Chapter 1: A Cliché Apocalypse
The first thing I registered was the smell. It was the sterile, metallic scent of a Story Capsule, a smell that was supposed to be filtered out but always lingered like a ghost in the machine. The second thing was the taste of ash and blood in my mouth—a dramatic, over-the-top sensory detail the author had added for "immersion."
I opened my eyes. I was neo , protagonist of The Fallen creator , and my life was a poorly written web novel.
/TOO MUCH IMMERSION RATE //
//PULLING OUT FROM THE STORY//
//ERRRRROR //
STARTING SYSTEM
// SYSTEM OVERLAY ACTIVATED // STORY: THE FALLEN CHAPTER 27A. RATING: 4.1 Stars
AGAIN REPEATING FROM. RANDOM CHAP
A 4.1? I thought, pushing myself up from the grimy floor of the derelict subway tunnel. Seriously?
"Neo!" a voice chirped in my ear, synthesized yet straining for warmth. "Your vitals are stable. The Hells Sphere activity in Sector 7 has subsided. This is your window to scavenge for medical supplies for your younger brother,."
Emma. My advisor. The voice of the narrative itself.
"Let me guess," I muttered, brushing dust off my worn jacket. "The hospital is overrun with low-level 'Ash Imps,' but in the ruined pharmacy next door, I'll find not only the medicine but also a cryptic clue about the origin of the Hells Spheres."
There was a brief, flustered silence. "The narrative logic is sound," Emma retorted, her tone defensive. "Readers enjoy predictable rewards. It creates a satisfying power curve."
"It creates a boring story," I shot back, stepping over a pile of rubble that looked suspiciously like a standard-issue "apocalypse set piece." "And the 'comatose family' trope? My parents and older sister just... fell asleep when the Spheres appeared? Not a disease, not a curse, just... narrative convenience to give the hero a tragic motivation. It's lazy."
"The emotional stakes are—"
"The emotional stakes are a cardboard cutout," I interrupted, peering around a corner. A flickering neon sign for "Joe's Diner" was the only source of light, another tired post-apocalyptic cliché. "Why do these dungeon-like 'Hells Spheres' even appear? Random dimensional rifts? Unexplained. What's the connection between the Spheres and the 'coma'? Unexplained. The author just threw in a bunch of cool-sounding ideas and hoped no one would ask questions."
I could feel Emma fuming in the digital ether. "This story is not bad! It has a consistent internal logic!"
"Consistently bad," I whispered, as a scuttling noise echoed ahead. Two Ash Imps, their bodies made of animated slag and embers, were gnawing on the remains of an old car. Standard Chapter 7 mobs.
The narrative pushed at me, a gentle, insistent pressure in my mind: Draw your sword. Engage in combat. Defeat them.
I sighed. Instead, I picked up a small rock and threw it down a side passage. The clatter echoed loudly. The Ash Imps' heads snapped up, and they scurried towards the noise, driven by their simple, poorly-programmed AI.
"See?" I said to Emma. "Bypassed. No unnecessary combat. Better pacing."
"That... was not in the script!" Emma protested.
"The script needs an editor."
My goal was the pharmacy. But as I moved, a wrongness tugged at my periphery. A shimmer in the air, denser than the rest, humming with a power that felt... misplaced. It was a Hells Sphere, but not like the others. This one was pulsing with a deep, violet light, and the air around it was cold, not hot.
"Emma, what's that? That's not on the map."
"Anomaly detected," she said, her voice suddenly all business. "Energy signature is... divine-tier. This is a late-game encounter! Neo, retreat! Your current level is insufficient!"
But it was too late. The Sphere rippled, and a figure stepped out. It wasn't an Imp. It was tall, elegant, with skin the colour of obsidian and eyes that burned with white fire. A demon, but one wearing the tattered remains of a fine suit. This was no minor monster. This was a named character, a boss. It shouldn't be here for another fifty chapters.
Its gaze locked onto me. "The... reader," it hissed, its voice like grinding stone.
My blood ran cold. It saw me. Kai, the character, but me.
It moved faster than the narrative could render. A clawed hand shot out, piercing my chest. Agony, white-hot and terrifyingly real, exploded through me. I felt my health bar, a visual construct in the corner of my vision, plummet to zero.
// CRITICAL HIT // // HEALTH: 0/100 // // STORY SYNCHRONIZATION FAILING //
This was it. A glitch. A game over.
Darkness.
---
I gasped, my body jolting upright. The smell of ash was gone, replaced by the sterile Capsule air. I was back in my pod, the harness retracting. The screen in front of me displayed:
// STORY: THE FALLEN - EXITED // // FINAL RATING: 4.1 Stars // // ABILITY GAINED: NONE (Incomplete Run) //
I slammed my fist against the pod's release button, my heart hammering. That wasn't a standard death. That demon... it broke the rules.
The door hissed open, and blinding white light flooded in. I stumbled out into the bustling Hub of the Motherboard's main terminal. Thousands of other Capsules lined the walls, humming softly as users lived out stories.
"Kai! Over here!"
I turned to see Leo, my real younger brother, waving from a cafe kiosk, a wide grin on his face. Next to him was Jax, my best friend, whose idea of a good time was diving into the cheesiest romance novels the Motherboard had to offer.
"Rough run?" Jax asked, slurping a neon-blue drink. "You look like you just tried to critique a 5-star classic."
"You have no idea," I mumbled, slumping into a chair. My hands were still shaking.
"Did you at least get the medicine for your in-story brother?" Leo asked, his eyes full of genuine concern. He loved hearing about my adventures.
"No. I... I died. A demon showed up in Chapter 7."
Jax snorted. "A skill issue, my dude."
"This was different," I insisted, lowering my voice. "It knew I was a Reader. It called me 'the reader.'"
Jax's smirk faded. Leo leaned in closer.
"Whoa, Kai. That's... a new level of meta. You sure you didn't just hit your head on the Capsule door?"
"I'm sure." I pulled up my personal holoscreen, navigating to the Motherboard's Story Archives. I typed in The Fallen. The cover art loaded—a generic image of a guy with a glowing sword facing a dark portal.
AUTHOR: [DATA EXPUNGED]
I stared. The author's name was gone. Not hidden, not 'Anonymous.' Expunged. Deleted from the record.
"Leo, look at this."
He peered at the screen. "Huh. Weird. Must be a glitch in the Matrix."
But it wasn't a glitch. It was a clue. That demon, the author's missing identity, the narrative-shattering encounter... they were connected.
The story of The Fallen was terrible. But the mystery of who wrote it, and why it was trying to kill those who could see its flaws, was about to become my new obsession. I wasn't just a Reader anymore. I was a critic with a cause. And I was going to find the fallen creator.