118181386580595879976868414312001964434038548836769923458287039207.
Seven raised to the seventy seventh power.
That should be the answer. But…
"...Fudge."
Seojin cursed.
He moved his hand back and forth, dragging the tip along the surface, making the graphite of the pencil glide over the page that left a mark of aimless loops of lines.
Then, he stopped.
"Yeah, no. I'm done."
His face contorted.
He was supposed to solve the equation, but somehow, for some reason, written on it was a vague sketch of an eye instead.
Roll.
He loosened his grip on the pencil, thus it rolled across the desk and spun seven times before it came to a stop. Right after, he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the overflowing trash bin.
A perfect three-pointer.
"Why am I even doing this…?"
He extended his arms and reached for the smartphone across the desk.
Click.
The screen lit and a month-old news video played.
// Headline //
// Former Top Model Yoon Dasom Dies in Tragic Car Accident //
The footage showed a burning wreck on the Gangnam Expressway with emergency responders moving frantically.
On the pavement, a white sheet covers a body.
"Seoul: Former model Yoon Dasom, 37, died in a multi-car crash late last night on the Gangnam Expressway."
A news reporter announced as footage of the wreck played on screen.
"Authorities say her vehicle was involved in a high-speed collision. Despite the quick emergency response, she was pronounced dead before reaching the…"
Seojin paused the news video.
The screen froze on a frame of devastation, but his gaze drifted lower to the comments and to the flood of condolences and mourning strangers.
He scoffed.
"...Good for her."
Yoon Dasom was once a rising star in the modeling industry.
At least, she was until she got pregnant; rather, until she carried the child of Chigok City's corrupt seventh mayor who was later convicted and sentenced to seven years in prison.
Both her career and reputation collapsed.
After the divorce, it only sank lower.
Desperate to reclaim her status, Yoon Dasom married six more noblemen. But none of those marriages lasted. Hence, Seojin experienced a total of seven different father figures.
Thud.
He tossed his phone aside and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper before picking up the pencil under his desk.
He pressed the eraser against his temple.
"Should I just…?"
Technically, he could just use a calculator… but that would defeat the point.
It was not like this was some urgent assignment as his professor had given it a month ago. And after his mother's death, he had not even bothered returning to school.
He just needed a distraction as his favorite novel had still not updated a new chapter.
A moment later, he crumpled the paper once more and tossed it toward the growing pile. He did not even bother to make a three-pointer shot now.
Cough.
A dry cough slipped from his throat, then came the taste of iron as blood trickled down from his nose.
But Seojin was not surprised. After all, it happened more often recently given that his diet or whatsoever only consisted of whatever was left in the fridge like canned goods, instant noodles, and stale leftovers.
His mother, Yoon Dasom, left him no money.
So he, too, was just waiting for his end.
Pushing the gaming chair back, he reached for his PC and powered it on and was greeted by a desktop cluttered with countless shortcuts.
He barely glanced at them before clicking straight to the browser.
Click.
"Still none…?"
Reading novels.
At first, it was just about something to read and kill time. But as years passed, it became a habit that had stayed with him through seven different father figures.
Scrolling through the rankings, he skimmed over the usual titles.
Regression stories.
Extra rising into greatness.
Overpowered protagonists.
Villains turning into heroes.
And any other the same recycled tropes like transmigration.
Yet, despite that, he still clicked on a novel just as cliché as the rest. The only catch was that it was the one he had been following for seven years.
It was not popular.
In fact, it barely had any readers.
A story about a chosen one and a justice-driven protagonist who believed that everyone deserved a golden moment in life.
The plot was simple: overcome seven trials, collect seven artifacts, and end the everlasting war between the seven continents.
He had read each chapter religiously, dissected every mystery, and even argued with a handful of haters online.
He gripped the mouse tightly.
It has already been seven weeks since the author last updated despite having a promise that the hiatus would only last for seven days.
With six thousand and nine hundred ninety-nine chapters, it was too late to drop it.
But he had an idea.
He sat hunched over and let his fingers dance above the keyboard.
|| Article: No Title ||
||Seojin (OP): Yo! Does someone still read this? Seventy Seventh Seven (link). ||
He leaned a little closer as the number updated.
