As I began to fade from the so-called workspace, I felt the weight of existence return—gravity, pressure, pain, breath.
And just like that, I was back.
Back in the boss room.
Back where I died.
The scent of blood still lingered in the air. My body, no longer torn apart, was whole again. The wounds were gone—but the memory of pain clung to me like a second skin.
Two days... The system had said it would take two days to resurrect. I must've been declared dead by now.
Then I saw it.
Standing tall in the center of the room—Minus.
The demon-souled minotaur.
Still alive.
Still breathing.
But the spectral beasts were gone. No sign of them. Just corpses, silence, and the monster that ended everything.
Before I could move, a voice echoed inside my mind again—clear and synthetic.
[UPDATING STATUS WINDOW]
[SWITCHING DEFAULT SYSTEM]
[LOADING COMPLETE!]
[INK SYSTEM SUCCESSFULLY INSTALLED]
I blinked.
The familiar blue-and-gold interface of the Divine Link was gone—replaced by a sleek, white panel outlined in black and red. Sharper. Simpler. More... me.
A system that felt like it belonged.
Heart racing, I pulled up my status. The once-empty skill slots were now full.
--[Skill Slot]--
[Character Development]:
[Narrative Edit]:
[Plot Armor]:
[Retcon]:
[Character Creation]:
[Inner Monologue Tap]:
I stared in disbelief.
Each one felt strangely familiar. Not like something granted by a god—but something I had written. Abilities shaped by metaphors, tools only someone like me would understand.
A writer's toolkit.
My toolkit.
I scanned each skill one by one, already aware of their functions—intuitively, like muscle memory from another life—but I needed to see their limits.
I needed to know the rules of this game before I could break them properly.
[Character Development]—the first skill on the list.
It allowed me to alter my stats. Growth at will.
No training arcs. No grind. Just narrative evolution.
Perfect.
Or so I thought.
"Activate Character Development; set status to high rank," I commanded, the words flowing off my tongue like a script.
A window flashed in front of me.
[WARNING: Excessive use of this skill may lead to Story Distortion.]
[Note: Deus Ex Machina attempts will backfire. Probability of backlash: 0.001%.]
"...Huh?"
I blinked.
"Wait, so I can't just bump my stats to high rank?"
Frustration flared for a moment. I thought I'd finally caught a break—an overpowered system to shove into everyone's faces.
But then a quiet part of me—deeper, steadier—whispered back:
Good.
If I could just rewrite myself to be the strongest right away... it would be meaningless. Predictable. Soulless.
This wasn't just about winning anymore.
This was about writing the best story.
And what good story starts with the main character already perfect?
I exhaled and lowered my hand. "Alright," I muttered. "Let's do this the hard way."
The right way.
My way.
"Upgrade stats near limitations," I commanded.
The response was instant.
[Status updated successfully.]
[All stats have been upgraded to Level 5.]
"Mother... f—" I stopped myself and sighed.
"Like I said... the hard way."
I looked down. My sword lay beside the blood-soaked floor like it was waiting for me. I picked it up. The weight felt different now—not heavier, not lighter. Just... real.
Then I saw him.
Minus.
Still standing.
I thought he was dead—his body torn up and limp after the battle. But maybe... when everyone left the boss room, when the spectral beasts disappeared... they didn't vanish. They returned to him.
They were him.
His demonized soul—fragmented into those red ghosts—must've been drawn back into his vessel when the room emptied out. When I was left behind.
He rotated his massive head toward me, his red bull-eyes narrowing, glowing like molten hatred.
He looked hungry.
And I was the main course.
"Activate Narrative Edit."
[Narrative Edit has been activated.]
A spectral pen formed in my right hand—its tip dripping ink made of light and shadow.
Minus reached for the massive axe on his back, his hooves clattering like war drums on the dungeon floor.
I didn't panic.
I wrote.
In swift, deliberate strokes, I carved letters into the air. Crimson text glowed, swirling around me like runes from an ancient spell.
"Minus will not move."
I shoved the sentence toward him.
The moment it hit, the minotaur froze in place. Mid-charge. Axe in hand. Eyes burning.
[Narrative Edit Applied: Duration - 5 minutes]
That's the rule.
Five minutes of narrative overwrite.
Five minutes to kill him.
I tightened my grip on the sword. "Let's make it count."
Around those five minutes, I did everything I could—
Slashed.
Stabbed.
Dragged my blade across his thick hide like I was peeling bark from an immortal tree.
The system even displayed his health bar now, like I was a player fighting a game boss.
[Boss: Demon-Souled Minus --> HP: 100% --> 70%]
I was hacking away like a madman... and all I got was 30 percent off.
No surprise there. I'm an E-rank hunter. Nothing I do is ever enough.
And yeah—if I were a reader of this story? I'd be yelling at myself:
"Why not just write 'Minus will die'?"
Because that's not how this works.
I'm bound by rules now. Bound by logic, pacing, and consequence. If I force the narrative into a cheap ending...
