The boy woke up suddenly, gasping.
Everything... was a dream?
He rubbed his eyes, staring around the room until his gaze landed on his desk. A pen.
He froze.
It was the same pen from his dream — or was it just a normal one? He didn't remember owning a fountain pen.
Cautiously, he reached for it. Nothing happened. No glowing light, no voice, no system window.
"Nothing? No special power?" he muttered.
Still, curiosity won over doubt. He grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote:
Make me a billionaire.
The ink glowed faintly for a second before a line appeared beneath his words.
You do not have enough mental power.
He blinked. "Mental power? What does that mean?"
He wrote again:
Explain what is mental power.
The pen started moving on its own.
Mental power is the ability to make changes without being noticed by other Authors or causing butterfly effects. In simple terms — you can't change something that's too obvious or unrealistic.
He stared at the words, processing them. So he couldn't just wish for anything big.
"Alright," he murmured, "something simple."
He wrote:
An apple appears on the table.
A second later — thunk!
An apple dropped straight onto his head.
"…Close enough."
A grin spread across his face. He knew what to do now.
One by one, he wrote the things he always wanted — a gaming PC, a TV, a Samsung J25 Ultra, and more.Each appeared before him, and soon his once-empty room was overflowing with everything he'd ever dreamed of.
For the first time in his life, he felt genuinely happy. Maybe even the happiest he'd ever been.
Later, out of curiosity, he checked what his old schoolmates were doing. College. Relationships. Parties.
He sighed. "Better stay alone," he whispered. "If someone finds out about this, they might steal it."
To protect himself, he began watching crime documentaries — studying mistakes, learning how criminals got caught.
But one line from the pen's explanation echoed in his mind:
...without being noticed by other Authors.
"Other Authors…?" he murmured. "Does that mean there are more of them?"
A sudden unease filled his chest. He clenched the pen tightly. "Maybe it's still a dream," he said — and stabbed the pen into his hand.
Pain. Real pain. Blood dripped onto the desk.
"It's real," he whispered. "Completely real."
He started laughing quietly. "So I can make fake money, gold, even predict stocks… It's all possible."
But then he paused, thinking. "If a stock rises without real company growth, wouldn't that draw attention? Maybe that's how other Authors notice changes."
He looked at the pen again and chuckled darkly."If you think I'm wrong, why don't you write your own novel?"
A sound echoed — laughter. But it wasn't his.
Someone — or something — was watching him.
Could it be another Author? A higher being? The same one who killed the first Author to test him?
Tom — yes, that was his name — didn't notice. He was too happy, like an ant that had found a mountain of sugar.
But soon, maybe that happiness would rot. Maybe he'd start using the pen for darker things.
For now, Tom's thoughts wandered to the girl he once liked. He smiled faintly. "Maybe I'll join her college," he said. "It'll be fun."
He picked up the pen to write again—
RIIIP!
A tearing sound filled the air.
Tom blinked. The world twisted. Suddenly, he was back at the Author's table, staring at the same pen again.
"Is it… the same one?" he whispered.
Was someone else writing him now?Was he trapped in a story that wouldn't let him meet her?Or was he stuck… in a time loop?