"Effort is only effort when it begins to hurt."
That was a line that I lived by; I used to hammer that line into manuscripts the way some editors abuse the Oxford comma—until the night the line hammered back.
1:52 a.m.
Cold coffee, flickering monitors, the buzzing of overworked electronic devices—the holy trinity of every late-night copy-editor. My cursor crept over the file that held Project Tempest's final few chapters, a draft that I had just received to work on.
Project Tempest was the name I had given to the novel I had been editing for so long. It was more than a novel to me; I had seen it grow from nothing to being one of the most popular novels on the internet at this moment.
Yet it was coming to an end. The author, elusive R. Vega, hadn't emailed in weeks, but the manuscript kept auto-saving new paragraphs at 3 a.m. sharp. It was oddly punctual but convenient.
I'd chalked it up to poor version control. Yet tonight was different; for some reason I had received an email.
Ping.
New mail.
From: r.vega-private@ether-quill.ioSubject: Thank you for steering the ship
There was no body text, just an attachment called last_edit_note.docx. I double-clicked because I was curious—the author had rarely reached out to me; in fact, we had spoken few enough times to be counted on one hand.
Word opened on a blank page, then typed itself:
Editor,You've trimmed fat, stitched holes, and kept my characters breathing. But even with all of that, I am not satisfied with the way this story will end; I do not wish for that ending to occur. That is why I need you; this story needs you.
Please help me give this story the ending it deserves.—R.
"Huh?"
That was the first thought that came to mind. I was confused. Why would the author ask me to give the story the ending it deserves—after all, they were the author?
I reached for my mug—yet the monitor glare flared white. Every open document detonated into teal markup symbols. The words on the pages swirled, converging into a glowing caret that blinked once—
Insert here.
The office dissolved before I could react. Coffee, desk, gravity—gone. My last lucid thought was professional and petty: I didn't hit Save.
The next thing I knew, I woke up in an unknown place; the light was much too bright, the ceiling a pale white. Blue-white symbols traced the arches—for some reason the information as to what they were filled my mind: mana-repulsion wards.
The air smelled of lavender antiseptic. As I was orienting myself, a notification chimed an inch from my eyesight.
[EDITOR PANEL]
Lines of light floated mid-air like a transparent browser window. I poked it—my finger passed through. Okay. Hologram, or hallucination—one could never know.
Worse yet, maybe I was dead and this was the worst after-credits scene ever.
I sat up, and instantly I could tell something was different. Wrong body—narrow shoulders, lean muscle, faint citrus scent of someone else's shampoo.
I didn't even need to think; a name surfaced in my mind, unfamiliar but undeniably present:
Remina Solace.
Was that my name? No, my real name was—
"What was my name?"
For some reason I couldn't remember it; my real name blurred like a censored file, and pushing for it made my skull throb.
Fine. I wouldn't bother trying—one problem at a time.
Curtains rustled shortly after I had spoken aloud, and behind them a young man—a healer in mint-green robes—peeked in.
"Oh! You're awake, Miss Solace. Mana-fatigue spell backlash. Rest will help, but just in case, take this."
He set a silver tonic on the side table, and I couldn't quite tell what it was.
Field test, the editor in me whispered.
Surely they wouldn't give me something to harm me after taking care of me, right? Wait—were they taking care of me? My mind was still foggy and I hadn't had the chance to sort my memories out yet.
As I thought, the panel displayed a line of notes before my eyes.
Diagnosis: Minor Mana fatigue.
I blinked as I stared at the words; at least it was minor. Paying closer attention to the line displayed more information.
Stamina -1.
Mana -2.
The healer checked the clipboard before speaking once more.
"After you get some more rest, you should head back to your room. Classes don't start until tomorrow, so take it easy until then. And don't pull that kind of stunt again—I know kids these days like to show off, but that's seriously problematic."
Quite the talker he was; however, he left after he noticed I seemed distracted.
I lay back on the bed and turned to the side. A charcoal blazer with Ethersky Academy crest hung on the table next to me.
From the memories I could skim through, I was a first-year, a support type with a wind affinity. I was supposed to start classes this year—tomorrow, in fact—however I had gotten injured while testing spells with some other students.
Except there was a small issue about that whole magic thing. I had no knowledge about it; no matter what, I couldn't seem to find any memories related to magic, and I didn't feel any specific connection to it.
Attribute anomaly detected—see revision history.
Great, I was broken.
I pushed myself off the bed and moved over to the window. I peeled back the curtain and stepped into the sunlight. Beyond manicured lawns rose dorm spires and training towers—the very establishing shot I'd once flagged for being 'overly postcard.'
It was then I realized why this all felt so strange—beyond the whole reincarnation thing, of course.
This wasn't just any world; it was the world from the novel I was editing. It was my Project Tempest, and I had become a character in it.