*:*:*:*:*

"Another fanfic?! Where did your creativity go?"

"In the gutter."

"Fix your attitude! Your main character was a dumb fuck, and you could not accept it."

"My attitude couldn't be fixed. It was intangible. And it ain't my character that was dumb, it was you."

"You know what?! Fuck you!"

"Fuck your dad sideways."

"I am an orphan, you fucking pleb."

"Oh, congratulations."

Alfir felt the seething hatred beyond his screen. It wasn't every day he encountered trolls like this, but Alfir was surprisingly adept at dealing with this particular reader. However, his coping mechanism was both unhealthy and bad for business.

Too often, readers would have a bloody match with him using keyboards, of course behind the safe walls called the internet. It would be funny though if Alfir could just smash his keyboard at the other person's face. For Alfir, it was really difficult to see the toxicity of readers as honesty. In the said readers' defense though, they were just being honest and Alfir just could not handle the truth.

Alfir's reply to this was fairly simple, "OK," and that was it. It was called none-violence, and while most often, it worked without fail, there were also times that it wouldn't.

"There wasn't anything to congratulate about me being an orphan!"

"Nah, I was complimenting your mom... she didn't get to see her child be such a jerk."

"Yeah? And your mom was a bitch."

"Would not know about that... But your grandma should know, cause... wait... that would make you my nephew... or niece? Or neither since you were an asexual?"

"I would feed you to my dog!"

"I could do this all day... I'd bring your ancestors to the conversation too so we would not feel lonely."

"You fucking jerk! Your novel was so painful to read, and the protagonist just kept on suffering!"

"Yeah, I know right?"

This was how much Alfir had loved the numerous fictions he had consumed and produced to the point that he would go to war against a stranger for the sake of his novel. As a self-proclaimed professional writer, he should have taken pride in his work. (Though it was mostly his ego talking.)

Alfir whispered to himself in a low voice, "What matters was that I enjoyed the process," as he typed words of gratitude to the readers who provided constructive comments and took the time to read his works, immensely improving his writing skills. He waited for some time for the rather 'hostile' reader to reply to his words. After Alfir's last chapter and post-author notes, he reached for a can of root beer.

"Ah~ that hits the spot."

[Email Received: Unknown]

Now, that was foreboding. But Alfir wasn't afraid of whatever death threat this might be. Click.

Oh, it was a cute puppy with adorable eyes---

"Fuck!"

Alfir's monitor screen glowed blue, white, and green. The puppy, with a guttural howl, lunged beyond the glassy screen that separated Alfir from the zeroes and ones. The puppy was no more. In its place stood a ferocious wolf the size of a truck. Alfir was in an internet cafe at that time, and oh lord... it was quite the sight!

"Monster! Run for your lives!"

"Call security!"

"Help!"

Black fur and white teeth. Its eyes gleamed with savage glee. The monster stood two feet tall barely touching the ceiling.

Alfir trembled, remaining seated to the whole affair.

"I am dead."

Not just dead, but dead and eaten.

Chomp.

The monster with one swift motion, devoured the poor wannabe novelist, leaving nothing behind but the echoed cries of the panicking crowd.

Within the gaps of the wolf’s savage teeth were Alfir’s blood, bones, and meat. And in the beast’s stomach was the soul of the one called Alfir... being consumed, digested, and processed.

...

In the vast expanse of nothingness, Alfir found himself suspended, devoid of physical form, and surrounded by an endless void. Time seemed to lose its meaning as he floated in this empty space, contemplating the enigmatic concept of death.

Alfir, a thoughtful soul, had always been intrigued by the mystery of what lay beyond life's final moments. Here, in this boundless emptiness, he was granted the opportunity to explore the depths of his curiosity. He pondered the significance of death, questioning its purpose and the meaning it held for the living.

As he floated in the void, Alfir's mind delved into the intricate tapestry of existence. He considered death not as an end, but as a transformative passage, a transition from one state of being to another. He wondered if, in the absence of physicality, the essence of a person continued to exist in some ethereal form, carrying with it the memories, emotions, and experiences of a lifetime.

