Click Click Click Click!
The keyboard clicks echo through the room, a steady machine heartbeat that fills the silence. My fingers move in a blur, nails tapping the plastic like a percussionist on a deadline. A half-empty mug sweats beside my elbow; the coffee inside is cold and bitter, but I don't care.
"Ugh… just a little more," I whisper, tasting the word almost the way you taste dust.
The progress bar crawls, two percent at a time, like a stubborn animal refusing to climb a hill.
The little notifications I've been ignoring for the past twelve hours blink at me from the corner of the screen — mail, calendar invites, that one message from Mom asking if I've eaten. The clock on my desk glows 02:17 a.m in a thin blue light. Time feels like a pocket I keep reaching into and finding empty.
I skim the last paragraph, fingers hovering as if they need approval. Is the tone flat? Do the numbers add up? My chest tightens around a shard of dread I've been pretending is just caffeine. This isn't just a text — it's eleven months of nights, an argument with my own limits, the one thing standing between me and sleep that doesn't taste like regret.
All right. I'm done. Fingers steady, I move the mouse. The cursor floats over the button like an offering. The room holds its breath.
Then I click.
"Sending…" Seeing that after all of that work, I feel that I can finally rest.
"Ah, finally, my work is done." I stretched my back as a slight moan of relief slipped out of my lips. This long ass novel is finally ending, never i'd think that this all would come to an end.
I glance at the screen one last time to check. The progress bar climbs, reaches the end, and the screen confirms: "Sent." I let the breath inside me out at last and laugh, a short, ridiculous sound that tastes like victory and exhaustion.
"Ugh..."
Every day ends the same way. The room lights flicker slowly, the computer screen dims, and I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the lingering caffeine clinging to my gums. Now everything feels... finished. For now, at least.
Why have my days become so boring? The routine is simple: wake up, write, drink increasingly bitter coffee, and stare at walls that never answer. How many weeks have I been stuck here? Three? Four? The numbers are blurry, like the titles of chapters I've skipped.
Tomorrow morning I have to go out. A morning run—not a bad idea. The cold morning air might bring back something lost: passion, energy, or at least a reason to open the curtains.
In the mirror, my tired reflection stares back; hollow eyes, messy hair, and lines of exhaustion at the corners of my mouth that I haven't named. There's a small satisfaction there too—a strange kind of victory—because I've just finished another chapter. Six hundred forty-three chapters have been published;
[The Ascension Protocol]
Total Chapter: 643
Status: Completed
Description: In a world where magic intertwines with technology beneath layers of ancient fog and forgotten truths, Edmund Hartwell, an orphan born in a poor, nameless village, dreams of becoming a hero. Armed with nothing but stubborn hope and a fragile sense of justice, Edmund embarks on a journey to challenge corruption, confront gods and machines alike, and carve meaning into a world that devours idealists.
Rating: 4.6 (9.21K reviews)
Views: 17.5M
…
At least… that is how the story begins.
Because The Ascension Protocol is not the story readers expect.
It is not a tale of guaranteed victory, chosen destinies, or heroes who always rise at the end. It is a chronicle of ambition colliding with reality, of ideals ground down by consequence, and of a world that does not bend simply because someone believes it should.
Heroes fall. Promises rot. And sometimes, even the protagonist fails.
Of course, this is the usual story of a hero who fights the greater evil and wins in the end.
…Or is it?
I pick up my phone from across the desk. 2:20 a.m. Saturday, February 7.
"Today's my birthday," I whisper. The sentence tastes small in the quiet room.
Does anyone remember? Maybe Mom — she always texts early, like clockwork. Maybe that's all there ever was. I slide the screen shut against the thought. Nobody's coming through the door tonight. Nobody's going to knock and ruin the silence with a casserole and forced smiles.
Never mind. I'm free. No responsibilities for a while. I could—should—sleep. Instead, I open the game.
A banner pops up the instant I log in: Happy birthday, user_XXXX. For a blink of a moment, I smile. A pixelated cake and a string of confetti for a stranger I barely tolerate.
"Huh," I tell the empty room. "Even the game remembers me better than most people."
The game is clean and loud and mercilessly good at distracting.
It throws light into the room in bright, dishonest colors—neon rune glows, the soft gold of looted coins, the hiss of a spell that sounds like water on hot metal. My headphones drown out the hum of the apartment; the rest of the world reduces to a single, steady pulse: click — click — click. I move through the maps like someone walking through a dream I can edit.
Hours fold into themselves. One siege blurs into another: a midnight raid where I parachute into a ruined cathedral and plant a banner while my guildmates shout laughing curses into the voice channel; a duel that boils down to a single perfect parry; a grind for a stupid cape that drops after the fiftieth kill and makes me roar like an idiot alone in my room. Achievements pop like smug little fireworks—tangible proof that progress exists, even if only in pixels.
The PvP ghosts haunt me. I chase them across servers: that one player who always baited me last month; the duo that cornered me in the market and stole my best components. Each revenge is a small, clean transaction. They are people with handles, not lives. The scoreboard forgets them the second their names flash and then fade. Revenge is quick. Satisfaction is quicker.
