###
....then came the final attack from the Paladins.
A light descended — holy, divine, the kind that's supposed to purify sins and cleanse darkness — but in practice, it just looked like a giant sky-laser ready to kill everything that breathed.
All humans, every last one, watched.
They didn't scream. Screaming was over.
You scream when you think someone might hear you.
They just stood there — silent witnesses to the end.
Among them was the 'hero'.
The hero — battered, bruised, and shirtless for no reason — stared up at the light that was about to obliterate him.
His blade was broken. His allies were gone.
His plot armor had clearly expired.
Then his eyes shifted.
To his lover.
Ah yes, her.
Hard to keep track of which lover this was — he'd had many.
A concerning amount, really.
But most of them had already heroically sacrificed themselves for his character growth, which was funny because he still acted like a hormonal teenager with a savior complex.
Anyway, let's not talk about that.
In the final seconds of a collapsing world, he moved toward her.
Or tried to.
He tripped.
Yep. Just collapsed like a sack of heroic potatoes.
Maybe his ankle twisted. Maybe gravity just got tired of him.
His lover — the last one — was crying.
Hard.
Not the elegant, silent tears you see in art.
This was ugly crying. Messy.
Her face blotchy, her mouth wide open like a horror movie screamer on loop.
I think she was even drinking her own tears.
Anyway, the hero didn't stand up.
Why? Don't ask me.
He crawled instead.
Dragging himself through mud , blood and ash. Fingers digging into the ground like every inch forward was a punishment.
The light got closer.
Her lover's tiny, overworked brain finally sparked a thought — revolutionary, really.
If he can't walk to me… maybe I can walk to him?
Genius.
Give that girl a medal. Or at least a functioning sense of urgency.
Just a step.
Then another.
They reached.
Their hands almost touched—
Boooooooooooooooom !!!
That's it.
Everything died. Everyone gone.
The end.
###
Sam stared at the screen.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
Just… existing in quiet post-traumatic literary shock.
The room around him was pitch black, save for the cold, sterile glow of his monitor.
It cast an eerie light over his dead-inside expression, like he was witnessing a murder.
And in a way, he was.
"What the fuck did I just read," he whispered.
Then louder, like maybe yelling it would make it less true:
"No seriously, what the ACTUAL FUCK did I just read?"
Chapter 999.
The final chapter.
The grand finale of Divine Prophecy — a novel he'd loyally followed for over a year, every update, every filler flashback, every time the hero cried under a waterfall for "growth."
And how did it end?
The hero tripped.
The girl ugly-cried.
And everyone died in a holy death beam.
He looked at the view count.
1.
Just him.
Only him.
Somewhere between Chapter 500 and now, the world had moved on.
Dropped it. Deleted bookmarks. Burned the memory.
But not Sam.
No, he stayed.
Why? Even he didn't know.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe the twisted need to see how it all ended.
Maybe… just maybe… it was because the novel was free.
Who said that was the real reason? Rude !!!
He sighed.
The long, defeated sigh of a man who had been emotionally catfished by worldbuilding.
"What did I even expect from a free novel? Hmm? Closure? Logic? A plot that walks without tripping?"
He scrolled back up the page, skimming the final lines one more time, like a masochist re-reading his own death sentence.
"Why is the author still writing this?" he whispered.
Then:
"Why was I still reading this?"
The screen didn't answer. It just sat there — glowing, mocking, proudly displaying THE END like it had accomplished something noble.
Sam shook his head.
He was done.
Emotionally wrecked. Mentally drained. Spiritually betrayed.
His hand moved to shut the computer.
Sleep. He needed sleep.
But then—
Ping.
A soft notification blinked in the corner of the screen.
It was an update.
[Chapter 1000 — Released]
Sam blinked.
"No way..."
"Chapter… 1000?"
He leaned in, confused.
"But— everyone died, right?"
He didn't overthink it.
Maybe it was an epilogue. Maybe a thank-you note.
Or maybe the author had finally lost it.
He clicked.
The screen went black for a second.
Then loaded a single line.
"Zelthar om veyrun, kri thal'eth mora."
His pulse jumped a little.
Strange words.
Ancient? Alien? Runic fantasy nonsense?
He leaned closer.
Read it out loud.
Silence.
He waited.
Expecting... something.
A system update? A secret animation?
Maybe a .....ghost?
Nothing happened.
He read it again.
Slower this time.
More serious.
Still nothing.
Sam sighed, rubbed his face, and cursed under his breath.
"What the hell was I expecting?"
He shut the computer.
Then he went to bed.
Just sleep.
The night passed peacefully.
Too peacefully.
As if the universe was charging interest on calm.
Then came the morning light — soft, golden… and absolutely not coming through his usual dusty window blinds.
Sam, dead asleep, was yanked back to consciousness by a sharp pain stabbing through his head.
"Ah—shit!" he groaned, clutching his skull.
He writhed in bed like a fish tossed out of water, kicked the sheets off in a panic, and promptly rolled off the bed with a solid thud.
"Oh fuck," he hissed from the floor.
Eyes squinted, he looked around.
Something was wrong.
No, scratch that.
Everything was wrong...
He rubbed his eyes. Blinked. Rubbed again.
Still not his room.
Gone was the glowing computer screen. Gone was the coffee mug.
Gone was the sad bachelor vibe.
In its place: a stone-walled room with tall arched windows, heavy velvet drapes, a bookshelf crammed with dusty leather-bound tomes, and candle sconces casting a soft, flickering glow across the chamber.
Sam staggered to his feet, mind racing.
As a seasoned fantasy webnovel reader, he knew what this was.
And he also knew it could only mean one thing.
"I'm in deep shit," he muttered.
He rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Outside was… a fantasy world.
Rolling emerald hills. Floating islands. Sky whales.
Sky whales?!
Magic glowed in the air like pollen.
It was breathtaking. Surreal.
And, more importantly—
Accurate. Too accurate.
Just like the novel he'd finished reading the night before.
The cursed novel.
The slow-paced literary war crime called Divine Prophecy.
Then, movement caught his eye.
A mirror.
An ornate one, hanging on the wall beside the wardrobe.
Sam turned.
Walked to it slowly. Like approaching a time bomb.
He stared at his reflection.
Then froze.
Wide eyes.
Wrong face.
Wrong hair.
Wrong body.
"...Fuck. Fuck. FUCK."
He stumbled back, pointing at the mirror like it had personally betrayed him.
"WHY HIM? WHY—WHY HIM?!"
Of all the characters in Divine Prophecy, why did he transmigrate into—
"The third-rate extra…?! The guy who dies in, like, Chapter Ten?!"
He dropped to his knees in despair.
"I transmigrated… into a doomed novel… as a background corpse?!"
He stared up at the ceiling.
"FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!"