In this profound contemplation, Alfir grappled with the existential questions that had haunted humanity for centuries. What was the purpose of life if it inevitably led to death? Was there a higher meaning, a grand design behind the cycle of birth, life, and demise? Or was existence merely a fleeting moment in the vastness of the universe, with no inherent purpose other than the experiences one gathered along the way?

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The void seemed to echo with Alfir's musings, amplifying the depth of his introspection. He felt a sense of unity with the cosmos, as if his consciousness merged with the very fabric of the universe, allowing him to glimpse the interconnectedness of all things.

...

Alfir woke up in an unfamiliar place. It was dark, cramped, and gloomy. He received memories foreign to what he knew. It was the memories of a commoner working for the evil organization, Zentury.

'I just knew it...'

Alfir felt his weak limbs. They were painful, torn, and bloody. Because of his flailing, the cleaner noticed his struggle.

"Oh boy, there's still someone alive."

...

In the depths of the organization's grim sanctum, known as The Slaughterhouse, countless minions met their demise, sacrificing themselves for the cause. This macabre place served as a repository, a storehouse where a variety of essential ingredients for alchemy, artifice, and experimentation were extracted from the fallen minions—those who had retired, been maimed, or met their end. Essentially, it functioned as a dumping ground for expendable foot soldiers. To be more specific, for 'expended' foot soldiers.

Upon setting eyes on the familiar surroundings, Alfir felt a shiver race down his spine. This world was no stranger to him; he was intimately acquainted with it because he had crafted it himself. Mutagenic Medieval, his sole unpublished creation, was a masterpiece that had consumed his entire youth.

Desperation gripped Alfir as he attempted to call for help, but all that escaped his lips were feeble, dying groans. His memories were clouded, muddled by foreign recollections that seemed alien to him.

"Can you hear me, young man?" A voice broke through the haze.

There was someone there.

"Uggh..." Alfir managed to croak, struggling to respond. The sight of the figure in white triggered recognition; it was a Cleaner, a nondescript role within the organization responsible for managing production facilities. Positioned between Executives and Minions in the hierarchy, Cleaners played a vital but often overlooked role.

"Are you still clinging to life, young man? Well, I suppose 'poor sod' is a more fitting term, considering your unfortunate state," the Cleaner remarked, observing Alfir's bloodied form with a mix of pity and concern.

"Don't worry, young man. I can hear you. Let me lend you a hand."

Alfir's ears registered the words, although they seemed distant and incomprehensible amidst the chaos surrounding him.

And then there was the chaos of the mind.

...

Flames danced wildly, their fiery tendrils scattering in all directions, as the world was consumed by the unstoppable inferno of the devil. Alfir was abruptly awakened, his body drenched in sweat, the haunting imagery from his nightmare still echoing vividly in his mind. It was as if he had been submerged in a sea of flames, a nightmarish experience that, despite its unreliability, felt all too real.

Gradually, recollections of a nameless young man, Minion#12193, began to emerge, syncing with Alfir's fatigued consciousness. Initially disconcerting, Alfir managed to regain his composure after a series of deep breaths.

The reason behind this bewildering turn of events was almost too extraordinary to contemplate. Transmigration! Oh, holy molly! It was really happening.

As Alfir attempted to piece together his fragmented memories, a series of grim revelations unfolded. Vague recollections of Minion#12193's demise featured prominently, marked by the presence of flames and death. One figure stood out amid the chaos: Flamecore, a name that stirred recognition within Alfir.

Despite the throbbing pain in his head, Alfir's clarity gradually returned.

"I'm quite fortunate, you know," he remarked with a touch of humor. "Zentury sure knows how to offer good insurance policies."

Zentury was the name of the organization he found himself now entangled with.

Alfir checked on his burnt face through a hand mirror. It was ghastly, but clearly, he was recovering evident to the pinkish hue that was slowly returning just under his neck. He was healing fast courtesy of the organization's own secret technology. "The insurance... worth it..."

