The webnovel was called The Dance of Power.
It wasn't a chart-topping monster that shattered ranking boards or started fan wars in comment sections. There were no viral memes. No obsessive threads arguing over power scaling. It wasn't loud.
But it lingered.
The world wasn't perfect. The pacing stumbled in places. A few fights dragged longer than they should have. Still, the author understood atmosphere. Characters made mistakes and paid for them. Consequences didn't vanish after a chapter. When someone died, they stayed dead.
And the gimmick?
Readers could submit characters.
Not background cameos. Not a quick mention tucked into a crowd scene.
Full insertion.
Two reader-created characters per arc. Complete stat sheets. Skill breakdowns. Backstories. Even artwork if you wanted to go that far. If chosen, your character entered the story as canon.
Of course I tried.
I didn't go overboard with some absurd, overpowered nonsense. No hidden god lineage. No broken abilities without cost. I built something balanced—something that made sense within the system's rules. Strengths that carried limitations. A skill that required planning. A background that didn't scream main character.
I spent hours on it. Rewrote the sheet three separate times. Adjusted the stat distribution until it felt believable rather than desperate.
Then the email came.
From: [email protected]
Hello, Vipez!
Thanks for supporting my humble little story and always commenting.
Unfortunately, the two slots are already filled.
Your character is interesting, but he doesn't fit the direction of the next arc.
Sorry — he's just not good enough.
That was it.
No elaboration. No feedback. Not even a polite maybe-next-time to soften the landing.
Just not good enough.
I stared at the screen long after I finished reading, not because I expected more words to appear—but because my mind didn't quite know where to go next.
It wasn't rage.
It wasn't heartbreak either.
It was something smaller than that. Quieter.
Like someone closing a door while you're still mid-sentence. Not out of cruelty. Just because they'd already decided they were done listening.
I didn't respond.
I closed the tab.
I told myself it didn't matter. Stories come and go. Authors don't owe readers anything. It wasn't personal.
I opened another novel. Clicked into the first chapter. Scrolled.
Didn't read a word.
Because something in my chest felt exposed.
Not rejected exactly.
Dismissed.
Like I'd offered something and it hadn't even been worth serious consideration.
And that part shouldn't have hurt.
It was fiction.
Just fiction.
Right?
I shut the laptop a little harder than necessary.
"If even fiction doesn't need me…" I muttered, then shook my head.
That was dramatic. I wasn't twelve.
I'd been ignored before. Plenty of times. I was good at shrugging things off. It had always worked.
Until it didn't.
The chance of becoming a millionaire is one in 50,063,860.
I remembered reading that statistic in some random late-night article I barely skimmed.
Whatever was happening to me now felt rarer.
I was standing in a living room that wasn't mine.
The furniture alone was worth more than my entire apartment back home. White marble floors stretched beneath my feet. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a skyline I didn't recognize. Everything was expensive. Precise.
Quiet.
That silence hit first.
No music bleeding through thin walls.
No television droning in the background.
No sister yelling into her phone.
Just still air.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass.
It wasn't mine.
Taller. Leaner. Sharper at the jaw. Shoulders broader, posture straighter—as if this body had been trained to carry expectations.
In my hand was a letter sealed with a gold brooch.
My fingers were trembling before I even noticed they were.
I opened it.
The handwriting inside was precise. Elegant. Controlled.
And the first line made my pulse drop.
Dear Dreyden. You were accepted into the Triangle.
Dreyden.
Dreyden Stella.
My character.
The one who "wasn't good enough."
The one I built.
The one that got rejected.
My vision blurred for half a second.
"No," I whispered.
But the memories rising in my mind weren't mine.
They were his.
Ten years old, standing inside the Stella estate while relatives watched in quiet disappointment. The Copper Body skill book—Level 7. A bloodline ability tied to vitality.
He didn't have enough.
Not enough energy.
Not enough potential.
So they erased him.
Declared him dead in internal records. Removed him from the registry. Sent him to a weak-human district outside the central cities.
A polite exile.
He was supposed to survive alone.
Until a "friend of his father" gave him a skill book.
I froze.
I never named that friend. I never described him. It had been a placeholder—nothing more.
And yet a name surfaced in my mind with unsettling clarity.
Idan Vaughan.
I hadn't written that.
I hadn't imagined it.
The world had.
The gap had been filled.
Which meant one thing.
This wasn't me trapped inside a script.
This was a functioning world that had started from it—and no longer needed my details to continue. It filled in what I had left blank. Corrected incomplete data. Expanded on outlines without consulting me.
It was alive.
And I was inside it.
The Triangle.
A military academy wrapped in hierarchy and brutality, disguised as structure. Level 9 and 10 users treated like strategic assets. Beasts beyond the walls. Alien forces testing border defenses. Human superiority balanced on something thinner than pride.
And tomorrow at ten in the morning—
The entrance exam.
I lay back on the unfamiliar bed and stared at a ceiling that didn't belong to me for what felt like two hours.
I wasn't thrilled.
I wasn't excited.
This wasn't some fantasy fulfillment.
It was panic.
Because Dreyden was only viable if he had the skill I designed for him.
Celestial Library.
Level 0.
Unregistered.
Untrackable.
Restrictive. Fragile.
But scalable.
If he hadn't met Idan yet…
If the skill wasn't there…
Then I was walking into a predator's arena unarmed.
The Triangle did not tolerate weakness.
This world did not tolerate weakness.
In this reality, people without power were infrastructure—necessary, invisible.
People with weak power were tools, assigned purpose whether they liked it or not.
And people like Dreyden?
Statistical waste.
"This can't be real," I muttered into the empty room. "I didn't even want this…"
My voice cracked despite myself.
I wasn't begging.
I was bargaining—with something that wasn't answering.
Eventually, I turned the television on.
The news broadcast confirmed that Triangle entrance exams were already underway. Tomorrow marked final intake.
Plot accurate.
Exactly thirty days behind the initial arc launch.
Just like reader submissions.
Which meant the rest of the timeline probably matched too.
The disasters.
The deaths.
The casualties.
I turned it off again.
Darkness settled over the room.
No more denial.
If I was here, I needed strength.
Immediately.
Checking "Status" would confirm everything.
And if Celestial Library wasn't there…
Hope would die in that moment.
I sat up slowly. The movement felt unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's balance. My heartbeat sounded too loud in my ears.
I closed my eyes.
"Please," I whispered. "Just let it be there."
I swallowed hard.
Then forced the word out.
"Status."
Something answered.
Not audibly.
Physically.
Warmth surged through my body—not pain, not heat, but something unmistakably alive. It moved through veins I didn't fully recognize, gathering in front of me like breath made visible.
Light condensed.
Edges formed.
A square took shape in the darkness, glowing softly in the room.
I held my breath without realizing I had.
And then I opened my eyes.