I Possessed the Trash Golden Sun

I possessed the Trash Golden Sun.

It was Part 3 of Academy Yuri Princess—the point where the story was barreling headlong toward its ending.

At the time, the protagonist was chasing down the whereabouts of the ten Divine Relics left behind by the God King, the creator of the world.

After asking around, he caught word that one of them had changed hands on the black market in the slums of the Zerta Kingdom—a place where anything could be bought for a price—so he left the Academy behind and set out for Zerta.

The slums of the Zerta Kingdom were lawless territory where crime was a way of life, a place the nation had, for all practical purposes, washed its hands of. Pillage and murder were treated as a matter of course, and heinous atrocities like human trafficking ran rampant.

The righteous heroes punished the criminals as they pursued leads toward their prize, and at last they found their clue.

And then, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠appeared.

"A lowly wench, tearing through my turf without a shred of fear."

Solis Auram. A man with blonde hair and tanned skin—the very picture of a common thug. He carried severed heads strung together on cords, and sweeping his hair back with a bloodstained hand, he flashed a smile that crawled under the skin.

He was the boss of the Abyssal Flame syndicate, which held dominion over the back alleys, and he clashed with the protagonist's party, claiming they had interfered with the business he had so painstakingly built.

The party, on the verge of graduating from the Academy, possessed overwhelming strength, their growth all but complete. Readers naturally assumed the protagonist had the advantage—but contrary to all expectation, Solis went blow for blow with him.

"Not bad. You're worth something. As a special treat, I'll tear you limb from limb and put you on display in my room as part of my collection."

It was a breather episode before the final boss battle, yet one of the precious few chapters where the battle-hardened protagonist genuinely struggled. A mid-boss who absolutely had to fall before the final showdown.

'A minor character and a villain, sure—but his impact alone was absolutely insane.'

By the setting, one of the rare male characters capable of wielding mana. That was about the extent of what I remembered of him.

'I never dreamed I'd end up living as that lunatic.'

Crunch!

I took a big bite out of an apple. Sweet juice flooded my mouth. It never got old no matter when I ate it—though maybe it tasted extra sweet coming right after a workout.

For some reason, a memory surfaced of my mother peeling apples for me after dinner. Since landing a job and moving out, we'd exchanged nothing but the occasional text asking how I was doing.

'I miss you, Mom.'

Are you doing well? Your beloved son is currently living hell in another world.

"Life is fucking shit."

A curse slipped out before I noticed. And then the memory of my first day in this world flashed through my mind.

A person bound hand and foot, ringed by figures wielding surgical instruments. The surgery proceeded—kidneys, lungs, and other valuable organs stripped out in real time. Each time another part was removed, the anguished wails leaking through the bit gag were beyond pitiful.

To a modern person far removed from human trafficking, it was a scene shocking enough to make one faint—yet at the time, I accepted it with astonishing calm.

'So this is what they call a possession perk, huh.'

The life a man named Solis Auram had walked—the road he'd traveled. Upon possessing him, I inherited his experiences and knowledge. Convenient authorial handwaving, justified in a single sentence: the most cliché of clichés.

And I was a transmigrator enjoying the benefits of that very cliché. The moment I took over this body, I was essentially Solis Aurum himself—even if, at heart, I remained nothing but a devoted reader forcibly stuffed into this novel.

'Honestly, becoming this piece of trash is the best of the worst outcomes. What a wretched life I lead.'

A murderous psychopath who tore people apart without a second thought, and a rapist who treated women as onaholes. By any sane standard, an irredeemable scumbag—but even while inwardly disapproving, part of me figured conditions didn't get better than this.

In raw strength, he was an author-certified top-tier powerhouse of this world. His body belonged to a man who, three years from now, would go toe-to-toe with a protagonist so powerful there was no room left to grow—face to face with the final battle.

He wasn't yet at the level of strength depicted in the novel, but even so, the number of people who could overpower him by force could be counted on one hand.

"Well, ain't that just swell. Can't thank you enough."

Thoo!

Out of nowhere a system window had popped up before my eyes, and I spat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at it. Sticky saliva arced through the air, passing clean through the hologram.

"If it were you, would you be thanking the bastard who dumped you into a world like this?"

"Shut it. I couldn't give a damn about your NTR-ending novel!"

Boiling with rage, I flipped the window the middle finger, expressing the absolute maximum of a reader's indignation—aimed squarely at the author who had sent me here.

"You shoved a person into this dumpster-fire worldview without so much as a word?! Me, of all people—a loyal reader who faithfully sent you fan art for three years!"

"If they gross you out that much, hit me back with some of your own."

"You could just produce them yourself and shoot them over."

WHOOOOSH!

All she had done was print words on the system window, yet a violent gust whipped up around the hologram, like an elephant snorting through its trunk. Truly the god of this world. Merely expressing an emotion produced this much presence.

"If that's how you feel, then send me home right now and find someone else."

A week ago, I had dropped into this world, and the author had brought up the system window and confessed that she was the one who had kidnapped me here. She wanted to change the ending of her novel, Academy Yuri Princess—and she had chosen me as the means to do it.

"So you possessed me into a character to hand the story its turning point. Yeah, that's the fifth time I've heard that speech."

According to the author, rewriting her novel's ending required starting over from the beginning. The problem was that even a fresh start meant the same stage, the same cast, writing out the same narrative—which, she claimed, meant the mistakes of the past would inevitably repeat themselves.

As for stuffing me into this world—apparently I had been cast as the wildcard meant to shake up a story doomed to play out the same way.