Coffee grows cold in a mug without me noticing. My back aches where the chair has carved a groove into bone. The clock on the desk becomes a rumor I keep ignoring until curiosity forces me to look. When I finally do, the numbers are small and obscene.
4:37 a.m.
This is insane. I didn't sleep at all yesterday. I told myself I wouldn't forget this night too. But the promise feels thin the way promises do when you make them alone.
Before I shut the computer down, one last thing: the chapter comments.
I reload the novel page and the message feed explodes like a fractured beehive. My chest tightens before I can read half of them.
Comments: 563 Users commented
FutureGM: YOU… YOU'RE A MONSTER.
RIPFORU: Brother what the actual hell is that conclusion.
MeatBeater: THERE ARE NO ECCHI SCENE?
–SandMan (replying to MeatBeater): Bro you just addicted to corn man.
–SanePete (replying to MeatBeater): What is that username
DeMuncher: Disgusting Hooman.
Munich: This has a lot and i mean A LOT of potential to be a good story man.
–ReyZa (replying to Munich): True.
EmoHouse: This story is what they called peak fiction,touch some grass bruh
–TruMan (reply to EmoHouse): The one that called this novel peak is just a kid, cause there's no way an adult can get cling to this kind of story.
Z0xe: I thought this would be the best thing I'd read, but the author really dropped the ball.
–GrateCheese (reply to Z0xe): Same.
–CosmicBeing (reply to Z0xe): The ending's straight-up trash, bruh.
TwilightFootLicker: I was late to this one.
–ROpe (replying to TwilightFootLicker): You really need to change your nama ASAP.
Weaboo: The author fell off.
–FootballLover (reply to Weaboo): What a waste of 600+ chapters.
Their words hit like small, ugly stones. I scowl, then laugh—short and bitter. "Fuck," I say, and the laugh turns into a shout. My fist slams the desk so hard the mug hops and rattles against the wood.
"If you really hate the story, then why read it at the first place?" I said that out of anger.
"This is bullshit," I growl at the monitor. The room fills with the smell of hot plastic and stale coffee. Heat pins behind my eyes; my fingers tingle, like pins and needles from too much sitting. I can feel my blood pressure climb, an animal alarm in the body that wants an outlet.
But the anger doesn't fix anything. It's the same old progression: outrage, a few hours lost to argument threads, the same voices that demand comfort and then hate you for breaking the mold. They want a hero who never regrets and never suffers. They want a story that tucks them in.
I should step away. Breathe. Let the night cool its heels.
To be honest, I hated writing this novel.
Not because it was difficult, nor because I lacked ideas—but because I did not write it purely of my own volition. I wrote it to satisfy expectations. To feed the hunger of my loyal readers who wanted comfort, hope, and familiar victories.
And yet, even while resisting that desire, I wrote relentlessly. Like a machine. Chapter after chapter, ignoring my own instincts, betraying what I wanted the story to be.
So I made a decision.
I refused to write a harmless fantasy meant to gently entertain teenagers newly introduced to the illusion that effort always leads to reward. I chose instead to write a story where actions carry weight, where death is not reversible, and where victory is not guaranteed simply because the protagonist is "the main character."
I killed fan-favorite characters—not out of cruelty, but out of honesty.
I denied the hero his dream—not because I hated him, but because the world would'nt allow it.
And in the end, the world itself was destroyed.
The protagonist lost. The greater evil was not overcome. There was no miracle waiting behind the final page.
Unsurprisingly, this made me one of the most hated authors among my own fans.
I received messages after messages begging me to stop. Letters demanding peace. Threats insisting that i'm the one that should die, that happiness should be preserved just a little longer.
But stories do not belong to readers once they demand obedience.
In the end, I am the one who writes the story. And I alone decide how it ends.
"Ugh…"
Just thinking about it again makes my stomach twist, a dull, pulsing ache spreading beneath my ribs. I press a hand against it, as if that might convince my body to calm down.
"Damn… maybe I need to go to the bathroom for a minute."
The chair creaks as I push myself up, legs stiff from sitting too long. The room sways slightly, the screen's afterimage still burned into my vision. I pause, waiting for the nausea to pass, listening to my own breathing and the faint hum of the computer behind me.
Whatever this is, I can deal with it later.
Right now, I just need a minute. As i press the power button of my computer.
I take one step toward the door.
The pain spikes.
It's not sharp, not the kind that makes you scream. It's deeper than that—heavy, like something inside me just shifted into the wrong place. My breath catches, and I grip the edge of the desk before my knees can give out.
"…Seriously?" I mutter, forcing out a weak laugh that convinces no one.
The room feels too quiet now. Even the hum of the computer seems distant, muffled, as if I've sunk underwater. A thin sheen of sweat crawls down my back. My heartbeat grows loud enough that I can hear it in my ears, slow and deliberate, each thud echoing longer than it should.
I straighten, swallowing hard, and try again.
Step.