[Warning: Deus Ex Machina Detected — Repercussions: Severe Narrative Distortion]
That 0.001% chance of backlash?
It's like pulling the pin on a grenade and hoping they forgot to wire it.
I could use it recklessly... on lesser beasts. But not on a B-rank boss, not now.
That's the difference between writing a good story and just finishing one.
The five minutes were up.
But I'd leapt back thirty seconds before the countdown ended—just enough buffer to dodge whatever fury Minus was about to unleash.
My speed had increased by thirty percent after upgrading my stats.
Still, to a beast like Minus? I might as well be crawling in molasses.
"Activate Character Creation!" I shouted.
A glowing description page opened up in front of me, floating in the air like a digital scroll.
No time to waste.
I scribbled in the character fields, fingers flying as I set the details and the number: Five.
Yeah, five.
Don't ask why. My idiot brain went for quantity over common sense.
The mana drain hit immediately—headache pounding like a war drum in my skull.
The screen vanished, and seconds later, five figures burst into existence. Shadows of warriors—crafted in my image, but lesser.
Each one was one level below me, and I'm already scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Minus charged.
Eyes glowing red, axe dragging sparks behind it like a comet tail.
Three of my characters launched at him, intercepting the blow before it reached me. It bought me a second.
Maybe two.
But I knew the truth: they were fodder.
Just slightly better-trained meat shields.
They'd be torn apart in no time.
Still... that second they bought me?
It might be the gap I needed.
The cooldown for Narrative Edit is ten minutes. And that's not even at max level yet.
It had only been two minutes since Minus started moving again. Meaning I had eight more agonizing minutes to wait.
And right now? I was hiding behind a collapsed stone pillar near the edge of the boss room—clutching my sword, breathing through gritted teeth, praying that damn monster wouldn't spot me.
One of my conjured characters was still out there, keeping Minus busy.
The other two crouched beside me, weapons drawn, silent.
"I swear..." I muttered, glaring at the glowing skill window floating in front of me, "is this damn system purposely delaying each second like it's stretching time?"
It certainly felt that way.
At the bottom of the screen, three icons pulsed softly in crimson:
[Narrative Edit – Cooldown: 8 minutes]
[Character Creation – Cooldown: 5 minutes]
[Character Development – Cooldown: 19 hours]
Nineteen hours.
What kind of sadistic writer made this skill tree?
A metallic crash echoed from across the room.
One of the decoys screamed—then went silent.
Now there were Three of us left... again.
I tightened my grip. Not in fear.
In desperation.
In bitter anticipation.
Eight more minutes.
Ten minutes in my room before the apocalypse?
I could bang out a full 3,000-word chapter in that time.
But here—in this hellhole—it feels like time is crawling. Like the seconds are trying to kill me too.
I peeked out from behind the broken pillar.
Red eyes flashed back at me.
He saw me.
"FUCK!!" I yelled, then bolted again, one of my conjured characters scrambling after me.
I didn't need to say more.
"One of you—lunge at him!"
The command came out hoarse.
The character obeyed immediately, charging straight at the beast with reckless loyalty.
Another few seconds bought. Another body to be crushed.
We ducked behind a pile of corpses.
The stench hit me this time—two days spent dead will do that to a room. The air was thick with rot and metal.
I gagged, then wiped my mouth.
I glanced at the system window again:
[Narrative Edit – Cooldown: 6 minutes]
[Character Creation – Cooldown: 3 minutes]
[Plot Armor – Available]
Plot Armor.
Tempting. But pointless.
What good is Plot Armor when I'm alone in the last scene?
No teammates. No emotional death flag for someone to shield me.
And obviously, the last character next to me will protect me anyway—that's how the story's supposed to go.
So no. Not yet.
I'd rather save it for a time when I can twist the story hard enough to matter.
i glanced back at minus, who is now busy at my character for the moment, the character was a little agile when he is up close with the beast, obviously since minus is too big.
For a moment, me and the remaining character just watched.
Watched as the last one danced with death—stalling Minus, drawing his fury, wasting his time.
We waited.
And waited.
Then, in a blur of motion, Minus swung his axe.
SCHLUNK.
A clean slice.
The body split in half like paper.
No scream. Just a lifeless thud as it dropped, already starting to disintegrate into flickering dust.
I grimaced.
Not out of guilt—these weren't real people.
But watching something I made die still felt...wrong.
"How much time passed...?"
My eyes flicked to the system window:
[Narrative Edit – Cooldown: 4 minutes]
Two minutes.
It bought me two damn minutes.
Thank everything for that.
Character Creation was down to its last minute of cooldown—but I wasn't planning to use it again just yet.
After Minus slaughtered my clone, he started searching for me again.
But luckily, the stench of rot was doing me a favor.
My scent was masked, drowned beneath the reek of torn flesh and decaying meat.
It was like getting repeatedly punched in the nose by death—but it worked.
He couldn't find me. Not yet.
That delay gave us what we needed: time.
And when the cooldown was nearly done, I stood up, my remaining clone beside me.
