—!"
I rolled onto my side, chest heaving.
"…Where…?"
My voice came out strange.
Younger.
Hoarse.
I froze.
That wasn't my voice.
Heart pounding, I pushed myself up and looked around.
A massive room greeted me.
High ceiling.
Stone walls.
Heavy velvet curtains.
A chandelier made of crystal and gold hung above, glowing softly with mana lamps.
Mana lamps?
My breath hitched.
"No… no, no, no…"
I scrambled out of bed—or rather, a massive canopy bed—and nearly tripped over my own feet. I stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in gold.
And screamed.
The face staring back at me wasn't mine.
Soft features.
Pale skin.
Coal black hair.
Blue eyes filled with shock and terror.
A boy.
No—a child.
Maybe twelve or thirteen years old.
Wearing expensive silk pajamas.
"N-No way…"
I touched my face.
The reflection copied me perfectly.
"…This is a dream."
I pinched my arm.
Hard.
Pain exploded.
I hissed.
"…Not a dream."
My legs gave out.
I collapsed onto the carpet, mind racing.
The room.
The body.
The voice.
The author's words.
A single horrifying realization crashed into me.
"…I transmigrated."
But not just anywhere.
Memory flooded in like a dam breaking.
A noble household.
A powerful duke.
A prestigious lineage.
And a name that made my stomach drop.
"…Calix Emberheart ."
I whispered it.
The Duke's son.
The useless one.
The laughingstock.
The character everyone mocked.
The character with no talent, no magic affinity, no sword skill. No motivation just one step away from committing suicide..A simp for any Girl who gave him little bit attention
The one fated to be sidelined, humiliated, and eventually discarded by the story.
The worst character in the novel.
My chest tightened.
"No… you've got to be kidding me…"
Out of all characters.
Out of all roles.
He made me this guy?
I remembered every scene.
Calix being scolded by his father.
Ignored by servants.
Looked down on by nobles.
Used as a contrast to show how amazing the real protagonist was.
A stepping stone.
A joke.
"…So this is what you meant," I muttered bitterly.
The author's voice echoed in my mind.
"Let me give you a taste of being a loser."
I clenched my fists.
Shaking.
Anger surged—but beneath it was something deeper.
Fear.
This wasn't a game.
This was my life now.
And if the story followed the original plot…
Calix Emberheart was doomed.
I slowly stood up, staring at my reflection again.
The useless duke's son stared back.
But my eyes hardened.
"…Fine."
I don't fucking care of this was or will be a loser's life…
I just want Evelyn to be a happy ending in the arms of the guy she loves
So Mr . Protagonist Kyle Garfield
I will steal all the leads for myself by hook or crook
All Leads deserve their happiness
No more crying heroines left behind.
I didn't care what fate said.
I didn't care what the author planned.
I took a deep breath.
"This time," I whispered, "I'll do it right."
And somewhere, far beyond this world—
I felt someone is laughing at me .
Damn you Author