"Well, you're not wrong," the middle-aged man, dressed in the customary white attire and cap of Zentury's Cleaners, chimed in, his curiosity piqued. "It took me a whole decade of minion service to land this relatively safe position. Now, what's your story? What happened to you?"

It was the same Cleaner who had extended a helping hand to Alfir.

Alfir's memories began to coalesce, and he recounted, scratching his head, "Hehehe, Flamecore wiped out my team. I guess I'm the sole survivor." His tone was casual, masking the depths of his confusion and dislocation. Unbeknownst to Alfir, he appeared out of place in the way he spoke, his gestures, and his quick adaptation to the unfamiliar hospital environment.

The kind Cleaner, however, didn't mind and responded with a warm smile.

One thing Alfir was sure of was Minion#12193 had perished on a mission, and he had somehow ended up in Minion#12193's should-have-been dead body.

"That's a tough break. Flamecore is a top hero, sought after by multiple nations for his abilities," the Cleaner sympathized. "But enough chit-chat; I've got to get back to work. Just know that not all minions are canon fodder! Take care."

"Thanks for stopping by," Alfir replied weakly, feeling a sense of relief as the stranger left, giving him some much-needed time to process his bewildering situation.

As Alfir waved goodbye to the Cleaner, time flowed on, and he continued his gradual recovery. Slowly, he managed to reconcile the dissonance between his own memories and those of Minion#12193. The last thing he wanted was to develop a split personality.

A month had passed since Alfir's arrival in this unfamiliar world, and thanks to its remarkably advanced technology, his recovery was progressing splendidly. Even his appearance was returning to its former state.

Or so he thought, with a hint of self-deprecating humor as he examined his reflection in the mirror.

"I seem to be the eternal embodiment of 'ordinary.' I should start a fan club for mediocrity..."

Although "unimpressive" wasn't quite the right word, Alfir was having a blast. In a world where he possessed knowledge of the future, the possibilities seemed endless. It was like a playground for him, especially with his ambiguous desire to stir up chaos in every possible way.

"Hmm... Am I the god of this realm, perhaps? Is this world my canvas?" Alfir contemplated, mistakenly believing these thoughts to be entirely his own. But a strange calmness washed over him, quelling his doubts and rational thinking, leaving him in a trance.

"Wait... shouldn't I focus on an easygoing life for now?" he pondered before being overtaken by that same tranquil force. "World domination can wait, right? The harem route, though... sounds intriguing, but it'll come naturally if I gain power..."

The world of Mutagenic Medieval was an alternate reality where mutants thrived in a medieval setting, shaping the world as extraordinary figures. It birthed the Hero System to manage these remarkable individuals, and while Alfir wasn't a messiah, he was an impending apocalypse.

"Oh, the mischief I shall sow..."

…

Your Narrative,

I had an acquaintance, a certifiably insane individual. More than just a few screws loose, he was completely unhinged — dangerously so. He had the audacity to claim he had unlocked the secret to transmigration. The very next day, he vanished.

But he wasn't dead; he had just vanished into thin air.

Can you believe it? In some inexplicable twist of fate, fiction, and reality collided, whisking me away to a different universe, one that I had crafted with my own words. The prospect of experiencing it firsthand filled me with excitement.

"A new world awaits me! Kekekeke... After crafting this masterpiece, it was only fair that I got to live it, don't you think?"

This was going to be incredible!

A masterpiece? More like a rant! When did it become a masterpiece? Seriously?

"A transmigrator, my foot! 'Crazy' suits you better, don't you think? No? Why isekai without the obligatory truck accident? What!? Die? Me? How incredibly rude!! How about you die instead? I'll be waiting for you, yes, you... Not you... I mean the person behind the keyboard..."

Little did I know that amid my grand ambitions to conquer the world I had created and the transmigration process, my mind had somehow been tainted, corrupted by sheer lunacy.

~Welcome to the Third Perspective~