When did this eerie feeling first take hold?
I can't remember... Perhaps it was always there.
At the beginning, everything appeared ordinary, deceptively so.
I was born in an orphanage. Life there was brutal, as I was born in a place of poverty. Here, survival was only possible if one learned to endure quietly.
I lived alongside other abandoned children, not that all of us were connected through affection though, but rather by necessity.
After all, this world was functioned by hierarchy. Rank was seen as truth, and power was considered a virtue.
Thus, F rank like us had nothing else but each other. We dare not to dream beyond the hope to survive.
The number of arts one wielded determined one's value, wealth, reputation, and even the right to breathe.
I possessed none of it.
Born without a bloodline, I inherited nothing. The very idea that someone like me could create magic that they called art was laughable.
Yes, this is what should define normal.
A normal kid who had nothing would experience hunger, fatigue, and fear. Those were the normal constants, and nothing should feel out of place.
Nothing should... Not until the fire came.
Flames consumed my sight, and screams fractured the air.
My siblings, those who had shared the same filth as me, were slaughtered. Their bodies were torn apart by a woman in white who existed only to kill.
In that moment, I understood something inside me had collapsed.
It's not my heart nor my sanity, but rather my reality.
Because I understood then, my life had never been real.
This world was nothing more than a story in a novel called "The S-class Arts Magician". And I, Reol Luniven, was written to be its protagonist.
What was I supposed to feel, knowing their deaths were merely a plot progression for me?
Disgust? Terror? Or perhaps rage?
All of them felt artificial as I wonder if emotions were pre-selected for me from the start.
How could I feel anything genuine when I realized an author was looming above, scripting every thought I had ever believed to be my own?
Perhaps from the start, my choices, my grief, and my despair were already decided by Him.
So no… I didn't feel anger.
I felt pity.
Pity for those still struggling and still hoping, unaware they were nothing but expendable sentences.
I often wonder, if they learned the truth as I did, would they scream? Or would they simply break?
That is why...
"Kek… kekek… HAHAHAHA! Rejoice! You've won!"
A white-haired woman lay crumpled on the floor, blood slick across her face as laughter bubbled from her throat like some insane patient.
"How does it feel? knowing I killed every one of your siblings?!"
Reol merely looked down at her.
His face showed fury though merely because it was scripted to. For Reol knew himself well that he can't feel anything besides of that dull, hollow emotion creeping at him.
Reol knew this woman was meant to be a villain from the start. But not a kind of great evil, nor a lasting threat to him.
In fact she was just a corpse-in-waiting to seal the main character's so-called revenge. A sacrifice carved out for the sake of his growth. A hated character that will gradually be forgotten. A villain whose name wasn't even mentioned.
He should have despised her. She had murdered those he once called family in the orphanage.
But she was as false as they were and as false as he was.
She was just another puppet, who carried the same strings tangled with his own.
A character from a novel.
"Why are you—" the white woman asked out loud with a sudden shift from smile to anger.
But Reol didn't bother to let her words continue, as the question for him remained meaningless.
He didn't care about her blabbering after all.
He never did.
Reol raised his scythe and severed her head in a single motion.
"I'm sorry." His mind echoed an apology. Though he doesn't seem to be apologetic about it.
Not that he can control his body anyway, as it was bound to follow the said script.
'Sorry it's not my fault'
The blood soaked into the floor, showing a reflection of translucent crimson colored system that emerged before his eyes.
[Chapter 102 — End.]
****
[ The S class Arts Magician]
By the title alone, anyone could tell what kind of story it was.
A cliche.
A repetitive novel with a copy-paste plot. The sort of web novel that promised nothing new, yet still drew few readers who craved the same hollow structure over and over again.
And unfortunately, Reol Luniven was the Arts Magician the novel revolved on.
A frail child born an orphanage. Someone who was a witness to the destruction of his only home. A survivor who grew stronger through revenge against the people who orchestrated the murder of his so-called family. Eventually, the protagonist will be entangled in greater conflicts as the story demands, until he becomes an unstoppable force, one destined to stand at the very top.
It was a predictable story.
Truly… a boring plot.
Reol couldn't help but scoff at it. Forget about those who enjoy this.
Reol was more concerned about who in their right mind would enjoy writing something like this?
And yet, almost immediately, the mockery turned to himself.
Who was he to judge?
He was nothing more than a puppet with borrowed thoughts, barely granted the illusion of movement.
Every memory he possessed had been written beforehand, every reaction had to be pre-approved by those hands.
Of course, he found it dull; he had never known what it meant to create anything entertaining.
Even if he did, he would never have the freedom to do so.
Slowly, Reol opened his eyes.
The scenario he was in minutes ago disappeared.
Instead, he found himself in a cramped, dimly lit room.
He was tucked into the corner, where he was hugging his knees like some abandoned kid.
The only light guiding his vision was from a laptop screen, casting a pale glow that barely pushed back the darkness.
Beyond that, a young man crouched on the floor with fingers frantically flying across the keyboard.
Reol did not react as he recognized this place.
"Oh…"
For the first time today, he let out his voice.
"It's the same place... The author's room..."