Transmigrated As An Extra In The Novel I Love And Hate

As countless memories flashed before my eyes, I felt myself slipping away—sinking deeper into a past I had long buried.

The novel drifted into a flashback.

—

A small, cozy kitchen. Warm light flickering. A young boy—me—sat on the kitchen slab, his little legs swinging back and forth. His mother stood beside him, stirring a pot on the stove. The rich aroma of home-cooked food filled the air as she occasionally lifted a spoon to his lips, feeding him in between their conversation.

"Mom, do you think everyone has a purpose?" the boy asked, his voice full of innocent curiosity.

His mother smiled, turning to face him. Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair, her touch warm and comforting.

"Of course, my love," she whispered. "Everyone has a purpose. And one day, you'll find yours."

The boy smiled, content with her words. For him, this moment was perfect. Safe.

But then—

Darkness.

The warmth vanished, replaced by something cold and suffocating.

The scene shifted.

A vast, dimly lit space. A place reeking of iron and blood.

A group of children stood in the center, their bodies frail yet rigid. Their eyes hollow, yet burning with something indescribable. Each one gripped a weapon in their tiny hands.

Among them—me.

Not the innocent, carefree boy from the kitchen. No. This boy—this version of me—stood motionless, his small fingers wrapped tightly around a rusted dagger.

Men stood in the shadows, observing. Whispering.

"The weak will die. The strong will live."

"If they survive, they will become the perfect weapons , weapons of utter destruction"

The scene shifted again.

The boy stood alone now.

Blood dripped from his hands. His clothes were soaked in crimson. Around him lay the bodies of several adults—contorted, lifeless, their faces frozen in expressions of horror. Their bodies bore deep, hideous wounds.

The boy's face remained unseen, hidden beneath strands of blood-matted hair. But his posture spoke volumes.

He had survived.

But at what cost?

Suddenly—

"GET OUT OF IT, ADRIAN!"

A voice echoed—sharp, urgent.

The system.

"GET OUT! WAKE UP!"

I gasped, struggling to break free. My mind fought against the overwhelming tide of memories, but the deeper I resisted, the more I sank.

Then—everything went black.

A void.

An endless abyss.

I stood in the middle of nothing.

No light. No sound. No escape.

And then-silence

The darkness stretched endlessly. A void—silent, consuming.

Then, without warning, a bonfire roared to life.

The sudden glow illuminated the endless abyss, casting flickering shadows across the emptiness. And there, sitting across the fire, was—me.

No. Not me.

Him.

He looked exactly like me—the same face, the same features. But his eyes… they weren't mine. They were pure crimson, burning like molten embers, sharp and unwavering.

I walked toward the fire, my steps cautious but steady. As I sat down, he lifted his gaze, locking eyes with me.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then, he smirked. "Took you long enough."

I frowned. "Who are you?"

His smirk widened. "You already know."

I did. I just didn't want to say it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm you. The part you pretend doesn't exist. The part you buried." His crimson eyes glowed in the firelight. "I'm your darkness."

I scoffed. "Dramatic much?"

He chuckled. "Says the guy having a crisis in his own head."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that?" He tilted his head. "You're the one who dug me up."

I exhaled sharply, trying to keep my emotions in check. "You're not real."

His smile faltered. "Aren't I?"

The fire crackled between us. The air grew heavier.

Then, he spoke again. "You blame me, don't you?"

I stiffened. "For what?"

"For everything." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "For what we became. For surviving."

I clenched my fists. "You think surviving was living?"

He scoffed. "We're here, aren't we?"

"Yeah," I snapped. "We're breathing. But were we really alive?"

His expression darkened.

I pressed on, my voice cold. "We lost Mom."

The moment those words left my lips, something in him snapped.

With a furious snarl, he lunged at me, his fist crashing into my face. The impact sent me sprawling, but I recovered fast, shoving him back.

We fought.

Fists flying. Bodies colliding.

There was no skill in it—no precision. Just raw, unfiltered rage.

Then—he stopped.

His breath was ragged, his body trembling. And then, to my shock, his crimson eyes filled with tears.

"I didn't want that," he choked out. His voice broke. "I never wanted that."

The fire flickered, and suddenly—

A hospital room.

The beeping of machines. The sterile scent of antiseptic.

Mom.

She lay motionless on the hospital bed, a ventilator keeping her alive. Her face was peaceful—too peaceful.

And I stood there. Small. Helpless. Frozen in horror.

The scene shattered.

Back to the fire. Back to the present.

My dark self stared at me, his eyes empty.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Was it… our fault?"

Silence.

Then, slowly, he shook his head.

We sat there, staring at each other, the fire between us crackling softly.

And for the first time, we didn't fight.

For the first time, we just… talked.

About the past. About the pain. About moving forward.

The fire burned on.