When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in a palace anymore, but in an endless "archive". Towering shelves stretched into infinity, filled with ancient leather books, but the words on their pages moved like insects.
[System message: You have exited the permitted zone.]
[Current level: 1 | Status: "Glitch".]
I wasn't alone. Someone sat on an old wooden chair in the center. He wore modern clothes—jeans and a white shirt—which infuriated me. How could someone in contemporary clothes exist in a medieval fantasy world?
"You're late for your death, aren't you?" the man said without looking at me, closing a massive book in his hands.
I froze. "Who are you? Are you... the author of this novel?"
The man laughed lifelessly. "The author? No, I'm just a 'Glitch Fixer'. My job is ensuring stories follow the script. But you... you're a 'glitch'. You entered here with a timing error, and now the original story's unraveling because you altered the hero's path in chapter 1."
"I did nothing!" I shouted. "I was just trying to survive!"
The man stood, his face morphing like puzzle pieces rearranging. "Survival is the root of all errors. Now, readers in the real world are noticing this glitch. Look."
He pointed to the air, and a giant screen displayed real readers' comments on my novel:
"Why didn't the side character die in chapter 1? The story's getting boring!"
"Where's the continuation? This author screwed up the plot!"
"I'm dropping this, it doesn't make sense anymore."
A chill ran through me. Is my life now hostage to readers' satisfaction? Am I just consumable content?
"What do you want from me?" I asked softly.
The fixer leaned in, whispering a dark secret: "The story can't end like this. You need to go back and let the hero kill you in a way that 'fixes' the plot. Otherwise, I'll erase this world... and you with it."