The velvet weight of the graduation gown felt like the heaviest thing I'd ever worn, but also the lightest. My graduation cap kept sliding forward, the itchy fabric digging into my forehead.
Just five more minutes, I told myself, clutching my damp palms together. Five minutes and the student loans stop growing. Five minutes and I never have to look at another syllabus again.
"Han-ul-ssi? Are you with us?"
I snapped out of my daze. Professor Park was looking at me from the podium, his glasses sliding down his nose. The auditorium was packed, the air heavy with the scent of graduation flowers and expensive hairspray.
"Yes, sorry, Professor," I mumbled, adjusting my cap.
"Come up, then. Your diploma isn't going to walk itself to you."
I stood up, my knees stiff from sitting on a folding chair for three hours. Feeling the eyes of my classmates on me, I realized I'd spent four years being 'the average guy' in the back of the room. This was my moment of transition. I walked up the stairs and reached out for the little leather tube in the Dean's hand. It represented freedom. It was my ticket out of the "struggling student" phase of my life.
Finally, I thought, a smile tugging at my lips. No more deadlines.
Then everything twisted. The stadium lights didn't go out; they were replaced by a violent, blinding crimson sky. The cheering of parents vanished, replaced by a silence so heavy it made my ears pop. One second I was smelling the floor wax of a university gym, and the next, I was inhaling the stench of something rotting in a gutter.
I stumbled, my feet hitting uneven, slimy cobblestones instead of the polished stage.
"What the...?"
The words died in my throat. I wasn't on stage. I was standing in a wide, circular plaza made of grey, weathered stone. In the center sat a fountain shaped like a weeping goddess, but the water flowing from her eyes was a dark, stagnant green.
I looked down at my hands. The diploma was gone. In its place was a heavy, rusted hunk of iron—a dagger so notched it looked more like a saw.
Wait. This isn't right. My brain felt like it was trying to process a corrupted file. I recognized this fountain. I recognized the jagged spires of the cathedral looming over the square like a predator's teeth.
"Right, like that ever actually happens," I scoffed under my breath. "Yeah, I've finally started to hallucinate...."
[NOTIFICATION: Synchronization Complete.]
[World: 'The Crimson Apocalypse' (Rank: S)]
[Role Assigned: Anonymous Extra #14]
[Current Plot Status: Immediate Casualty]
The blue screen hovered in the air, translucent and mocking. My stomach dropped. I remembered this Crimson Apocalypse. I remembered Anonymous Extra #14. He doesn't even get a line of dialogue. He just screams and dies in the first two pages to show the reader how scary the monsters are. This crazy novel...
The Crimson Apocalypse.
It wasn't even a "good" book. It was a brutal, nihilistic mess written by an author named 'GrimReaper' who clearly hated his audience. I'd found it during my sophomore year, late at night when the stress of looming exams made my skin crawl. I had needed something—anything—to make my own life feel less miserable.
At first, I read it to laugh at the absurdity. The Author killed off characters like he was getting paid per corpse. A beloved mentor? Dead by chapter three. The beautiful love interest? Eaten by a mid-tier mob in a filler arc.
But then, it became an obsession.
I'd spend my lunch breaks in the university library, hidden behind a stack of textbooks, scrolling through the comment sections. I was one of the "Hate-Readers"—the guys who pointed out every plot hole, every logic error, and every time the Author got lazy with the world-building.
I scoffed at the memory, though my throat felt like it was filled with sand. I had mocked the "flaws" of this world from the safety of my dorm room, eating instant ramen and feeling superior. Now, those flaws were the only thing keeping my heart beating.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't the "Regressor" from the later chapters who had the cool fire sword and the dark past. I was just Han-ul, the guy who had spent more time analyzing the mechanics of a fictional death-trap than he had preparing for his actual career.
[The Author is currently typing...]
[Event: 'The First Harvest' is about to begin.]
[Time until scripted death: 01:45]
For real? What's going on, seriously? I was supposed to get my freedom diploma, and now I'm inside this crazy novel? And what, one minute? I have less than two minutes to live?
"You've got to be kidding me!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the empty stone buildings. "I haven't even had my graduation dinner yet! I owe twenty grand in loans! You can't kill me before I even get a job!"
[Time until scripted death: 01:20]
High above, a gargoyle shifted. The sound of stone grinding against stone echoed through the silent plaza. It wasn't a statue anymore. It was a predator, and I was the bait.
Wait, wait a damn second. Let me think for a sec...
In the book, Extra #14 turns and runs toward the alley. The gargoyle intercepts him in four seconds. It's a scripted death. A fixed point.
"Like hell I'm following that script," I growled.
I didn't run for the alley. I looked at the fountain. I remembered a comment on a forum from years ago—the Author had admitted that in Chapter 1, the water was a "safe zone" because he hadn't coded the monster's line-of-sight correctly yet. It was after that that I started pointing out every flaw.
[WARNING: Character 'Han-ul' is deviating from the plot.]
[The Author is confused...]
"Get used to it," I snapped, lunging for the stagnant green water. "If I'm going to have a deadline, I'm the one who's going to set it." I spent four years paying tuition for a world that doesn't exist anymore. If I have to survive in your shitty novel, I'm going to make sure you regret every plot hole you ever left open.
[DAILY DEADLINE INITIALIZED: 23:59:59]