Sam woke to the rumble of a trash truck outside his window. Late morning light slipped around his rumpled curtains, revealing the clutter in his small apartment: empty takeout cartons, a few worn novels, and the battered laptop he'd been using for his LitRPG venture.
He yawned and checked his phone. No missed calls. Rent day was a bit closer now, but at least he still had a couple of weeks.
The real test was whether anyone had discovered Dungeon Diver: One Hammer Against the Abyss overnight.
His heart thumped a little faster as he flipped open the laptop. After hitting the power button, he cracked his knuckles and prepared for whatever the OnlineNovel stats had to say.
Maybe he had a handful of views. Maybe zero. The machine took its sweet time booting.
Eventually, the project management interface came into view.
A panel showed basic numbers:
《Views (Chapter 1): 27》 《Likes: 1》 《Comments: 3》 《Atreon Subscribers: 0》
He grimaced at the "0." Still, 27 was better than nothing. One person liked it enough to press a button.
That had to be worth something. He clicked on "Comments." It took a moment to load, and the first two remarks were generic:
"Interesting setup, looking forward to more."
"Nice forging idea, keep it up."
Sam felt a flicker of relief. Encouraging words, at least. Then he saw the third one:
"Wait, is this VR or real danger? Because if it's VR, that's boring. No stakes."
He scrolled again, trying to see if maybe there was more context. Nothing.
The user had slapped down an accusation—maybe they were bored by stories where the main character can log out any time.
The problem was, Sam hadn't actually stated if the dungeon scenario was a game or a real parallel world. He'd left it ambiguous.
Early chapters featured a protagonist who used game-like forging systems, but Sam never clarified if it was lethal or if there was a "respawn."
Perhaps readers assumed it was some VR scenario. He rubbed his temples, annoyed.
One random critic's assumption shouldn't matter, right?
Yet, in web fiction, a single loud complaint can affect the mood around a new story. Sam tapped to see if there was a mention anywhere else.
He hopped onto the small LitRPG subreddit, searching for his own title out of curiosity. There it was, a new thread labeled: "New Dungeon CRAFT story—but is it VR?"
Inside, a few folks debated:
User1: "Feels like it might be VR. The forging system is comedic. I can't stand VR if there's no real danger. Why do I care if the MC can't actually die?"
User2: "Haven't read it yet, but the premise sounds like every other VR dungeon slog. Hard pass."
User3: "At least the forging concept is unique, but I'm not sure about a living anvil. That's basically an NPC sidekick, right?"
That last statement confirmed Sam's fear: the comedic approach with a talking anvil might be giving off a VR vibe.
In the story, the anvil was a magical being. Maybe readers interpreted it as some goofball AI.
He stared at the screen, feeling his pulse spike. This negativity could push new readers away.
He'd been counting on hooking people with the forging concept and the slime boss cliffhanger.
If they believed there was no real threat to the protagonist, all tension would vanish.
He closed the browser, frustrated. The interface beeped softly, reminding him that Chapter 2 was set to release automatically that afternoon on OnlineNovel.
He wasn't sure if that would help or hurt. The system prompted him: "Check Market Sentiment?"
With a sigh, he clicked yes.
A new window popped open, summarizing broad trends in the LitRPG community:
Ongoing Appetite for High-Stakes Survival: "Gritty stories are pulling in readers who demand real danger."
Drop in VR Popularity: "Multiple forum threads argue VR is too safe, lacking tension."
Comedy is Divisive: "Some love comedic side characters, others see them as immersion-breaking."
Sam drummed his fingers on the desk. So it wasn't just one or two people. VR had fallen out of favor in certain circles, overshadowed by tales that either had real lethal stakes or a solid sense of a parallel world.
If Dungeon Diver were being mistaken for VR—just because of the comedic forging system—it might repel potential fans.
He opened his story file, scanning lines where the protagonist mused about "game-like windows" and "health bars."
Sam had written it in a casual style, and he realized he'd never clarified that the main character was transported into a real labyrinth with life-or-death peril.
It was fixable, but rewriting would take time. Meanwhile, the first chapters were already out, or in the queue to release daily.
Each new drop might frustrate the VR-haters more.
He considered letting the story ride. Maybe it would gain a small following of readers who didn't mind.
But the negativity worried him. He had rent to pay. If his story couldn't get traction, he'd have to scramble for another plan.
That same old panic crawled up his spine. He was 23 and hadn't held a job in months.
This was supposed to be his shot.
He opened the next batch of chapters, glancing over them. The comedic style wasn't going away.
The living anvil was comedic by design. The forging system was intentionally gamey.
