Chapter 01: When Did People Transmigrate By Blinking

You people must have pissed off your gods for them to make me this powerful.

Hateful eyes devoured these words on a phone screen as the character speaking them massacred without mercy, disgracing those the reader held dear.

These mournful, striking blue eyes belonged to a black-haired teenager named Luke, who glared at his phone with fierce concentration, reading a novel he despised.

Luke continued scrolling with his thumb, his heart aching more with every line. He read, action by action, as the character he loathed took action, hoping desperately that the next line would describe the character's demise—perhaps a sword through the heart, at the very least.

But Luke's scrolling reached the end, and instead of satisfaction, he was met with the text:

*[The Hero’s Journey continues]*

---

"Fuck!"

Luke exploded at the words, finally tearing his gaze from his phone.

The orange hues of the setting sun were descending beyond the horizon, clouds floating toward it like moths to a flame.

His blue eyes remained fixed on the sky, his body comfortably settled on a steel park bench resting by the lakeside—a place seldom visited, its absence of bushes an unspoken deterrent.

Behind him, a garden flourished in the heart of the grassy field, with small trees neatly lining the edges like quiet sentinels.

Before him, a vast, tranquil lake stretched in a winding zig-zag, vanishing behind towering trees in the distance—an eerie illusion that could unsettle wandering eyes.

But Luke felt none of it. He remained unmoving, a silent observer beyond the concrete barrier that kept the lake at bay—its solid presence a quiet promise that the world beyond his feet would not reach him.

As the sun dipped behind the trees, painting the sky in dying embers, a deep ache settled in his chest. Others might find the view peaceful—hundreds of people, scattered across different places, were likely admiring the same sunset, lost in their own reflections, their own struggles.

But surely, none of them were praying for the death of a fictional character.

Luke had come here to find peace, but within minutes, his thoughts overwhelmed him. He quickly grabbed his phone and began typing a comment under the novel's latest chapter:

---**Luke_SW:** As usual, the author failed to kill Arryn Rocheford. He doesn’t have any traits to be an MC. He just kills people because he dislikes them, in the name of justice. More importantly, he doesn’t even care about the people he’s supposed to protect. In this chapter, he used his own men as bait to lure the villain, and they all died because of it. He is just a bad MC for a good story.

Luke hit send, stood up from the bench, and decided to do what he originally came for—jogging. His formal white shirt and black dress pants, paired with bright red running shoes, drew a few amused glances from passersby, but he ignored them.

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For the next thirty minutes, Luke jogged around the park under the slowly ascending moonlight. Clouds played peek-a-boo with the moon, like adults teasing a child.

After making a full circle, he returned to the same bench, drenched in sweat, struggling to catch his breath. His legs trembled, dancing to the rhythm of his pounding heart. He was exhausted.

As Luke leaned back, the streetlamp beside him cast a faint glow, illuminating his sweat-drenched shirt.

A gruesome scar was visible on his back—like an imprint on wet cement. He had borne it his whole life. Yet, as the cold breeze from the lake brushed against him, it felt warm, soothing his back like the gentle flutter of a butterfly's wings. A small smile crept across his lips.

Once he had calmed down, Luke grabbed his phone, wiped the sweat from the screen with the inside of his shirt, and checked his comment. He felt slightly pleased—it had received over 100 likes and several comments, most of them agreeing with his hatred for the MC, Arryn.

He kept scrolling until his vein throbbed at a particular reply:

---**I_am_G:** What are you talking about? Arryn's job is to kill the enemy. He did it, didn’t he? Arryn never told anyone to follow him, yet they did—because of his aura and leadership. He is a great MC with a poor story.

"You piece of shit. You finally showed up, huh?"

Luke muttered, already typing his response. He had beefed with this anonymous user countless times. This user didn’t just argue with Luke but also with many others who despised Arryn.

---**Luke_SW:** People followed him because of his leadership? What? Are you serious? They followed him because he is a prince and his father is the king. It’s that simple. His father ensured his son was protected until the end, even throwing away Royal Knights' lives like balloons. You need to read the novel again properly.

Luke hit send without hesitation, as if the user already knew what he would type. Sure enough, the reply arrived instantly.

---**I_am_G:** As usual, so cute with your Arryn hate. Then let’s say you had the power to change the story. What would you do?

Luke didn't even pause before typing:

---**Luke_SW:** Easy. I would have the other six continents wage war against Arryn’s for their injustices, kill Arryn, wipe out his entire continent, and free their people.

He smirked, proud of his words, and waited for a response. The user usually responded within a second, but for the first time, none came.

*Can you really do it?*

Suddenly, a strange whisper echoed behind his ears.

Luke jolted off the bench, fear gripping him as he whipped around, his eyes darting behind it.

“Who's there?!” he shouted.

Nothing. Just an empty grass field, moths circling the streetlamp, and eerie silence blanketing the lakeside park.

'It must be my imagination.'

Still feeling uneasy, Luke took a deep breath and sat back down. He exhaled slowly, calming his nerves, and blinked as a moth flitted past his face.

And in that blink—

“A-AAHHHH!”

Luke stumbled backward, his seat clattering to the ground. His panicked gaze snapped to his hand, where a bastard sword gleamed under dim candlelight.

The sword weighed down his hand, and he threw it away in shock, jolting back until his back hit the wall.

Luke, confused, scanned the large room with restless eyes.

A massive wooden table stretched before him, cluttered with half-filled pitchers and empty booze bottles.

Shelves of liquor lined the walls, with rusted, dust-covered swords and shields hanging between them.

At the far end of the room, a single door loomed beneath a mounted green horn. The white brick walls, stained with old blood and steeped in the stench of booze, enclosed him.

A small chandelier, its numerous candles flickering, dangled from the ceiling, casting restless shadows over the room.

Luke's breath hitched.

"This place... why do I know this place?"

He struggled to process what he was seeing, unable to believe his eyes. Doubt crept in, making him question if he was hallucinating.

Yet, everything around him seemed to insist—this was real.

*BOOM!*

The door exploded in a violent eruption of splinters, sending fragments skittering across the floor. A dense cloud of dust billowed into the room, thick and suffocating, as the air crackled with the force of the blast.

Luke's body froze. His mind raced, dredging up memories he shouldn’t have.

A figure emerged from the dust, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps. He held a sword glowing with white light, his smile wide, condescending.

A deep, taunting voice rang out.

"So, you’re the first villain I have to kill, huh?"

Luke's throat tightened as he whispered the name of the man standing before him.

"Arryn Rocheford."

[The Hero’s Journey continues...]