Chapter 1: Prologue — Author’s Fate

I died today. 

If I knew this piece of information beforehand, it would serve no purpose in changing my fate.

In fact, I was expected to die six months ago, and it's a miracle I'm still alive.

"Blergh!"

Splat!

Yeah. There goes all the blood. I was currently too weak to even move, so I directly painted my laptop red. Wasted.

I struggled for minutes, and was able to finally lift my trembling hand to wipe the blood off the currently lit screen.

What I saw didn't annoy or anger me, it only made me laugh.

[Juice_999: If I knew ur story was going to end like this. I wouldn't have read it from the start. Author, you owe me an apology.]

At least he was polite, unlike the rest, who would have cursed more if not for censorship rules.

[Mr_Boner: All my time was wasted on this trash. Why don't you go find a different job, huh?]

[HappyLarry234: You shouldn't have started this story in the first place. First, you killed off half of the heroines, then you proceed to destroy Earth and kill everyone, including MC. I wish some ROB would just throw you inside your own book.]

[ham_&_bread: You don't deserve to be called an author, you're just someone fulfilling his fantasies of terrorism.]

There was more, but all the comments trickled down to one thing. My novel that had been going well suddenly changed in the late stages. It turned dark, extremely dark.

"Hehe, hahaha! Pfft... cough, cough. Ah, more blood."

The reaction was expected, because I never wrote the story with the audience's satisfaction in mind.

Without closing the laptop, I exerted some force on the table, and the swivel chair pivoted sideways, which brought me crashing to the floor, bruising my sickening pale skin.

When last did I see the sun, a week? Two weeks? It didn't matter, because the sun in my life was already dead.

I heard the pitter-patters of rain outside, and my frantically beating heart synchronized with the raindrops dropping on the rooftop.

The running sounds made me remember my painter neighbor. Was he around? Possibly. If he wasn't? Tough luck.

The paintings he left to dry outside would be ruined, and the colours would be washed away, the same way my life became on that wretched day.

Looking back. As guilty as I am for causing her death. I don't regret meeting her, and if I could go back to the past, I would still cling to her.

I remember how I lived for the first eight years of my life. A zombie, no purpose. Being ostracized didn't bother me, and truth be told, I found solace in that isolation, because I also acknowledged the fact that I was an very unusual and unsettling kid.

I still remembered that day vividly. The sun was particularly bright that noon, free from the gloomy clouds that appeared on the days I was comfortable with.

The smell of the freshly mown grass permeated the air, a lingering evidence of the work the Matron put us through in the morning.

There they were, kids acting like they should, some dancing in circles, others on swings, a few indulging themselves in epic fantasies of knights and princesses.

And there I was, in that inconspicuous corner, bored of life, bored of everything. Desperate for a splotch of colour to brighten my gray perspective of the world.

And that splotch came soon enough, a shadow was cast over me, and when I looked up, I saw a smile that blinded me, an expression brighter than the sun above us.

With hazel eyes gleaming with warmth and curiosity, she didn't give me time to register who she was. Abruptly, she thrust a freshly baked pie in my face and asked.

"Want some?"

That was the time I decided I'd take up baking.

The immersion in my memories seemed to be messing with my head, because the same pleasant smell of pastry pervaded my cottage.

Oh. Cottage. I totally forgot, the place where I lived was the standard gingerbread town. And everyone here used the fireplace oven, or as it was called here, wood-burning stove.

It was most likely the Gordons baking their morning donuts this weekend.

The thought of them coming later at noon to invite me to a meal, and meeting a corpse was somewhat amusing, poor people.

"Take that Dr. Barlowe."

Wasn't this me? You said I had only five months to live. Guess what, I lived double.

I tried to lift my bony hands to make a middle-finger, but I was too weak. So I did an invisible one.

Grrr~

Ah, wish I ate that cookie Mrs. Gordon brought me.

"Cough! Cough!"

My head jerked to the side and more blood splashed and stained the grey rug I always spared no effort in cleaning. How ironic.

With my head to the side, I caught a glimpse of my long hair that had turned shaggy and mottled gray, when it was an illustrous silver before.

