"Why don't you just die already?" the man muttered, irritation thick in his voice.
He stared down at what used to be a human. It was hard to tell now — a grotesque lump of flesh barely clinging to life, twitching on the cold stone floor of the prison. Whatever it was, it was still breathing. Somehow. That alone pissed him off.
The thing tried to speak. Its mouth twitched, trembling, as if every nerve screamed for mercy. Its voice—if it could even be called that—gurgled in its shredded throat, struggling to push past the blood and the pulped mess clogging it.
It lay in a pool of its own blood and shredded organs, a steaming heap of ruined meat. Limbs were no longer attached where they should've been. Torn tendons, exposed ribs, and ripped muscles spasmed without rhythm. It was a miracle—no, an abomination—that it still hadn't died.
Sometimes it squirmed, like it was still trying to crawl somewhere. The sight was almost comical. Like watching a boneless corpse flop around aimlessly.
Most people who saw this would've thrown up on the spot. Not just because of the corpse—no, not even close. It was the whole room. The thick, choking stench of blood. The sticky crimson film splattered across the floor and walls. That awful sound of something wet dragging across stone.
Disgusting.
The man in golden armor looked down with cold eyes, sneering. "Hmph. My patience is wearing thin," he said, voice sharp. "So don't test me. Use your divine sense and tell me where that thing is—now. Or I'll scatter what's left of your soul into the void."
He leaned in, his tone colder. "Or would you prefer being burned alive by Nirvana's flame… forever?"
The meat-pile twitched again. Slowly. Deliberately.
Despite having no face to speak of anymore, it turned… or tried to… toward the man. A faint shimmer pulsed from the remains—like a whisper of spirit, or consciousness refusing to die.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the mutilated wreckage, a voice echoed. It wasn't a normal voice—it bypassed sound. Ethereal. Distant. Raw.
"I… don't… care."
The words were barely there. Faint. Muffled. But they reached him clearly.
The message was simple.
"I don't care anymore."
The universe is doomed anyway.
So why should I hand it over?
Let it all burn.
Let them all remember.
Let my name be the one that destroyed everything.
"You—!" the man snarled.
And just like that—
The ruined body, the echo of a woman who once lived, crumbled silently into ash. No light. No scream. Just… gone.
Only silence remained.
Earth 20XX
"Hey, look over there! Who is she?"
"Is she a model?"
"Wow, she's even prettier than my waifu!"
"Where? I wanna take a picture!"
"Damn, the famous campus belle actually came to our computer department."
"Campus belle?"
"Yeah, the top ten most beautiful girls in the university. That one's supposed to be the most stunning of all. Unfortunately, no one has ever seen her smile, he sighed.
"Well, that's why people call her the Ice Princess afterall." Another student chimed in.
…
A low hum of excitement spread through the crowd of students, all drawn to the girl's presence like moths to a flame. Cameras clicked, phones lifted, but no one dared step within five meters of her. It was as if an invisible wall surrounded her. An aura of cold indifference that warned people to keep their distance.
Yuki gave the crowd a brief glance, her face carefully composed. She attempted a polite expression, but the result came off more like the piercing stare of a tigress. The students froze mid-photo, unsure whether to admire or fear her.
Then someone shouted, "Move away! Make a path for the Ice Princess!"
The crowd shifted. One by one, the students stepped aside, instinctively creating a path for her. She walked forward without a word, her quiet elegance and aloof beauty leaving a trail of silent awe in her wake.
Later that evening, at a luxury private apartment complex near the university, Yuki swiped her card and pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner. The door unlocked with a soft beep.
Still in her school uniform, she stepped inside, walked straight to her bedroom, and threw herself face-first onto the mattress. She didn't even bother taking off her socks.
A muffled groan escaped her lips.
So many eyes. So many whispers. And somehow, she had finally succeeded in walking straight into the coding department building without accidents.
Yuki was a first-year university student—reserved, soft-spoken, and unapproachable. Diagnosed at birth with Moebius syndrome, a rare neurological condition that left her facial muscles paralyzed, she had never once smiled, frowned, or cried visibly. Her face remained a perfect, emotionless mask.