"Couldn't you have just posted online and found one volunteer? Why shove someone with zero motivation into this place, of all people?"

So she's telling me, in a roundabout way, that I'm a genuine sucker.

If I'd known I'd end up becoming a character in the novel, I never would've touched the damn thing.

"Anyone listening would think I joined your little plan of my own free will."

"Look around, and you can answer that yourself."

A ferocious blaze licked hungrily at the bones of the shack like a starving beast, and the corpses that hadn't even managed to scream burned down to ash beneath the flames. The fire crept across the surrounding trees like red paint bleeding across paper, spreading beyond all control—until at last it was sublimated into a single painting of beautiful destruction.

A work I had crafted, personally, with my own two hands. I had only obtained this body a few days ago, and the reason the author was asking me for a performance evaluation now, at this very moment, was plain enough: it had been a successful field test.

"Why..."

Hm?

"Why on earth would you do something like this!"

A shrill, grating wail drilled into my ears. I turned toward the voice and found a man coughing up mouthfuls of blood. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠A familiar face—well, familiar from Solis's memories, anyway.

"Oh, Maten. Impressive that you're still alive."

I had personally drilled a hole through his stomach with a beam, but apparently that hadn't been enough.

Bloodshot eyes glared at me, brimming with killing intent.

"We were close, you and I. Just days ago we drank together, traded jokes."

"Good times. Your grilling skills were honestly commendable."

"Then why! Why did you do this to me!"

Maten howled with a voice steeped in malice, baring his stomach. At its center gaped a horrific, fist-sized hole. The flesh around it charred black, wisps of white smoke curling upward—a fatal wound that made one wonder how he was even alive.

"You killed me, and the comrades who fought beside me—every last one of them!"

"I sent them along to keep you company. All in one go."

"You burned down our home, the village in the forest!"

"If there's a flaw, it's that the fire spread to the forest."

"Twenty long years I poured into reviving this village—and now, NOW you—!"

His eyes glistened with tears. Within them shone, unmistakably, the betrayal he felt toward a trusted comrade, and the terror of a man who knew his next breath might be his last.

It was pitiful beyond words—so wretched it tugged at the heartstrings. And I, moved despite myself, clapped a hand over my mouth.

"Wow, you absolute bastard. You have zero conscience."

Good god, is that even human?

The sheer shamelessness of it—it was as if Satan's spawn had descended upon the earth. I clicked my tongue.

"The guy who carved people up like sashimi and ate them is putting on a melodrama now that it's finally his turn."

A man whose business was human trafficking and organ sales. A villain who had sickened the slums with drug manufacturing and distribution. That was Maten.

Comrades? Those pieces of garbage who gambled on guessing a pregnant woman's baby's sex by splitting her open—never once had I thought of them as people, let alone comrades.

The village? A bandit stronghold to its very roots, now repurposed as a drug production base—there wasn't a single innocent soul in this place.

And knowing that these people would later grow their power, found the Abyss guild, and eventually stretch their grasp all the way to the Academy—the stage of the original story—uprooting them in advance was simply the right call.

"Maten, put a hand on your chest and take a long, hard look at what you've done. Don't you think dying cleanly here works out best for society, too?"

"You...! What makes you so high and mighty, saying that to me?! After all the filth we committed together, now you play the saint?!"

From Maten's perspective, I suppose it must feel unjust. His closest friend of decades—a tyrant even more vicious than himself—suddenly posturing as a righteous sage come to pass judgment. It would baffle anyone.

"I don't know what change of heart brought this on, but you think any of this erases your sins? Nothing changes!"

"Hmm, I wouldn't be so sure. I'd say everything I did is about to be wiped clean."

"'Wiped clean'? How dare you even say—"

"I mean, there's not a shred of evidence left. I burned the whole lot to nothing."

Solis had been a hopeless piece of human garbage. Hundreds at minimum had died by his hand.

And yet not once had he ever drawn another's suspicion. The Zerta Kingdom's neglect of the slums played its part, but the real reason was his uncanny talent for erasing traces.

The power he wielded—the Sun, which reflected all things—burned the evidence at every scene until not even a pinch of ash remained.

All that was left were the witnesses. Eliminate the comrades who had joined in Solis's crimes, and the perfect crime would be complete.

"Once you're gone, no one in this world will know the name Solis. And that's when the prologue of my new life begins."

It chafed, but I had promised the author I would change this world's ending. To do that, I had to scrub away every stain Solis had left on his life. I would open the curtain on this stage by severing one man's sordid past and beginning a new life.

"So don't get greedy, extra. Time for your exit, right here."

With those words, I raised my hand toward the sky.

Space twisted, and tore. Through the violently churning seams of the boundary, a halo wreathed in pure white light manifested behind my back.

A new sun descended above the shadow-shrouded earth, and radiance laden with a shower of molten gold poured forth, swallowing the entire region around me.

"Kyaaaagh!"

Maten shrieked like a pig at slaughter. His ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠body melted away like ice left beneath a blazing noon sun, and soon he vanished without leaving so much as a speck of dust behind.

"Cleanup complete!"

When the light receded, nothing remained. Not the corpses lined across the ground, not the ruins of the burning shack—not even the faintest stain of blood. As if nothing had ever happened at all.

"Let's go."

"You already know. Why ask what's obvious?"

I had possessed a character in the novel and decided to bend the original story. If you want to redirect a river, you go back to its source.

"I'm enrolling at Purity Academy."

Time to go meet the protagonist in the flesh.