Marquel grinded his teeth, cursing the author of The Empress Has Died in the comments section. He hadn't even noticed that each chapter had only one view—his. That fact, oddly enough, escaped his attention entirely.
His already foul mood, darkened by injustice, was now sour beyond measure.
Earlier that day, he'd been fired—unjustly accused, framed for a crime he didn't commit. His boss hadn't even looked him in the eyes when delivering the news, as if Marquel's presence was an inconvenience. And now, to top it all off, the finale of his favorite novel had ended in the worst possible way. It was an insult to everything he had invested in for the past two years.
"What kind of garbage ending was that?!" he growled, tossing his phone onto the bed.
It bounced once, nearly tumbling off the edge.
After all the buildup? All the sacrifices? And she just dies like that? He couldn't take it.
Fuming, he opened the comment section and typed furiously:
> "This ending is trash. The Empress deserved better! You hyped her up for 300 chapters just to toss her aside like a plot device?! What a waste!"
He hit "Post" with a satisfying jab of his thumb and stormed into the bathroom. Steam quickly filled the space as he turned on the hot water, trying to wash away the day's frustration.
But before he could step fully under the stream, his phone buzzed from the counter.
He frowned.
Who would even respond this quickly?
Curious, he wiped a spot on the mirror and squinted at the screen.
[New Message — Unknown Sender]: "Then could you change the Empress's fate?"
His brow furrowed, veins pulsing at his temple. Was this some sort of joke? Was the author mocking him?
He grabbed the phone, typing without hesitation.
> "Change it? Hell yeah, I would. I'd give her the ending she deserved."
He barely had time to drop the phone before it buzzed again.
"Yes. I can."
That was the last thing he saw before the room spun.
Pain—unbearable pain—stabbed through his skull like hot iron. He clutched at his temples, staggering backward. His breath caught. The world around him flickered.
"Damn it," he muttered, falling to his knees, the tile cool beneath him. "Not only did I lose my job, but now I'm hallucinating from rage over a stupid novel?"
His vision darkened.
Then—nothing.
---
When consciousness returned, he was still kneeling—but the bathroom was gone.
In its place was an enormous, opulent throne room. Massive pillars adorned with golden dragon carvings lined the hall. The floor beneath him was smooth but oddly uneven, like aged stone, worn down by centuries of footsteps.
A sharp, cold voice shattered the silence.
"State your name."
Marquel looked up.
Seated upon a red and obsidian throne was a woman of incomparable beauty. Her crimson eyes glowed like twin red eyes, scanning him with detached interest. Long red hair cascaded behind her like a waterfall of fire, her dress a seamless fusion of royal red and shadowy black that hugged her regal figure.
The Empress.
The very woman he had mourned. The one whose death had ruined the novel for him.
He stammered, "M-Marquel, my Lady."
Blood dripped from his knees. He hadn't realized he was kneeling on jagged stone.
She gave the slightest nod and gestured toward the exit with a flick of her hand. "You may leave."
That was it. No further inquiry. No explanation.
He rose on shaky legs, every joint protesting. His head still throbbed, and it took effort not to collapse. As she turned her attention to a letter in her hand—something about a royal banquet—Marquel stumbled out through a side door.
---
Later, in the quiet of a small, unremarkable room, he sat on the edge of a modest bed. There was a simple desk by the wall and a cracked mirror hanging above it.
He exhaled slowly, trying to piece things together.
"The author… wasn't joking," he whispered.
His memories slowly aligned with the influx of foreign information in his head. He was still Marquel—but now, he was a character in the world of The Empress Has Died. Worse, a secondary character. An expendable one.
He walked over to the mirror and examined himself. Black eyes. Shoulder-length black hair. Not striking, but not ugly either. Average. Forgettable.
His new backstory was bleak. Orphaned. Sold for a few gold coins. Raised as a slave. Recently, he'd been assigned to the palace as a servant—and now, part of a plot to poison the Empress.
A sick laugh escaped his lips.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be involved in that storyline?"
He paced the room, trying to steady his breathing.
The servants in the Empress's court had short life expectancies. Poison. Backstabbing. Accidents. Any one of them could end his life prematurely.
And the Empress? She was no mere villain.
She had been cold, ruthless, yes—but never without reason. Everything she did, she did for the World survival. The world hadn't known that in the original story until it was too late.
Her final act had been to sacrifice herself to destroy Azoth, the God of Destruction, after he possessed the protagonist's body. She saved the world—at the cost of her life, and the happiness of all the heroines who loved the main character.
But to the people, she died a tyrant. A monster. The scapegoat.
"Maybe… maybe I really can change her fate," Marquel whispered.
It wasn't just about rewriting a story anymore. It was about survival—and maybe redemption. For both of them.
He sat down again, staring at the desk.
If he could cultivate, grow strong, earn her trust—maybe he could rewrite not just her ending, but his own.
One thing was certain.
The author had given him a chance.
And he wasn't going to waste it