This would keep feeding that VR assumption unless he made radical edits.
Sam glanced at the time. It was nearly noon. Chapter 2 would go live in a few hours.
His mind whirled, imagining negative comments piling up: "Ugh, more VR nonsense!" or "No real threat, unsubscribed."
He checked potential stats. The software let him run a "projection simulator" for the rest of the daily releases.
If negative sentiment grew, the predicted subscriber count for Atreon would bottom out near zero.
That spelled no income. If he tried a big rewrite, he'd lose days, but maybe salvage the concept.
If he scrapped it entirely, he could start fresh with a different angle.
The thought of deleting everything made him queasy. He'd spent countless hours in the last couple of weeks grinding out those chapters.
He stared at the screen, remembering the feeling of pride he'd had after finishing the first 10.
But the reality was harsh. If the story's foundation was flawed in the eyes of the target audience, pushing onward might be a waste of time.
A beep interrupted him: an email notification. He clicked on it.
Subject: RE: Potential Collaboration? From: "[email protected]"
Hey, Sam—caught your post on the small LitRPG forum. We're a volunteer editing group that helps new authors polish their work. If you're open to feedback, we can chat on Discord.
Tina
He vaguely recalled posting a request for feedback in the forum. She must have spotted Dungeon Diver.
Maybe she had advice. Or maybe she was just another random person with opinions.
Sam rubbed his neck, uncertain, but replied that he'd be on Discord soon.
Then he shut his laptop and tried to calm his nerves with a quick snack.
When he returned, he opened Discord and found Tina's message. They hopped into a voice call.
She introduced herself as a small-time LitRPG editor who enjoyed championing new writers. She didn't charge, but she accepted tips when possible.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Sam immediately liked that she wasn't pushing him to cough up money he didn't have.
"So," Tina said, her voice crackling through tinny laptop speakers. "I read your first chapter. I see potential, but I also see confusion. Are you sure you want to keep it ambiguous about whether it's VR or real?"
Sam swallowed. "I never intended it to be VR. I wanted it to be a real labyrinth. Maybe comedic elements overshadowed the danger."
Tina paused. "Exactly. The comedic forging and the living anvil sidekick overshadow the tension. Some lines even imply your hero can open a system menu like in a game. Readers might assume a safe environment. If your main goal is that he could die for real, you need to make that explicit."
"That's what I was afraid of," Sam admitted. "People online already think it's VR. They're hating on it."
Tina's tone softened. "Well, you could revise your existing chapters. Insert lines that confirm real risk. Emphasize that if the MC fails, he's done. No logging out."
Sam stared at the half-open text document. "The second chapter's about to go live. I'd have to hurry."
"Is it worth it?" Tina asked. "If you can't fix it in time, maybe you can catch new readers in later chapters by clarifying. Or you might consider bigger changes. The question is: do you believe in this comedic approach?"
Sam felt cornered. He did like the forging idea. But reading the online chatter made him question whether comedic forging was a decent hook.
"I'm not sure. People want high stakes. The living anvil's basically a comedic NPC. Maybe I messed up by making it so… cartoonish."
"That's for you to decide. Sometimes comedic stories do great. Sometimes they flop if the market craves grit."
They spoke a bit longer, but Sam didn't feel any clearer. Tina offered to help if he wanted to rework chapters or start something new.
Once he disconnected, Sam slumped in his chair. He remembered the intangible excitement he'd felt when he pressed Publish.
Now he just felt dread. Chapter 2 would drop soon. If people read it and concluded it was more silly VR nonsense, the negativity might snowball.
He opened his OnlineNovel dashboard. The system showed how many chapters were scheduled. He could cancel them all with one click, effectively pulling the plug on future postings.
Then the existing first chapter might remain, or he could delete it entirely. The idea left a sour taste in his mouth, but he also knew continuing halfheartedly wouldn't help.
Meanwhile, time marched on, and the rent clock ticked away.
He checked the newest comments on Chapter 1.
A user had asked, "MC's forging is neat, but is there actual threat? If not, I'll pass."
Another user chimed in, "I found it kind of funny, but if it's VR, I want more comedic gaming references. If it's real, I want tension. Not sure I'll stay unless it clarifies soon."
Sam's reflection in the blank portion of the screen showed furrowed brows and unkempt hair.
This was his big shot, but each moment brought more evidence that the story was missing the mark.
The comedic anvil was scaring off people who wanted gritty danger, while the VR crowd wanted more references or comedic game banter.
He'd appease neither camp unless he made big changes. But how, with the chapters already lined up?