It made social interaction… challenging. She had grown up an introvert, avoiding crowds, choosing silence over small talk. But despite all that, she had an undeniable, almost ethereal beauty—sharp eyes, porcelain skin, silky black hair. It didn't take long before her fellow students dubbed her the Ice Princess.
A name she hated.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, cheeks faintly flushed.
Ice Princess… Ice Princess… She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry…
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. 18:00. Time had slipped by faster than expected.
As Yuki had said — and mentally sighed about — it had been nearly six whole months since she last touched the plot files for her novel.
And honestly? That wasn't even surprising.
Given her introverted personality, she spent most of her days holed up in her apartment like a proper shut-in, reading web novels, binging anime, and grinding games like a full-blooded otaku. Social interaction? Yeah, she'd rather fight a raid boss with one HP and no healing potions.
But after years of consuming fantasy and action-packed stories like snacks, a certain itch started to bother her. Something felt… off.
Why are all these novels so close, yet so far from what I want?
They were good, sure. But none of them really hit that perfect sweet spot that Yuki craved. Too much cringe. Not enough cool. Great world, boring MC. Cool MC, dumb plot. It was an endless cycle of disappointment. And then it hit her.
If there are no novels that fit my god-tier preferences... then I'll just make one myself!
Sounds easy, right?
Sore wa kesshite kantande wa arimasendeshita
Reality sucker-punched her so hard that even her reincarnated protagonist would've felt it in the afterlife.
Writing a novel wasn't just "make a cool main character, slap in a heroine, and profit." Nope. She had to build characters with actual depth, make an entire world that made sense, and somehow keep a plot from collapsing under its own logic.
After just three failed attempts, Yuki finally understood the pain of authors.
The pure, soul-crushing agony of pouring your heart into a story only for some keyboard warrior to comment:
"Mid."
"Dropped after ch3."
"Trash MC. No personality."
She almost cried. But unfortunately for the universe, Yuki was as stubborn as a broken vending machine that refuses to give your soda.
"If other people can write great stories, then why the hell can't I ?"
Dozens of drafts, plot holes, and existential crises later, she finally came up with a plan.
Okay. If I can't write a perfect novel from scratch, I'll at least start by listing down the core stuff first.
From that day forward, she dedicated her life to crafting the ultimate foundation. Best MC? Check. Deep, believable world? Check. Plot twists that would break readers' souls in half? Double check.
She devoured tropes, dissected genres, and analyzed light novels like a scholar decoding ancient scrolls. Then she bent them to her will.
Six months passed like a montage. Her room became a battleground of energy drink cans, sticky notes, and "DO NOT DISTURB – THE Herta at work" scribbled on her door.
And finally, after all that grinding, she finished her prep work.
Character designs? Done.
World-building? Solid.
Plotlines? Hundreds.
"This should be enough… right?" she whispered to herself, as if trying to convince a suspicious teacher that she, in fact, finished her homework.
…
Back to the present.
Yuki sat at her desk, eyes gleaming with excitement. Fingers hovering above her keyboard, her heart pounded like she was about to confess to her crush. This was it. The prologue. The beginning of her masterpiece.
Armed with six months of groundwork and a soul burning brighter than any shonen protagonist, she cracked her knuckles.
"Heaven can't stop me now," she grinned. "Fail me once, shame on you. Fail me twice? Ha—shame on me. But not this time!"
And so, she began typing.
Click-clack. Tap-tap. Her fingers danced across the keys like they were possessed by the spirit of a thousand authors. Her dinner sat cold and untouched on the table, completely forgotten.
Two hours later, surrounded by a battlefield of snack wrappers, scribbled notes, and intense determination…
She did it.
She finally wrote the prologue.
"I wish."
Even after all that prep, all that energy, all that anime protagonist-tier determination. Yuki couldn't even finish her damn prologue.
She stared at the blinking cursor on her screen. Word count? 169…
Emotional damage.
