The cursor blinked at him like it was mocking him.
Ethan verne stared at the last line of his manuscript, fingers frozen above the keyboard. The room around him was silent, save for the hum of a dying laptop and the occasional groan of his aging apartment heater. The title of his novel—"The Words We Leave Behind"—felt bitterly appropriate now.
He was thirty-two. He had started writing webnovels at the age of seventeen and wrote more than fifteen novels, yet he was unpublished. Not a single novel he wrote got recognition from the public. forgotten by the world and on the verge of giving up. Again.
"This one's different," he whispered to no one. "This one… this one matters."
He had rewritten the ending ten times. No agents had replied. His bank account was down to double digits. Rejection had become so familiar, he'd stopped opening emails from publishers.
But still… he wrote. Because when everything else failed—when friendships faded and family gave up—writing stayed. It was as if he loved nothing more than writing. Earning money from the writing was not his goal. He just wanted his creation to be recognized by all.
Tonight was the last night he'd try.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the thermos beside his desk. Cold coffee. Of course. He forced it down, then tapped the keys.
"...and with ink-stained hands, he let go—not of life, but of regret."
He paused. Smiled faintly. That was it. His best line. His last.
And then… the pain struck.
A tightness in his chest, sharp and cruel. The world blurred, and the screen wavered. Ethan gasped, knocking over the cup. Coffee spilled across the desk, seeping into paper drafts like muddy blood.
He slumped forward, his vision darkening. One hand reached for the keyboard, as if to write just one more word.
One more line.
One more dream.
And then, nothing.
He awoke to crying.
Not his.
High, shrill wails echoed around him. Light pierced his eyes. He flailed instinctively—but his limbs were wrong. Weak. Tiny.
A woman's voice, soft and breathless:
"He's beautiful… our little one…"
Ethan blinked. The voice sounded clearer than it should have. Sharper. Like it was inside his skull. He tried to speak. All that came out was a whimper.
Hands lifted him. Warm, unfamiliar. A face looked down at him—a face he'd never seen before, glowing with tears and joy.
He was… a baby?
No. That was ridiculous.
And yet… this wasn't a hospital. There were no machines, no monitors, and no sterile lights. Just firelight, soft blankets, and a man standing nearby in a tunic made of stitched leather.
He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't hallucinating. He was born again.
Ethan Gray, failed novelist, had died…
And now, he had a second chance.
As the unfamiliar ceiling loomed above him, only one thought formed clearly in his newborn mind:
"I still want to write."
It's been eleven months since Ethan came into this world, and he just learned to walk with his weak, fragile legs. With this, his understanding of the family also increased.
Our house always smelled like parchment and rain.
It wasn't big. Just a slouched-roof cottage at the edge of the village, where the wind howled louder than the people and the walls creaked like old knees in winter. But inside… it was warm. Ink-stained. Alive, in the way only stories and stubborn love can make a place feel.
My father, Bram Verne, rarely spoke unless it was necessary—and even then, his words came out like they'd been measured with a ruler. He spent most of his time at his bench, mixing inks from ash, berry oil, and who-knows-what with the precision of a potion master. His hands were always stained black, cracked with work, yet steady as ever. He used to be a royal scribe, or so the rumors said. I never asked, and he never offered the truth. Maybe he thought some chapters were better left closed.
Mother was the real magic in the house.
Elise Verne had once served at court, though you'd never hear it from her lips. Still, there was grace in her movements, even as she stirred stew or patched my sleeves. Her stories—gods, her stories—were like threads of gold spun in candlelight. She'd tell tales while she worked, wrapping the room in dragons and ghost brides, in lost kings and clever beggars. I don't know when I started writing my own stories. Maybe it was the first time she said, "What if…"
And then there was Lina—my little sister, chaos given shape.
She ran through the house barefoot with ink on her face and questions falling from her mouth like birdseed. She drew monsters on the walls, named them, and gave them personalities. She didn't get my writing obsession, not really, but she liked that I wrote. And she always asked to be the first to hear my stories—even when she fell asleep halfway through.
We didn't have nobility. Or gold. Or prestige.
But we had each other.We had ink in our blood and stories in our bones.
And that, I think, is what made us Verne.
(At night)
I never thought I'd be born again with drool on my pillow and a bedtime story in my ears.But here I was—small, warm, safe—wrapped in a wool blanket beside a flickering hearth, listening to my new mother spin tales like silk.
"—And then the Duke of Felmere raised his blade to the sky, calling upon the Fire Seraph's Oath," she said, her voice soft, melodic. "And the sky cracked open like an egg. Lightning danced down his sword like a ribbon of fury…"
She smiled at me as if it were just a harmless story. Something to lull a child to sleep.
But I wasn't a child. Not really.
I was a grown man once. A failed novelist with overdue rent and a dying laptop. I had taken my last breath mid-sentence, pen in hand, working on a story no one would ever read. And then—I woke up here. In this strange, beautiful, magical world.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I realized…This world—this story—it was everything I used to write about.
Knights bound by ancient pacts. Fallen gods. Spirit beasts. A kingdom held together by blood, magic, and fear. It wasn't just fantasy—it was structured. Like someone had written it with genre tropes in mind. Kingdoms had complex hierarchies. Magical elements had cost and logic. There were ruins with puzzles, guilds with rankings, and nobles with suspiciously tragic backstories.
It felt too coherent. Too intentional.
Too much like a webnovel.
And yet, it was real. My breath frosted on the windows. My heart still raced when I heard wolves in the distance. And when I stared at my tiny ink-stained fingers, I didn't see a writer anymore. I saw a blank page.
A second chance.
"Ethan?" my mother whispered, brushing my hair back. "You still awake, darling?"
I nodded softly.
She chuckled. "Always thinking too much. One day, you'll tell stories far greater than mine."
I swallowed.
She had no idea.
I had no idea that every time she spoke of the Flamebound Knights or the Whispering Forests, I wasn't just hearing fairytales—I was gathering intel. Lore. Worldbuilding. Like a reader parsing foreshadowing in Chapter 3.
But more than that… I was falling in love again.
Not just with the world, but with the idea of writing it. Of shaping it.
Of telling a story from inside the page.
This time, maybe the story wouldn't end with a flop.Maybe it wouldn't end at all.
Maybe… this time, it would begin.