I scrolled through the latest chapter of Saga of the Divine Swordsman on my phone, my thumb smearing a faint streak of red across the screen. The blood wasn't fresh—dried now, flaking from my knuckles—but I couldn't bring myself to wipe it away just yet.
"What a ridiculous turn for such a promising story," I muttered, letting out a frustrated sigh. The chapter felt like watching something precious slowly unravel, thread by thread.
There'd been a time when this novel was special. Murim warriors clashing with blades like thunder, high-tier spellcasters twisting reality into knots, all set in a dystopia teetering on collapse. Battles unfolded like intricate chess matches, each move carefully considered. The twists were masterfully crafted—I'd spent nights tracing storylines back dozens of chapters, appreciating how meticulously everything connected.
Now? Now it was falling apart.
Lucifer Windward, the protagonist, was losing his grip—sanity slipping faster than the plot's coherence. Characters died abruptly, without purpose or meaning. The story's internal logic seemed abandoned. And then—vampires.
Vampires.
Extinct, the author had promised, gone for a hundred and sixty years. Yet here they were, emerging from some previously unmentioned underground city, led by a Vampire Monarch who'd somehow avoided all detection throughout the established history.
The comment section was in chaos. Fans expressed outrage, theorists offered desperate explanations, apologists tried to make sense of the new direction. One had posted an essay detailing Chapter 1410's contradictions—I'd read it, agreeing with many points. Another gave up entirely, posting AI memes of Lucifer weeping over noodles. It wasn't just a decline; it was a complete departure from what made the story great.
It hadn't started this way. Humanity, crushed by non-human overlords—elves, dwarves, magic beasts ruling from on high—had fought back with technology, determination, and calculated risks. Elves and dwarves eventually adapted to human society, demons were banished, vampires were eliminated.
Or so the story claimed.
At its heart was Lucifer Windward—a prodigy with extraordinary potential. Yin-Yang body, elemental affinities that defied convention, ocular powers that could overwhelm any opponent. He was an Immortal-rank fighter who rose through seemingly impossible odds.
I glanced at my hands. The blood was old, from a confrontation earlier that day. I didn't dwell on it.
I'd followed his journey closely, imagining better strategies for his battles, different approaches to his problems. That's why this hurt. The author had taken a compelling character and buried him in misery. The Windward family fell—his father's death feeling inevitable but poorly executed. Allies vanished, the Kagu dynasty—once a martial powerhouse—crumbled under threats that seemed manufactured for drama. Then the pacing collapsed. Lucifer faced enemies that contradicted the established world, stakes spiraling into incoherence, the carefully constructed power balance torn apart.
It'd been engaging once—unpredictable but consistent, vast but navigable. Now it was disappointing, though even that disappointment revealed how much I'd cared. I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaving faint red smears, and leaned back.
Then the world broke.
It wasn't a flicker, not a shadow creeping in. Light didn't dim—it vanished, ripped away completely. A void opened beneath me, cold and endless, pulling with overwhelming force. I'd imagined darkness before, but this wasn't anything I could have prepared for. My feet slipped, the floor gone, and I fell, air howling past me. The phone was lost, my hands empty but still stained, still trying to grasp something, anything.
What was happening?
A voice cut through the dark, distant yet clear, piercing the nothingness like a thread of light. "I am sorry," it said, heavy with finality. "This was the only way."
I tried to speak, to question, to understand. My voice failed. My body locked. My mind—usually sharp and focused—began to dissolve, consciousness fraying at the edges as I was pulled deeper into the abyss.
Then—
Nothing.