Her fingers slipped from the keyboard as her posture collapsed like her will to live. She leaned back, eyes dull, body slouched like a lifeless doll propped up in a chair.
"…Shame on me, I guess."
Dragging herself to the bed, she flopped onto it without grace or purpose, rolled over, and curled into a tight little ball. Not that it changed anything. Her face stayed frozen in its usual unreadable neutrality, thanks to her Moebius syndrome.
No tears. No pouting. No twisted brows.
Just silence…
"I give up," she mumbled.
Of course, she didn't mean it. But at that moment, her brain was already in full meltdown mode. In her mind, chaos raged.
She kicked her legs under the blanket.
She grabbed her pillow and screamed into it, letting out the kind of noise that could summon demons or at least get a noise complaint from the neighbors.
Then again… silence followed.
The laptop screen dimmed a little, as if judging her silently from across the room.
Yuki peeked out from the covers, glaring at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.
"…Don't look at me like that," she muttered to the laptop.
The cursor blinked back, unbothered. Mocking her.
She sighed and rolled over again, feeling like the dramatic lead in a coming-of-age movie that hadn't quite figured out what age they were supposed to be coming into.
Her pride? Obliterated.
Her motivation? On life support.
Her snack stash? Nearly gone.
Was this the end of Yuki's author journey? A crash and burn even before chapter one?
Silence filled the room.
The kind of silence that didn't soothe. The kind that made breathing feel heavier.
She stayed like that—curled up, frozen, stuck in her head—for a long time.
Whether it was minutes or hours, she didn't know.
Only one thought circled in her head, quiet but constant.
"I just wanted to make something beautiful."
While Yuki lay still in her blanket cocoon, lost in the cold loop of self-denial, a sudden, dull knocking echoed from the door.
Knock knock knock.
Her eyes opened blankly.
"…What is it…" she muttered, voice barely audible, like someone sleep-talking in a lucid dream.
Dragging herself from the bed, she shuffled across the room. Her limbs felt like they were made of steel, and her mind felt foggy, like she was drunk. She didn't bother fixing her hair, changing her expression, or even fully waking up. The knock came again.
She stopped in front of the door and glanced at the small screen beside it—her building's monitoring system.
Outside stood a young man in a black hoodie. Clean-shaven, fresh-faced, and holding a neatly wrapped bundle of roses.
He smiled at the camera. Warmly.
Yuki blinked.
"…Oh, it's delivery."
Her voice was flat. Expression blank, as always.
"Roses?"
Her brow twitched slightly in confusion.
"Let me guess… another creepy fanboy who tracked down my address."
Then she paused. "Wait… maybe it's just the wrong room? It could be for someone else on the floor. Right. Probably just a mix-up."
Still half-asleep and fully uninterested, she unlocked the door but didn't step outside. Instead, she cracked it open just a few inches and looked through the gap, just enough to speak.
"…Who is it for?" she asked in her usual quiet, monotone voice.
No reply.
The delivery man's smile didn't fade—but it twisted. Just a little.
Then, without warning, he lunged.
In an instant, the roses scattered to the floor, and from between the petals, a thin blade flashed.
The man plunged a weird-looking knife straight into Yuki's chest, just below her collarbone.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her body froze, instinctively stepping back, falling on the floor.
Her brain didn't even have time to panic. Her thoughts didn't rush. They just… slowed down.
"…What… why…?" she asked faintly, breath catching in her throat as warm blood began to soak through her thin shirt.
But the man didn't answer. He just widened the crevice of the door, breaking the chains which bound the door and the wall with pure strength and walked in the apartment.
He only pressed the knife deeper, slowly, mechanically. No anger. No hate. Just cold intent behind lifeless eyes.
Petals fluttered to the floor around them, as if in slow motion—beautiful, red, and silent.
Yuki stumbled back. Her vision wavered.
She clutched the wound, blood seeping between her fingers. Her knees buckled. Her head grew heavy.
"Ah, I remembered that there was a character from an anime who also died like this, how tragic."
Her vision darkened.