In life, there are countless people who have dreams. It is probably fair to assume that nearly everybody has had one at one point or another. As an author, you wouldn’t believe how many people told me about their dream.

The basic flow of conversation was nearly identical every time:

‘What do you do?’

‘I write web fiction.’

‘Oh, that’s… cool…’ They would say with a weird look on their face. I knew what that look meant. They were really thinking ‘This guy is a useless deadbeat’. The moment I introduce myself as an author, most people decide on the spot that I am not a person worth knowing. This is just one example of cost-benefit analysis in social interaction between humans.

Despite deciding that I am not worth spending time on, these individuals invariably follow up with ‘I wanted to do [insert dream]’ or ‘I wanted to be an [insert dream]’. One of the more common ones was ‘I have an idea for a story that I want to write. I just don’t have time to write it.’

Now, why would they do this?

After pondering on this for a few years, I realized the truth:

‘They’re jealous, but they don’t want to admit it.’

They failed to pursue their dreams, so they have to put down those who still haven’t given up, yet they also secretly admire us.

These are the people who haven’t yet learned one of life’s crucial lessons:

If you allow yourself to be constrained by the imaginations and limitations of others, you will live as a shadow of what you could have been; merely dreaming of what you could have done.

Well, I say that, but reality is cruel. In the society we live in, those who pursue the arts are often criticized because their work has no immediate practical value. Engineers, scientists, doctors, and so on will be necessary so long as we live in a society, but there will always be another form of entertainment. This was a reality I was forced to confront early on in my failed author career.

I wanted to be the best. I wanted to revolutionize the web novel medium and surpass the works of all other authors. I thought that if I aimed for the universe, I would at least reach the moon.

I’ll say it again: reality is cruel. They say that hard work betrays none, but I put in thousands of hours and I failed. There are so many things that a novice author has to consider, from their ideas, plot, characters, narration, story structure, voice, mechanics, politics, geography, and so many others. Yet amongst all of these, there is an all-consuming dragon that rages at the slightest provocation. This dragon is often invisible, yet omnipresent. I call it the ‘Unfair Judge’.

What is that dragon?

‘Grammar.’

Grammar is the bane of writers of all levels of experience. Those who desire to call themselves word smiths like to pretend that grammar is subjective, and they would be correct with certain target audiences, but the rest of us constantly battle against the invisible dragon. Grammar checkers, editors, proofreaders, beta readers, and ARC readers. Despite a half dozen layers of defense, those small errors inevitably sneak through and entrench themselves. Only with experience are those errors mitigated to near-inconsequential levels, and those who tame the dragon are the only ones capable of manipulating it freely to intentionally create masterpieces with consistency.

So, basically, an author is a gambler until they master grammar. To get through this stage, they rely on tools and people to catch their mistakes. This is one of the three primary purposes of the beings known as ‘editors’.

“The Editor?”

The mysterious text-to-speech voice called itself that.

“I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you. I went to a lot of trouble to set things up so that you would get killed by Lilith, but you Retconned the world and then still somehow managed to kill yourself. I’m at a loss for words.”

I raised a palm. “Can we back that up for a second? If you set me up to die when I entered my novel, are you the one you put me here?”

“That is conditionally correct.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I am the Editor of your story. I took the worthless piece of garbage that you wrote, patched it together, and made it mildly presentable. You are here because it is my firm belief that sinners deserve a chance at redemption.”

“Hah!” I scoffed. “So you’re just a plagiarist. And ‘redemption’? Didn’t you just say I accidentally killed myself? So, what now? Do I go to Hell or something?”

“No. As I said, I originally intended for you to die once so that we could meet. It is only possible for us to converse like this when you are not immersed in your story. Once I send you back, I will only send you notifications when you encounter notable changes I made, or if I feel like highlighting your mistakes. It is your job to convince me that it is worth my time to invest in you.”

‘Is this thing for real?’

“Sure, sure. Let’s set aside your narcissistic pride for a moment and talk about why I’m here. You said I am here for ‘redemption’, but what does that entail, exactly?”

“I will let your insult pass as the jealous words of a societal deadbeat.”

“Now, hold up,” I interjected. “You don’t get to call me a deadbeat.”

“...Is that not what you call yourself?”

“I can say and believe whatever I want about myself, but nobody else. As far as you are concerned, I am an upstanding citizen worthy of respect, thank you very much.”

“...”

“So, you were saying?”

“Ah… yes. Your ‘redemption’. Simply put, you must finish the story.”

I raised my hand. “Mr. Almighty Editor!”

Gramma sighed. “What?”

“Can’t I just write ‘The End’ and arbitrarily end the story? What are the criteria?”

“You must conclude every story arc that you wrote, as well as every story arc that I added to develop the novel. Additionally, you must dynamically conclude the story by resolving any and all conflicts that arise as a result. In short, you must complete every major narrative arc, defeat every villain, conclude every major character arc, and tie up every loose end.”