He glanced down at a single sticky note on his desk that read: "Rent = $950, due in 2 weeks."
He had no real plan B. The idea of finding a short-term job in two weeks was improbable, especially with his patchy work history.
He needed a story that attracted enough readers to start building some Atreon pledges. This one, in its current form, might not be it.
His stomach churned at the idea. Was all the effort wasted? He'd pinned so many hopes on these chapters.
If he pivoted now, would it be seen as cowardly? Or was it simply pragmatic?
At last, Sam moved the cursor to the scheduling list. The next several chapters were queued.
In a few minutes, Chapter 2 would automatically go public. He hovered over the "Cancel Release" button.
His heart pounded. He clicked. A prompt asked for confirmation. Yes or no?
He exhaled shakily and clicked "Yes."
The queue for Chapter 2 vanished. Now only Chapter 1 was out. No new chapters would release unless he rescheduled them.
The system gave him a short note:
"Chapter release canceled. Your readers will receive a notice that the next chapter is delayed."
He pictured the few folks who read Chapter 1 refreshing for Chapter 2 and getting a big "No update."
Some might vanish. Some might wait. The longer he waited, the more they'd drift away.
He clenched his fists. Doing nothing was pointless. If the comedic forging concept was doomed, maybe a brand new project was the solution.
He could pivot to something with guaranteed lethal stakes. But that meant rewriting everything from scratch.
Another day lost, at least. Did he have enough time?
In a surge of frustration, Sam returned to the main OnlineNovel settings. He found the "Delete Story" option.
A wave of dread hit him. Once he did that, Dungeon Diver would vanish. The index page, the cover, the single like, and the handful of encouraging remarks.
But also the negative VR speculation.
A private message from Tina pinged him: "Any decision? Let me know if I can help revise."
Sam didn't respond. He closed his eyes, imagining an avalanche of complaints the moment Chapter 2 posted.
He saw the possibility of salvage, if he added disclaimers or rewrote large sections. But that still might be half-baked.
He hovered over "Delete Story." Then clicked. A final prompt:
"Are you sure you want to delete 'Dungeon Diver: One Hammer Against the Abyss'? This action is permanent."
Sam's breath caught in his throat. In his mind, he saw all those hours of writing. Chapter after chapter.
The living anvil. The comedic forging. The slime boss. Everything.
Then he pictured an unstoppable wave of low ratings, negative reviews, and no money for rent.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed "Confirm."
The software displayed a loading circle. Within seconds, it was gone. The cover art disappeared, along with the chapters, stats, and comments.
Dungeon Diver no longer existed on OnlineNovel. Sam slumped back in his chair, feeling numb.
A lonely sense of regret gnawed at him, but so did a strange relief. If the audience hated the VR-like approach, perhaps it was best to cut his losses fast.
He opened the project management interface. Next to "Project 1" was a big red "Deleted."
The program's tutorial windows popped up, as if noticing he had no active project:
"No current writing project detected. Would you like to create a new project?"
Sam rubbed his face. He needed to do something fresh. On the other hand, he'd just used up a big chunk of time.
The month was slipping away, and he had no income yet. Another sticky note on his desk read: "Mom called, asked about job search. Called me a mooch."
Maybe she was right.
He forced himself to think logically. The market wanted real stakes. Maybe a gritty approach.
He'd keep comedic elements light. Possibly craft a story with a reincarnation angle or a bleak dungeon survival theme.
Something to distinguish it from VR.
But the effort. The hours. He stared at the "Create New Project" prompt.
He had 14 days left until rent. Could he realistically push out enough chapters to start building an audience that quickly?
Maybe not. Another wave of doubt hit him. Perhaps he should just get a part-time job.
But each time he pictured standing at a cash register, he felt trapped. He hated the idea more than rewriting.
He clicked out of the software, then scanned job listings for a few minutes. Warehouse work, fast-food shifts, or gig economy driving.
Nothing appealed to him. Meanwhile, a twinge of curiosity made him open the LitRPG subreddit again.
A new thread title caught his eye: "That forging dungeon story is gone. Did the author rage quit?"
A handful of folks commented they'd read the first chapter, found it iffy, and now it vanished. Some speculation about authors giving up too soon.
Sam closed the tab, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. So people noticed. Great.
He stared at the walls of his cramped apartment. Ten chapters. All that creative labor, undone in a single click.
Maybe it was the right call, or maybe it was a huge mistake. The stress clung to him. He ha
d to figure out something before time ran out.
