NEET stands for "Not in Education, Employment, or Training." The term first emerged in the UK in the late 1990s, describing young people aged 16-24 who weren't in school, working, or undergoing any kind of training. Now, it's spread globally, becoming a label for those trapped outside the mainstream flow of life.
Since the COVID-19 pandemic hit, countless Gen Z youth have suffered deep mental shocks. Forced isolation locked them away, sparking waves of anxiety that eroded their social skills. Everyday interactions that once came so easily now feel like minefields riddled with traps.
This phenomenon struck a young man named Zeyden, a die-hard novel reader who used to be incredibly outgoing. Before the outbreak, he was a charismatic guy with mesmerizing social prowess—always the center of attention wherever he went. But everything changed drastically when mandatory lockdowns kicked in. The outside world shut down, and he chose to hole up in his room for years on end.
Now, his body has softened a bit from lack of movement, his facial skin dull like it's never seen sunlight, his black hair greasy and carrying an unpleasant odor. His eyes are weary, ringed with thick dark circles from endless nights spent staying up. Living alone since childhood has shaped Zeyden into a fiercely independent person, reliant on no one. With his skills as a software engineer, he tackles high-paying freelance projects, enough to cover his daily needs without ever stepping foot outside.
"Damn, how lucky is this self-righteous protagonist prick!" Zeyden grumbled, clicking his tongue in annoyance, his eyes narrowing as he read the steamy scene unfolding. There, the protagonist was in the midst of fucking one of his favorite harem members on a sprawling king-size bed. Meanwhile, the other women from his harem—half-naked—surrounded them, touching themselves with teasing motions that ignited raw lust.
Their moans echoed in resonance, creating an intoxicating erotic symphony that could awaken dormant desires in anyone witnessing it. Even Zeyden, merely reading those strings of words, began to get lost in his own imagination—envisioning every detail so vividly, as if he were right there in the thick of it.
Each female character was described in meticulous detail, allowing readers to immerse themselves in their forms: from captivating curves, seductive facial expressions, to scents of perfume that seemed almost tangible. Each had a unique personality—some shy but wild in bed, others dominant and full of initiative—making interactions between characters feel so real and profound.
Add in the explosive, original superpowers, and the story grew even more intricate. There were complex political intrigues, power struggles among major players where supernatural abilities served as the ultimate weapons. Alliances formed and shattered, betrayals lurked in every shadow, while epic battles erupted with stunning visual effects.
But in the end, the protagonist always triumphed thanks to absurd, illogical luck. He wasn't clever, tactical, analytical, creative, or a genius by any stretch. All the heavy obstacles—ones that couldn't be brute-forced with raw power alone—he overcame through the support of the amazing women around him and his extraordinarily strong, loyal subordinates. They were the backbone, while he just reaped the rewards.
"Tch, if only the seventh stepfather of those women had given them enough love and attention," Zeyden muttered softly, lamenting the fate of one side character he'd been paying close attention to. "They wouldn't have fallen into the protagonist's hands from the start."
Zeyden Varoth Arclain—that name sounded grand, like the title of a protagonist in an epic fantasy novel. But in Zeyden's favorite webnovel world, that man was the stepfather to seven unrivaled beauties, a pure bastard shrouded in deadly charm. His face was as handsome as a Greek god, his wealth endless like an inexhaustible gold mine, and his talents? Genius-level prowess that made anyone envious. His life was perfect, even more perfect than the story's protagonist from the very first page.
But, like a classic bastard, Zeyden Varoth Arclain couldn't control his behaviors. Reckless, tyrannical toward his seven adopted daughters and those closest to him, he underestimated everything. The protagonist he dismissed as a mere shrimp eventually rose up, and boom—everything crumbled due to the consequences of his own actions. Blind superiority, without control or true power, caused him to lose the golden opportunities laid out before him.
Zeyden—the avid reader in the real world—let out a long sigh, shaking his head in deep disappointment. "We share the same name, but you've had everything from the start. What a waste, because of your stupidity, it all fell apart," he muttered softly, his voice muffled by the darkness of his room. His eyes still stared at the phone screen, chapter after chapter depicting the tragic end of that stepfather.
If I were you, I'd never make such idiotic mistakes. I'd change everything, conquer that world with an iron fist!
Those what-ifs spun in his mind like an uncontrollable wheel of fate. Zeyden lamented the character's fate once more, imagining himself stepping into the pages of the novel, seizing control from that foolishness.
Suddenly, his vision blurred, his eyelids growing heavy like lead weights. "Yawn... I'm so damn sleepy. Staying up two days without sleep is too much," he grumbled while yawning wide. His body rose lazily from the plush sofa, his feet dragging him toward the bed that called like a warm embrace. A quiet Sunday night, accompanied only by the AC's breeze and the dim glow of the desk lamp.
But before he could touch the blanket, the email notification chime shattered the silence—a rare sound on a weekend. "Huh, weird to get an email on Sunday. Maybe a bug from the source code of my finished project?" Zeyden muttered curiously, his hand rummaging in his pocket for his phone.
The notification blinked on the home screen. One tap, and the email opened. His eyes widened, his breath catching. The sender... Lily, the author of his favorite novel!
Zeyden was speechless for a moment, his heart pounding like a war drum. The email's content was like a crazy dream come true:
[Good evening, loyal reader. I've noticed you've been rereading my novel for months. It's truly amazing—your appreciation is so genuine. Unlike those hypocritical readers on mirror sites, you always subscribe officially and send expensive gifts as real proof.
As a reward, accept this special gift. An exclusive app that allows you to reincarnate into your favorite novel's world. But remember: once accepted, there's no way back to this Earth.
Choose wisely, oh faithful fan. May peace be with you.
Best regards, Lily—your favorite author.]
Attached was a suspicious .apk file. As an experienced software engineer, Zeyden knew the risks: third-party apps like this were prone to malware, could root his phone with sophisticated payloads, steal data, or worse.
But... this was from Lily! Fanaticism burned in his chest, scorching his common sense. How could he ignore an invitation from the goddess creator of that world?
Ignoring all the red flags in his brain, Zeyden installed the app. The process was quick, and a weird icon appeared on the screen. He opened it, and... hmm?
"A crappy single-page app?" he muttered in confusion. The interface was ridiculously simple: a big form with the text 'Are you ready to leave this world and reincarnate into the novel?' Below it, a green 'YES' button and a red 'NO'.
Zeyden chuckled amusedly, his shoulders shaking. "Hahaha, what kind of joke is this? What the hell is a dumb app like this supposed to do? Even advanced tech couldn't make someone reincarnate into a novel. What idiot developer made this shit?"
But curiosity won out. This was a gift from Lily, right? With a cynical smile, he pressed the green button. "See, it'll probably be some cheap special effect—eh?"
His laughter stopped. The world spun wildly, Zeyden's soul yanked by an invisible string into the phone screen. Black fog enveloped everything, a sensation of endless falling...
And then, total darkness.