Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Prologue
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# 1
Prologue
'Phew, I guess that's it for today.'
I take my hands off the keyboard.
After saving what I wrote today, I get up from my seat.
It's been seven years already.
That's how many years I've been uploading stories whenever I had free time.
My views are low because I don't follow trends and stick to frustrating, bleak developments, but I like it.
I'm satisfied just with completing the story I want.
Of course, it might be full of self-indulgence.
I've seen a comment like that once.
'If you're gonna do this, just imagine it yourself and jerk off. Why bother uploading?'
Why, though.
Am I just forcing my world on readers?
Why can't readers just accept that stories like this exist?
If you don't like it, don't read it!
...In the end, I couldn't reply to that comment.
'Something edible... let's see.'
It's already 10 p.m.
The perfect time to feel peckish.
I know I shouldn't eat this late if I care about my health, but it's one of my few remaining joys.
I open the door and step into the living room.
There should be some duck I bought on my way home from work yesterday.
The bar snacks at the mart these days are pretty good value for money.
Rustle.
At that moment, the sound of turning pages tickled my ears.
As I turn my head, thinking it's been a while since I last held a physical book, I see someone on the sofa.
A man.
Dressed in dandy clothes with a hat, sitting upright.
He's holding a book in one hand, completely absorbed in reading.
A tear glistening at the corner of his eye—he must be reading something sad.
I stare at him in a daze.
'Wait a second.'
A man reading on the sofa in my one-person apartment?
I try to shout in shock.
But before I can, the man turns the last page, closes the book, and looks up at me.
"You...!"
"Good read."
I'm speechless.
Not because the intruder is so brazen.
It's because his face, revealed as our eyes meet, is strikingly unique yet eerily familiar.
And that single tear rolling from his eye looks so heartbreaking that my chest aches.
The man stands up from the sofa.
He walks slowly toward me, places his right hand on his chest, bows politely, and greets me.
"It's an honor to meet you."
Where do I know him from?
I know this man.
That gut feeling rings loudly in my head.
His black, assertive hair slicked back firmly with product, exposing his forehead.
A large earring in his left ear engraved with unknown characters.
A nose that's too prominent, deep-set eyes, and a stubborn mouth line—not typical for a pure East Asian.
Even though I've never left Korea my whole life and this appearance isn't something I'd know, it feels familiar.
"Who are you?"
"You don't recognize me? That's disappointing."
The hurt expression on his face as he says he's disappointed almost makes me apologize without thinking.
But this guy's an intruder no matter what!
I grit my teeth and steel myself.
"This is my place, I live alone. Don't you know breaking and entering is a crime? I locked the door—how did you get in?"
"Breaking and entering, huh. Haha, that's a pretty amusing charge."
The man chuckles softly, as if it's funny.
But I can't laugh.
Am I dreaming or something?
An intense sense of unreality creeps over me.
Regardless, the man remains composed.
He glances around the room leisurely before handing me the book he was holding.
"This..., what is this?"
"It's yours."
"There's a physical copy of this?"
I'm shocked.
The cover has the 'title' of the story I've been writing all this time.
I flip through the pages hurriedly, and the contents match exactly.
This is definitely my writing.
I once thought about printing a few copies for myself since it's my own work, but I never did.
So is this guy...
"A stalker fan?"
"You're joking. For a story with no popularity?"
"Well, yeah, but what kind of crazy person would painstakingly bind a book of an unpopular story and track down the author?"
"I must clarify: I am not a reader of the story you wrote."
"No..."
I try to argue against the absurd claim.
But the moment I see the man's utterly serious face, my words catch in my throat.
Damn it, this guy's a burglar.
Why am I the one tongue-tied?
By the way, wherever he got it made, it's really well done.
I wonder if he'll tell me if I ask.
"It doesn't matter if you don't recognize me. It would've made me feel a tiny bit—at least a little—better if you did."
"Did you come here because you didn't like the story?"
"Hmm, something like that."
"You can't just barge in like this if you don't like it. Send a message to my account instead. I don't know how you found my address, but mail a letter. Or at least ring the doorbell..."
The more I speak, the more anxiety wells up.
My voice grows quieter and weaker without me realizing.
The sadness from when I first saw him darkens his face again.
"I could never hate your writing. It made me who I am today—how could I? However..."
"However?"
"I'm tired."
His voice carries a thick, chest-tightening weight.
"It's exhausting. No matter how much I prepare and try, I can't stop it. I've risen from despair countless times, but I can't see the end."
"That's..."
"The danger grows every moment, and everything I've tried to protect has been trampled. I can no longer find any dreams or hope."
"..."
Ah, why does this guy cry so much?
I think I've gotten in deep with the wrong person.
This might be more than just a stalker fan.
I wrote the story bleakly, but not to inspire this kind of behavior.
Maybe I should've made it a bit less bleak?
"I thought it over. And I found a way."
"Y-yeah. What is it?"
Please just leave quietly.
I could even apologize.
But the next words from the man's mouth far exceed my imagination.
"Creator. There's only you."
"What?"
"The recorded tale is immutable truth. To change it requires an Irregular. And there's only one Irregular who can interfere with the story."
"What are you talking about..."
Suddenly, my eyes are blinded by light.
I squint in surprise and look down—the book the man handed me is glowing.
"Wha... ?!"
"Please. No, I implore you."
"Hey, wait...!"
The book opens.
The pages flip at terrifying speed, the light intensifying.
An inexplicable suction pulls at me.
The book clings to my hand so tightly I can't throw it off. I struggle desperately to pry it loose while holding my upper body back as I'm drawn in.
But it's only for a moment.
The pull grows too strong for human strength to resist.
My face slams roughly into the book first, and I feel myself plunging into somewhere.
"Please protect our dreams and hopes."
"You, don't tell me...!"
Why did it take me so long to realize?
I've described it the most—and most frequently—over the past seven years.
Just as I recall his name, my consciousness fades rapidly.
I'm screwed.
Whatever this is, it's gone seriously wrong.
But in the end, I get swallowed by the book without a chance to even protest.