I wrote over a dozen novels. Most of them were pretty good since I was a mildly accomplished author who could live off the passive income they made me. Most of them were fantasy or sci-fi tropes with overpowered heroes, roads to riches stories, and gamelit. I had a couple romance flicks that I made whenever I got depressed too.

My audience was pretty broad, but the rate at which I put out stories was legendary, second only to Mr. Sanderson. My word count was easily in the millions, going into the tens of millions within a few years. I'm proud of the work I put out, and I'm still in my prime. I had many more ideas in the hopper before I was transported here.

I can't help but feel chagrined.

Why this story?

Don't lie. It's every author's dream to be involved in their own story. We all know we'd likely die immediately, but we can't help but feel attached to the characters we create. They are like family to us. People we know inside and out yet never get to meet.

That wistful dream is forever out of reach. Except for transmigrators and isekai protagonists. But those don't exist. I'm not even sure I exist. Well... whatever.

The point I'm trying to make is that this is the worst novel to migrate into. I made it in a blur when I was emotionally depressed after a string of really bad breakups and financial hurdles. I made it a harem to drain all my pent-up stress and even made all the major characters representations of people in my life. Something you should never do as a writer.

Eventually, my wounds healed and I realized the story I wrote was a living disaster I should have never published. For some reason, people liked it. That made me want to hide in a hole even more.

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So I killed everyone off.

Yup.

Even the Overpowered MC.

Honestly, the sole reason that I'm not currently an emotional wreck is because I hid easter eggs in all my novels in case I ever got transported inside.

'What? I call bullshit that you don't do the same.'

Anyway. I'm at the portal now.

The gathering of frightened and scared individuals was a sight to behold. Regardless of personality, they were all either beautiful or sculpted like pro athletes. Comparatively, as a normal person, I was like the ugly duckling.

I knew that the reason they were all drop-dead gorgeous was that they were all genetically altered at birth by aliens. This was all a game, after all. Who doesn't make their characters in an RPG gorgeous? Youtubers, that's who.

I noticed that their appearances didn't do anything for their confidence. They lingered at the edge, arguing about what to do. An impasse was broken by a familiar muscle-head. He approached calmly, picked up a random girl, and threw her into the portal.

"Kyaaah-"

"What did you do!?"

"Oh my god, she's dead, isn't she?"

"Isn't everyone dead already? What's the difference."

While they bickered some more, I moved unnoticed to the far edge of the portal. I felt around a bit, looking for something that felt like jello instead of rock. It took me longer than I'd like to admit, but I eventually found it. Sticking my hand inside, I pulled out my prize.

I maintained my precarious grip on a greased metallic sphere.

The only safe way to hold it was to insert a finger into a small malleable impression, like one of those toys from the 90's. You know... those stress toys you'd get at the zoo or aquarium? The weird tubes filled with water. Sometimes they had a manta ray inside or tiny little fishes.

Forget it. You had to be there.

[Item Discovered: Slippery Ball]

It wasn't intended to be a game-stopper, but it would definitely come in handy.

As I entered the ominous portal, another message fizzled into view.

[A *redacted* sponsor has noticed your existence.]

"God. Dammit."