Eventually, he reopened the management software and clicked "Create New Project." A blank form greeted him:
《Project 2》 《Genre: LitRPG / ???》 《Subgenre:》 《Working Title:》 《Outline:》
He tapped the keyboard:
Genre: LitRPG with guaranteed real-world danger. No VR confusion. Subgenre: High-stakes survival. Possibly a labyrinth, but no comedic sidekick. Working Title: ???
His mind churned. Maybe a darker spin. A protagonist forced into a twisted tower with each floor deadlier than the last.
Real people died, with no second chances. He typed "Nightmare Tower: A Real Death Game."
That was dramatic, but at least no one would assume it was VR. He hammered in a few details about a punishing system that inflicted physical pain, so readers would know this wasn't a safe environment.
He saved the skeleton outline, then sagged against his chair. He'd have to write from scratch. Could he get 10 solid chapters done quickly?
The software's schedule window taunted him. He typed a rough estimate: 2,000 words per chapter, that's 20,000 words.
If he wrote 4,000 words a day, he could theoretically finish in five days. That left him a week for editing and initial posting before rent day.
Tight, yes, but maybe possible.
His eyes stung. The thought of rewriting exhausted him. But as the day slid by, he realized he had no choice.
If he truly wanted to make a living from writing in the short term, he had to produce something the market would accept.
The comedic forging concept had been a bust. Maybe the next concept would fare better.
He rummaged around for the last of his leftover dinner. Something cold and half-eaten. He wolfed it down, set his phone to silent, and forced himself to start drafting.
The new protagonist, Tristan, awakened in a nightmarish spire, with no memory of how he arrived.
The system in his mind displayed health and mana, but spelled out that death meant death—no do-overs.
Sam typed relentlessly, not sure if it was good, but certain it was different enough from Dungeon Diver.
He made sure the tone was harsh from the start. No comedic wisecracks. Maybe a grim supporting character, but definitely not a living anvil.
Two hours later, he had nearly 2,500 words. A decent chunk for Chapter 1. The gloom of the setting weighed on him, reflecting his own mood.
The writing sim occasionally popped notifications: "You've typed 1,000 words!" or "Are you sure you want to skip editing?"
Sam ignored them, pushing forward. He'd refine the text later. Right now, speed was everything.
As the sun went down, he paused, scanning the new chapter. It wasn't terrible. In fact, the tension felt real.
He pictured a physically painful environment, complicated traps, an unforgiving status system.
Anyone reading would see it wasn't VR. Or at least, he hoped so.
He took a break and checked online for a moment. He noticed that the short-lived thread about Dungeon Diver had died off. People had moved on.
The fleeting nature of web fiction hype was brutal but swift. Sam realized that if he managed to pump out a new story soon, the old fiasco would fade from memory.
Maybe this fresh start was best.
He gazed at the blank corners of his apartment. He was exhausted, anxious, and out of his depth.
But there was no time for self-pity. He had about two weeks left to conjure something that might attract paying readers.
He'd do it the same way as before: free chapters on OnlineNovel, subscription tiers on Atreon, all or nothing.
But this time, he'd ensure no one would confuse it for some no-stakes scenario.
A beep from the software reminded him: "Chapter 2 from Dungeon Diver was canceled. No active postings."
The text felt like a final echo of his old project. He closed the notification with a sharp click. It was done.
He refused to mope.
The night stretched onward, with Sam tapping furiously at the keyboard, forging a brand-new storyline filled with bleak corridors and lethal encounters.
In the back of his mind, the rent countdown burned like a warning. This was his second chance.
If readers truly hated comedic forging and VR illusions, he'd give them a raw, punishing environment instead.
He just hoped he could finish in time, polish the writing, and spark enough interest to keep a roof over his head. That's all that mattered.
As midnight approached, he glanced at the word count: 4,300. Two chapters worth, maybe.
His back ached, his eyes stung, but he felt a tiny bit of hope. Dungeon Diver was gone, but perhaps Nightmare Tower would thrive in its place.
He saved his progress, shut the laptop, and leaned back on the couch. Tomorrow, he'd do more. He had to.
The memory of those negative comments still stung, but at least they pushed him to pivot before it was too late.
A distant siren whined somewhere outside his window, but Sam ignored it. He stared at the ceiling and let fatigue drag him under.
Whether or not his new approach would work was anyone's guess, but he couldn't let fear stop him now.
The commercial reality of paying rent demanded some kind of success. If comedic forging had flopped, maybe raw survival would be the key.
He'd find out soon enough. For tonight, that was all he could handle.
((The Following Comment Has Been Upvoted 68 Times on Reddit))
"Dude needs to grow a thicker skin. Not everyone's gonna love your work."