His head snapped toward us immediately.
"Activate Character Creation!"
The familiar description screen popped up. This time, I didn't waste a second.
Clones—five of them.
Swords identical to mine. Copies of me, one level weaker, but still useful cannon fodder.
As the screen faded, they materialized, one after another, stepping out of my shadow like echoes.
I glanced at the countdown:
[8..]
[7..]
Minus growled—a rumbling snarl that vibrated through the floor. Then he lunged.
Straight at us.
[6..]
[5..]
I flicked my eyes back and forth—Minus charging, the countdown dropping.
[4..]
[3..]
My grip on the sword tightened. The six of us—me and five clones—took our stance.
[2...]
[1.]
"Activate Narrative Edit!"
The spectral pen bloomed into existence in my hand. Without hesitation, I scrawled the same words midair:
"Minus will not move."
Crimson text floated toward him, like an order passed to the story itself.
This time—
we fight back.
The moment the crimson letters took hold, Minus froze mid-charge.
His hulking body locked in place—muscles tensed, eyes wide with primal rage, but unmoving.
He was ours now.
"Go!" I shouted.
All six clones surged forward with me.
Steel hissed through the air. Swords slashed, again and again—
Ripping into flesh, tearing across bone.
Each strike landed clean.
[Damage: 20]
[Damage: 20]
[Damage: 20]
Mine hit harder.
[Damage: 28]
Again.
[Damage: 28]
Again.
Minus's health bar dropped like a guillotine.
70%...
55%...
30%...
His body shuddered under the weight of the onslaught—but still he couldn't move.
One clone was cut down by the stress of the repeated strikes, dissolving into smoke. The others pressed on.
His HP hit 10%.
"Now!" I roared—and lunged in.
I drove my sword straight into his chest—through the thick skin, through muscle and bone—until the tip pierced the frozen black heart beneath.
A guttural sound echoed from his throat.
His body trembled, then stilled completely.
[Critical Strike: -29]
[Boss Minus Defeated]
[You leveled up!]
[You leveled up!]
And just like that—it was over.
The crimson glow of the Narrative Edit dissolved as its target, the demon-souled beast Minus, collapsed to the ground with a thunderous, final THUD.
Silence swept the room.
"...We did it," I breathed, stunned. "Finally!"
My clones erupted in cheers like true comrades—hollering, raising their blades, some even hugging each other like idiots. If I wasn't still shaking, I might've laughed.
Minus—the boss that nearly wiped out our entire squad, was dead.
Then, with a soft hum, a chest materialized in the center of the room.
"Loot time," I muttered, stepping toward it.
My clones dissolved into swirling ashes, returning to me like smoke drawn back into its flame. My mana felt lighter.
I crouched before the chest and flipped it open.
The system blinked to life in my vision:
[LOOT ACQUIRED]
• Bloodtears – Two-Handed Sword
• Broken Watch of Fate
• 30 B-Rank Essence Crystals
• Dark Cloak of the Executioner
I stared.
"...Why is it so random?"
After collecting everything, I equipped the Cloak of the Executioner.
It was pitch black—almost unnaturally so. When I pulled the hood up, it draped perfectly over my head, concealing my face in complete shadow. The fabric clung and shifted like living smoke, tight where it needed to be, loose where it mattered. It had adjustables along the sides, like it was tailored just for me.
Next, I took a moment to examine the Bloodtears.
A two-handed sword, heavier than anything I'd ever wielded. Its handle was wrapped in rough, black leather, and the flat, wide blade shimmered faintly with a golden-crimson glint—like blood dried under sunlight.
The system gave its name and description:
[Bloodtears]
A sword that felled demons in Tartarus. Cursed by every victim it ever made bleed to death.
It hit hard. No doubt about it. But the weight wasn't just physical—it carried history. Something old. Angry.
I sheathed it on my waist and glanced at the other two items:
A broken pocket watch of fate, its hands missing, its face cracked like it had been dropped from the edge of time itself. Useless... or maybe not. I had a hunch it meant something.
And of course—my sweet, sweet thirty B-rank essence crystals. Mana fuel, marketplace gold, maybe even a future upgrade.
I was battered, bruised, resurrected, and barely breathing—but alive.
"Time to get the hell out of here," I muttered, pulling the hood down low and stepping toward the exit.
I stepped into the darkness with only the torch I took from the boss room. Its flame flickered against the stone walls, casting long, shaky shadows behind me.
Each step echoed like a reminder—I'd died here.
But it didn't take long to retrace my path. The halls that once felt like a coffin now felt like nothing. Just bricks. Just dust.
And then, finally—light.
I emerged from the dungeon entrance, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Like a weight lifted.
Like the world had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.
The sun poured down, warm against my skin.
Its heat kissed my face like an old friend.
"Haahh..." I breathed out, my voice shaky but alive.
Then—
Gasps.
Someone had seen me.
A voice cracked through the air like disbelief wrapped in hope.
"S...Seo-Jun? Is that you?"