Kill The Author

Have you ever felt like you were just... following a path?

Not walking it. Not choosing it. Just blindly, numbingly, walking it—because there was nothing else.

That's what my life has felt like.

Ever since I woke up in this twisted, game-like world, I've been doing what the glowing blue screen tells me to do. Wake up. Train. Fight monsters. Level up. Unlock a new skill. Survive the next nightmare.

It felt normal—at first. Like a dream with rules. But dreams don't repeat themselves. And dreams don't make you watch your mother die over and over again.

They don't rewrite your past when it gets too real.

And I know this is going to sound insane—but I think someone's writing my life.

I don't mean fate or destiny. I mean literally writing. Like my thoughts, my actions, my pain—it's all part of a story someone else is telling.

Sometimes I wake up and feel like something was added to my memory. Or that I'm being pushed toward a certain place. A certain choice. Like the path I was on yesterday suddenly has a new ending today.

But no one else notices.

Not the villagers. Not the monsters. Not the voice in my head that calls itself the "System" and chirps out my daily quests like I'm some kind of toy soldier.

No one but me—and Lucius.

He used to be the villain in this story.

The one I was supposed to hate.

But now... I'm not so sure. He told me the world is a cage. That we're characters. That all of this—the suffering, the death, the meaningless battles—is entertainment.

He said there's someone above all of it.

A man with golden eyes and a divine book. A being who created everything just to watch us break.

He calls him the Author.

I used to think Lucius was insane. Now, I'm starting to believe he might be the only one telling the truth.

Because lately, I've been remembering things that shouldn't exist. A life before this one. A world without monsters. A family. A face I can barely recognize in the mirror anymore.

And the worst part?

Sometimes… I hear typing.

Not from a keyboard, not exactly. More like scratching. Like a pen dragging itself across paper in the sky.

My name shows up in places I never carved it. My thoughts echo before I speak them. I feel like a puppet—and someone, somewhere, is holding the strings.

Even the air feels scripted. Like it's waiting for a cue.

But I'm done dancing for them.

Whoever you are—reader, god, writer—I don't care what role you gave me.

This is my story now.

And I'm going to burn your ending to the ground.

Anyways, can't tell I'm recording this before The Great War Against the so-called Author/God.

I don't care if the script says I lose.I don't care if the "Author" scribbled some poetic, tragic finish where I fall to my knees, broken, forgotten. Let him write that version. Let him believe he can shape my fate like ink on parchment.

Because here's what he forgot—characters evolve. Even the background ones. Even the tools.

I've bled too much to be a puppet. Lost too much to stay quiet. And now that I know the truth—that we're all ink trapped in a page—I'll use fire instead of words.

I won't play my part anymore.

I'll rewrite it in ash.

( Read the rest, it follows the event before the war )