But what could I do? She always helped me comb my hair, doing so would just remind me of her, so I left it as it was.

My eyelids were slowly closing, at the same rate my heartbeat was dropping, and here I was, hoping I could make one last wish like a character of animes and webnovels.

My breathing had turned erratic and my last thought surfaced.

Just once. I wish I could taste her pie one more time.

Because I'm very hungry.

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Glub...glub... burururu... Splash!

"Cough! Cough!"

Before I could even recognize where I was. I was overwhelmed by a frenzy of violent coughs and wheezes. My throat stung, and I was feeling oddly feverish.

By the time I was done coughing, I gulped for air desperately, with huge intakes, as though oxygen would seize to exist any second.

I gripped for whatever to maintain stability, but slipped because the surface was wet, and fell back into the apparent source of my predicament.

Without panicking this time, I struggled into a sitting position, and finally recognized where I was, as I was disoriented before.

I was in a bathtub, filled with water, and when I looked around, everything was ultra-modern, unlike the traditional bathroom back in my gingerbread house.

But wait. Before that...

"How am I still alive?"

I remember the darkness taking me as I closed my eyes, and the relief that came with death washing over me in waves. Then I remember the sudden sense of displacement, and then abruptly feeling the sensation of my lungs burning, struggling for air as it was continuously being filled with water.

It seems it was at this point I emerged from the water and stopped 'myself' from drowning.

Transmigration. I seemed to have experienced it.

With all the evidence placed before me, going for the craziest assumption didn't sound so crazy. 

With my chest still heaving, I stumbled out of the bathtub and pulled out the plug to drain the water.

I was drenched full-clothed. Whoever I came to possess, he seemed to be one crazy fella, or why else would you voluntarily try to drown yourself?

On unsteady feet, I carefully walked towards the sink, and looked into the mirror.

I saw... Myself?

No, it wasn't exactly me, but a better version of myself before I died. The person I was looking at was Jerome when his Selene was still alive, when his sun still shone.

Long silver hair flowing down my back, and purple eyes that seemed to be filled with vigor, vigor that seemed to have dimmed a few degrees, courtesy to my depressed self's transmigration into this body.

These were the same looks I had, looks that only seemed to reinforce that I was a weird kid, well to everyone except Selene.

I gathered my hair and squeezed the water out of it, then grabbed the towel hanging on the side after removing my clothes.

I emerged from the bathroom with a sense of anticipation. Maybe... just maybe this was a parallel world where she didn't die, where we were happy. I don't know who did it or how it was done, but what if I was given the chance to see her again? I couldn't waste it.

The room was how I assumed it would be. Made in grey and black accents, with only the reading lamp on, resting on the bedside cabinet. I had always hated bright lights, so I was contented with just this.

The bed was a full sized one, and everything, from the grey wallpapers to the black rugs to the polished closet. It all spoke quality.

I was in a good mood, my expectations were high.

I saw a holographic device, that made me also wonder.

"Futuristic?"

Well. It didn't matter. I skipped to the closet and pulled it open.

My body froze.

I stood there gaping at a familiar uniform that was conspicuous even among all the clothes in the closet.

If you're thinking I've seen or worn it before then you're mistaken. The only encounter I've had with this uniform is in words and visualization.

Pure white blazers, and trousers, with gold threads embroidered at the seams and on the edges, and running through the sides of the cloth.

It had a golden badge on the chest pocket of a sun rising, with a fort in the background.

I slowly but gradually took a new pair of clothes, just a black t-shirt and gray knickers, shutting the closet at the same pace I had been going and turned around.

After a deep breath and the thought that I was only delaying the inevitable. I walked to the side of the bed and looked down.

My breath hitched. There, lying directly below the lamp that I had previously been contented with, was a letter.

A letter with the same logo as that of the uniform, and just three words in front, each one slamming in my head like a hammer.

<Welcome To Horizon>

I had affirmed my suspicions. I was fucked, big time. I transmigrated into the novel that I wrote.

And possessed the body of the character I'd rather die once again than become.

I was Jerome Argent.

Now, I am Jerome Argent. Again.

HappyLarry, it seems your effing wish just got fulfilled.

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