"77 replies already…?"
That was way more than expected, considering it had only been up for a few minutes.
He scrolled.
|| MichaelJaxon235 || Shut up, Monkey.
"This fudger…"
|| itsnotRon || MF? Wut is dat title?!
"Illiterate fool."
|| xXxSquare || HAHAHA!! D-DONT TOUCH ME—
He smirked.
"That's… a reference."
|| FannumTax || Kukuku! S-Sigma!!
|| Skibidi101 || Hawkkkk Tuahhh!!
|| NineEleven || B-B-Buildings?? C-C-Crash!!!
At this point, he was not sure what pissed him off more.
The fact that no one was taking the post he made seriously or the fact that he actually understood all these dumb replies.
( ...Click to see more. )
Click.
|| ObservantReader || Hmm… I do. Currently halfway through it.
"Finally. One functioning human in this godforsaken place."
Leaning back against his chair, he began to bite his nails.
It was expected. The majority of the forum users did not actually read. They just skimmed, made baseless claims, and farmed reactions for reputation. Their replies were nothing but the same recycled nonsense, repeated over and over again.
…Crack. Crack.
He cracked his fingers.
"If they want a debate, they're getting one—"
Ding!
— "You have a notification, dickhead!"
A blatantly rude mechanical voice echoed.
He blinked, disoriented, acting as if he was not the one who set that soundboard every time there was an important notification.
"...Maybe not."
After seven weeks, Seventy Seventh Seven updated a new chapter.
It was the one he was waiting for, the first chapter of the last arc to guide the ending.
Given from the previous arcs, the current one should be about the MC reaching the final and the seventh trial where the truth of the world is being revealed.
He clicked the notification.
// Chapter 7000: End or Beginning //
// The battlefield lay in ruins, the last embers of war flickering against the crimson sky. Ciae stood at the edge of oblivion, staring into the abyss that would decide the fate of the— //
The screen flickered.
The words on the page glitched, breaking apart into static and fragmented letters and—
The computer shut off.
He stared at the dark screen.
His reflection was barely visible on the glass.
His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, waiting for the usual lag, the sluggish reboot, or some sign that this was just his cheap hardware failing on him again.
But the hum of the CPU was still there, and the red power light still blinked.
"...The fudge?"
The case fan stopped whirring, and the red light turned off, followed by the computer flickering back on with a number displayed on the screen.
7
Another flicker, another number.
7 7
Again.
7 7 7
And again.
The numbers streamed down the screen, multiplying, spreading like veins through dying flesh.
Click.
The mouse moved on its own.
Click. Click.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The keyboard tapped with a slow, rhythmic tap, tap, tap, like fingers drumming against the desk.
..ttTtap. Taap. ttTtap.
A sharp chill prickled against the back of his neck.
Seojin exhaled.
His breath came out visible.
Cold.
The room was not supposed to be cold. The heater was on. The windows were shut. Yet, a strange pressure settled in the air.
He glanced at the door.
It disappeared.
His chest tightened.
He looked at the shelf.
Gone.
The trash can.
Gone.
One by one, the room was vanishing.
TttTap. ttTAp.
The keyboard clacked again.
His grip tightened around the armrest. His gaming chair creakedbeneath him and the wheels pressed deeper into the floor.
A pressure curled around his skull.
It was not a headache or dizziness, but something familiar.
Deja vu.
He felt this before.
He did not know when nor did he know why. But his pulse hammered against his ribs, along with his skin prickling with each static.
The numbers on the screen—
SEVEN SEVEN SEVEN SEVEN SEVEN SEVEN SEVEN
The monitor's brightness surged and flooded the room in a stark white glow before it turned off again.
He stepped away from the monitor.
"This isn't funny."
The computer turned on one last time. But this time, there were no spammed numbers, nor did it flicker.
Just a phrase.
|| Reader #???, you… are late… ||
The lightbulb above flick-flickkkkeee—ered.
Flicker.
The computer whined, followed by a low, distorted noise that echoed through the room like a voice trying to speak through a static.
Flic–ckkee–eer.
Flicker.
The computer vanished.
The lightbulb vanished.
The light went out, and the room collapsed into black.