Life is something beyond control.
It is unfair.
The kind-hearted may perish young, while the wicked linger long enough for their faces to become maps of wrinkles.
There is no justice, no balance—only chance and circumstance.
Lying on a hospital bed, I scrolled through the last chapter of my favourite novel.
[The Extra Rules of the World]
Despite the genre being oversaturated with similar stories, this particular one had always drawn me in.
The deep and well-developed cast, the intricate worldbuilding, and above all, the protagonist—flawed yet inspiring. I had followed every twist and turn, every moment of triumph and despair.
But things changed.
The author, once dedicated, began slowing down.
Four chapters a week turned into one a month.
The excitement that once surrounded the novel faded, and readers left, one by one. Years passed, and now only a single viewer remained.
Me.
The "1 view" count flickered at the top of the chapter.
And just like that, it ended.
The story was approaching its climax. The protagonist and his allies had finally reached the doorstep of the final villainous faction.
The moment was set for an epic confrontation, one that had been built up over countless arcs.
Yet, what greeted me was something else entirely.
[Due to personal circumstances, the serialisation has been discontinued. Thank you for reading The Extra Rules the World. Hope you had fun reading it.]
I stared at the words, my mind struggling to process them.
Was this really it?
A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. I wanted to be frustrated, but in the end, I couldn't be.
Because I, too, had reached my end.
A dry cough wracked my body. My chest burnt, and I felt a familiar weakness creeping through my limbs.
The doctors had already told me there was nothing more they could do.
As a history professor, I had spent my life studying the past. But now, there was no future left for me.
Using what little strength I had, I typed a comment on the latest chapter.
I thanked the author.
For writing this far. For the journey. For the characters. I told him that I hoped he would continue, even if there was no one left to read it.
After pressing send, I let my phone slip from my fingers and closed my eyes.
My body ached; my breath was shallow.
My time was running out.
Then, a sound.
Ding!
My phone vibrated in my weak grasp. With some effort, I lifted it back up and squinted at the notification.
It was a message.
From the author.
[Thank you. For being the last reader. As a reward, I'll send you to another book of mine.
I frowned, confusion creeping into my tired mind.
What did he mean?
Before I could dwell on it, a sharp pain tore through my chest. A warm, metallic taste filled my mouth as blood trickled from my lips.
My vision blurred. My body felt heavy, sinking into the mattress.
It was over.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
***
I opened my eyes.
The scent of damp wood and aged fabric filled my nostrils.
Above me, a cracked, discoloured ceiling stretched out, far removed from the sterile white of the hospital room.
The bed beneath me was rough, the blanket threadbare and scratchy against my skin.
My breath caught as I raised a trembling hand.
Gone were the wrinkled fingers, the weakened, frail skin.
In their place, a thin yet youthful hand greeted me.
White strands of hair fell past my shoulders, brushing against my arms.
My body felt different—lighter, stronger, yet unfamiliar.
Where… had I arrived?
Memories—ones that didn't belong to me—flooded my mind.
Images, emotions, and fragments of a life unfamiliar yet vivid played out in an overwhelming rush.
Names I had never spoken it; it felt familiar on my tongue.
Faces I had never seen evoked emotions deep in my chest.
I was no longer Van, the historian professor.
I was now Vancroft, the fourth son of the Lockhart family.
And the most hated one.