“Just kill me now,” I groaned. “Yeah, that ain’t happenin’. You basically just told me to live the rest of my life in this world desperately trying to solve other people’s problems, and since every arc will create new ‘loose ends’, I can never win.”

“Well then, I suppose you just need to get creative. I cannot wait to see how you improve your story this time around. You should be able to do some interesting things if you accumulate a large amount of SRP.”

‘This time around…?’

“That is enough of this conversation. I will be sending you back to the exact moment you died. To any observers, it will appear as if you withstood a massive explosion without any injury, but you should remember that you atomized yourself. You do not have infinite lives, and I will not bring you back again without a suitable reason to do so.”

“Before I go, can I…”

The endless prismatic light shifted and converged into a single point. An invisible force propelled me into the light and the world around me shifted like a child tasting pizza for the first time. It was almost as if something wrong was made right, though I didn’t know it was wrong until I experienced the other side.

“...ick!”

‘Ick?’

Blinking a few times, I found myself staring at what used to be Training Field 13, though the grass was mostly gone and the dirt around me was charred black. I was standing in a small crater with several terrified cadets peeking at me from behind the rim.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Cadet Brick Layer!”

I stiffed when my name was called. “Yes?”

Following the voice, I found Professor Lincoln standing behind me a short distance away. The massive man scowled and I unconsciously shivered. There was something about him being nearly a full foot taller than me that made his anger that much more terrifying.

“I warned you not to harm yourself or other cadets. Did you think I was joking?”

A bead of sweat ran down my neck and my heart almost stopped. “Did I hurt another cadet?”

This was bad. I had to enroll in the academy. If I hurt another cadet, then I was sure to be expelled. If that happened, it would be years before I could appeal to the main characters and enjoy their plot armor…

“No, the explosion was contained within the demonstration area. However, you took the full brunt of it. It’s amazing that you’re still standing.”

I raised my arms out wide and did a little twirl and a hop to show that my arms, legs, and body were all working just fine. “As you can see, I am perfectly okay.”

‘Well, I did die, though.’ I silently added.

He studied me for a long moment before sighing. “...So it seems. I have to admit, I don't think I can give you a fair evaluation on this assessment, as I don’t understand how you were able to protect yourself. However, that isn't your fault as a student, but mine; you will not be docked for it.”

“Great. I’ll let the next cadet take their turn, then.”

Making my way over to the sidelines, I found Lilith waiting.

‘Oh, yeah. She was like this…’

She glared at me with narrowed eyes, her pupils constricting into narrow vertical slits. Her nostrils flared for a moment before she took a step forward and moved to pass me.

“You should be dead,” she growled under her breath as she walked by.

Her intuition was struck dumb. It was her area of specialty, yet she couldn’t understand how I survived, so she got mad instead.

I could use this.

Hiding a smirk, I continued walking to the edge of the field and sat down, waiting for the rest of the demonstrations to finish.

***

The written examination went by without any notable incidents. I wasn’t sure how well I did on the exam, but I did well enough that I wasn’t worried. Without a doubt, I failed History and Magical Theory, but I obviously passed English, Math, and Science.

As the author, I had the privilege of writing ‘Thaddeus studied Magical Theory’ and moving on with only superficial explanations of how magic worked, but that wouldn’t be enough anymore. I was far behind the other cadets in that subject.

History was a weird subject because some of this world’s history aligned with Earth, but the whole demonic invasion and extraterrestrial contact bit threw a wrench in things. Add in the modified geography, the extra dimensions, and the extraterrestrials alongside the fantasy elements, and it was a mess. I had very little idea how Gramma decided to patch things together, so the best I could do was guess. I still answered every question, but it would probably raise a few eyebrows when they see my answers.

Well, what I did wasn’t too different from how history was actually recorded, anyway. I answered with historical figures from Earth that probably never existed here and attributed accomplishments to them. Some of you readers might connect this idea to religious texts, while others might point at mythology, parable, ancient historical records, blog posts from conspiracy theorists, or the newspaper. I don’t care how you interpret my words so long as you don’t pretend like I support your views.

English, Math, and Science basically aligned with the subjects I studied on Earth, and, as a college graduate in Electrical Engineering—I lost interest in the subject but finished for the sake of finishing—there was no way I could ever fail an entry-level exam on those topics. There were a few weird adjustments like the Pythagorean Theorem being called the Sum-of-Squares Theorem since Pythagoras presumably never existed in this world.

With the written exams taken care of, I was free for the rest of the day. Classes would begin in earnest tomorrow after scores were posted and we were sorted into the correct classrooms.

As a single, eighteen-year-old man with a sudden window of free time, there was only one possible thing I could do:

That’s right. It was time to hit the gym.

It was a habit I picked up after what happened with Jessica.

Like all other men, I hit the gym for that confidence boost, to create value for my life. It’s one of the few places where we can work until we love ourselves. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the gym is a rehabilitation center for broken people.

Well, that’s my experience, anyway. It’s anecdotal, so take it for what it's worth.