Another.
The floor tilts. For a second, the walls stretch—just a little too far, like someone pulled at the edges of the world and forgot to let go. I blink rapidly, but the sensation lingers, a pressure behind my eyes, as if something is pressing outward from inside my skull.
Then—
Click.
The sound doesn't come from the keyboard.
I freeze.
Slowly I turned my head.
The monitor behind me flickers, the dark screen blooming back to life without being touched. Lines of pale text spill across it, sharp and clean, scrolling faster than I can read.
My stomach clenches.
"I didn't…" I start, then stop.
The cursor blinks once.
And a single line remains.
—ASCENSION PROTOCOL INITIALIZATION COMPLETE—
The words sit there, calm and undeniable.
My mouth goes dry. I don't move. I don't breathe. Every instinct screams that I should turn around, that I should shut it down, unplug the computer, walk away and pretend this never happened.
But my body doesn't listen.
The pain in my stomach fades—not disappears, just… retreats, like it's done its job. In its place comes something colder. Heavier. A sensation that settles deep in my chest, unfamiliar and intimate, as if something has taken root where my heartbeat lives.
The screen updates again.
USER CONFIRMED
COMPATIBILITY: ACCEPTABLE
PROCEED? [Y/N]
The cursor blinks, waiting.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought surfaces—quiet, treacherous, and impossible to ignore.
This wasn't part of the project.
And yet… my fingers twitch.
Not toward the power button.
Toward the mouse.
I move the cursor without thinking—an automatic twitch, like lifting a hand to scratch an itch. The [N] box fills with a pale checkmark.
A new line slides into view, slow and deliberate, as if the machine is savoring the moment.
ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO REJECT?
[Y/N]
"Yes. Without a doubt." My voice is small. It sounds obscene in the quiet.
There's no reason to say yes. It's a pop-up. A prank. A bug. I tell myself this as if repetition will turn it into truth. I can still close the lid, rip the cord from the socket, throw the machine out the window. I've done worse for less.
The cursor blinks.
A soft, sterile chime answers, almost conversational.
[REJECTION REGISTERED.
REASON REQUIRED.]
A text field appears beneath the confirmation, an empty box with a blinking line like a throat waiting for words.
My fingers hover. Words refuse me—they're heavy, bone-deep. What do you type when the thing you refuse is the thing you didn't know you were agreeing to in the first place?
I type, because typing is what I do.
I don't want this.
Enter.
For a second nothing happens. Then the monitor goes cold white, a slow bloom of light that fills the room with the color of hospital corridors. The humming of the computer drops into bass notes that sink through the floor and into my bones.
A new window erupts, not quite a window—more like a mouth opening in the air.
[REJECTION UNSATISFACTORY.
NARRATIVE INTEGRITY AT RISK.
OPTIONS:
— ERASE AUTHOR SIGNAL
— FORCE ACCEPTANCE
— TRANSITION AUTHOR TO NARRATIVE]
I laugh once. It comes out too high. "What the hell kind of options are those?" I whisper.
The cursor slides itself down the list and hovers over the last option, like a hand pointing.
TRANSITION AUTHOR TO NARRATIVE — default.
The room tilts. I clutch the back of the desk. For a moment I think I'm going to throw up. Not from motion something else pulls at me, as if gravity has shifted direction and I'm the only thing refusing to follow.
The mug tips. Coffee sloshes in slow motion across the desktop and then stops, suspended in a film of time. The cursor blinks three times and then moves with the calm inevitability of tide.
A voice not in my ears but under my skin speaks, and it is neither male nor female nor machine. It is all of those. It sounds like the narrator of a story I've never finished.
I try to say something. My lips tremble, but no sound comes out. The text on the screen types itself then, letters unfurling in my own handwriting as if some other me is composing inside the room.
My hand lifts. Not with my permission. My palm presses the mouse as if on its own accord. The cursor trails across the words, then pauses above walk inside the machine.
I click.
I finish the sentence, hit Enter, and nothing explodes. The screen goes white for a breath and then settles like a closed eyelid. No chime. No lights. No dramatic retribution. For a dizzy second I actually grin.
"See?" I tell the room, ridiculous and pleased. "Nothing. Just a pop-up. A bug. That's all."
It's almost funny the way relief expands like air refilling in a punctured balloon. My chest loosens.
Maybe that's why the throbbing pain in my stomach disappeared. Well, it's quite strange, I must say, but it must be because I didn't get enough sleep. Yes, of course, what other explanation could be more reasonable than that?
I stretch my hands above my head and feel the small, satisfying ache from too many hours bent over a keyboard. A proper, earned tired.
I look at the clock. 4:52 a.m. I let the chair tilt back. For the first time all night, surrendering to sleep feels like a deserved thing.
I pressed the power button a second time. But to be sure, I also unplugged the power cord from the outlet.
After that, I hurriedly climbed onto the bed and threw myself down.
"Finally, a good night's sleep after so long."
Before finally falling asleep, I glanced again at the monitor, hoping that the strange message would not appear again.