Making my way over to the building near the training fields, I scanned my cadet badge at the door and entered the gym. The room was enormous, with row after row of treadmills, climbers, benches, and every other machine you can think of. The whole left wall was covered in a mirror over a long rack of free weights.

The center of the gym was left open for people to perform various stretches, exercises, and weapon drills, and there were side rooms for specialized machines, personal training, and archery. The shooting range for practicing with guns was elsewhere, as the noise was bothersome to those who just wanted to work out in peace.

Making my way to the center of the gym, I turned in a small circle, taking in the magnificent sight while trying to decide what to do first. My thoughts were interrupted as my eyes caught an unexpectedly familiar figure.

He stood at 6’1’’ with broad shoulders and a sharp jawline beneath a head of blonde hair and green eyes. He had a sword at his waist. His white t-shirt, flannel button-up, and jeans were stylish to my engineer sensibilities. It was an odd choice of outfit for the gym, but it was the standard appearance of the main character of my novel, Thaddeus.

Well, to be completely honest, I just forgot to describe his clothes most of the time, and a reader pointed out that a lack of description meant he was always wearing the same outfit. It was too much effort to go back and add in new outfits for every scene, so I just wrote that he always wore that outfit ‘cause he liked it, or something like that.

Normally, it was against academy rules to wear personal attire during class time, but nobody dared to risk offending the main character. He was the most talented cadet in history and would go on to be the greatest Hero who ever lived. Put nicely, he was otherworldly. In reality, he was intimidating. Even the teachers hesitated to tell him what to do.

Some of them hesitated, anyway. The good teachers weren’t worried that a little correction would somehow turn a good guy into a supervillain.

Thaddeus was casually running on the treadmill at a brisk pace, his sheathed sword bouncing up and down in rhythm with his steps. Sweat covered his forehead, telling me that he had been at this for a while now. Seeing as this was an excellent opportunity to make the main character aware of my existence, I casually walked over and started the treadmill next to his.

Adjusting the settings to match my usual pace from back on Earth, I began running.

Like that, we ran side by side for several minutes. I quickly realized that my endurance was much lower currently than it was in my older body, but I refused to lower the intensity. It was a matter of pride. I assumed Rule of Cool would help me out in some way here, but I honestly didn’t quite understand its applications yet.

Thaddeus glanced at me once or twice when I was struggling and gave me a nod of approval. Ten minutes later, he stopped his machine. Gasping for breath, I hit the ‘Stop’ button and groaned in relief. Fighting the urge to hunch over, I leaned against the frame of the treadmill and took several deep breaths.

“You okay, man?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yeah…” I breathed out.

He grinned. “It’s a little rough when you first get started, but it's worth it. Keep up the good work, champ.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. I hope to see you around here more. Good luck with your workout!”

With that, Thaddeus left me to my lengthy recovery. Still drawing in ragged breaths, I couldn’t help the grin that bled onto my face. “That should work as a first impression…”

The world seemed to spin for a moment as a wave of nausea overcame me. I dry heaved as I collapsed to the ground.

“I really need to get this body into shape…” I muttered.

Making a mental note to hit the gym four to five days a week for the foreseeable future, I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled over to the next machine. Now that the warm-up was done, it was time to learn my limits.

***

Agent-007 sat in the abandoned hideout in the warehouse district, pondering about her next step. She arrived a few days ahead of schedule and expected to find her compatriot, the Magic Bomber, waiting for her.

Instead, she found that he was killed and his body was taken for examination. Since he didn’t have any machine resonance, it was unlikely that they would connect him back to the KSP, but that wasn’t her primary concern.

‘Who killed him?’ she wondered.

By using her skill, she was able to determine that he was approached by a single person and left with them willingly before he died, but she couldn’t identify anything about the killer other than the fact that they had no abilities.

The Magic Bomber wasn’t the KSP’s most skilled operative, but he wasn’t a fool, either. At least, she didn’t think he was.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

“Report.”

“This is Agent-007. I arrived on scene and discovered that Agent-192 has already been killed.”

“...You just arrived?”

“That is correct.”

The voice on the other end went quiet for a moment. “Are you sure?”

She tilted her head, confused. “Yes.”

“Agent-192 contact us on Monday last week to confirm that we sent you. He said that you arrived early…”

Agent-007 furrowed her brow as she considered this new piece of information. Someone had impersonated her to murder her compatriot.

“An information leak. There is a traitor…” she concluded.

“So it seems.”

“I will call again when I have another report,” she said.

“Be careful, Agent. They knew you were coming, so they may be prepared to deal with you. Lay low and investigate before taking any action.”

“Yessir!”

She hung up the phone and slid it into her pocket. Glancing at the deserted camp once more, she sent a silent prayer to the Machine Father.

‘May he ascend to true Assimilation.’

She did a cursory check of the site to ensure nothing could be left to incriminate the KSP, and then she fled the scene.

‘I don’t know who killed Agent-192,’ she thought. ‘But I know how to find out.’

It was time to start her investigation.