Chapter 0:

Chapter 0: A Beginning Born of Obligation

My First Abandoned Novel, A Bet Between the Goddess and the Author for a Satisfying Ending!

I woke up at three in the morning.
Not because of a nightmare. Not because of a sound.My body… simply woke up on its own, like an old clock long wound up, still ticking out of habit.
Outside, it was pitch black.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. In the dim shadow of the old room, I could see the cracked ceiling—fine lines like spiderwebs clinging to the past.
There was no voice calling me. No gentle knock from my father.I wanted to cry, desperately, but the tears wouldn’t come.
No scent of warm rice, no soft bubbling from the kitchen, no warm light spilling out from the living room like it used to on early mornings.
Only the wind.The wind howling through the rotting wooden gaps, dragging in a damp, heavy chill.
I lived alone.This house used to hold three people. Now it was just me—drifting like a ghost.
When I was fifteen, a traffic accident took my parents away. A truck. A blind curve. A rainstorm at night.The last message from Mom was a simple reminder to sleep early.No more messages ever came.
No one stepped up to take me in.Relatives? Far, distant names. Blood ties too thin to hold anyone close.
No insurance. No savings. No scholarship fund.
I dropped out of high school at sixteen.From then on, life became a single goal: survival.
I did everything I could to stay alive—waiting tables, delivering goods, mixing cement, cleaning storage rooms, washing cars… There was nothing I hadn’t tried.Money was the only target. Nothing more, nothing less.
By day I worked. By night I returned to this place.Ate instant noodles. Stared at the ceiling.I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to live either.
I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to live either.
And then, to keep myself from going mad from the loneliness… I started to write.
I never imagined… that the very first lines I typed—would summon her.

I write the way people breathe—quietly, steadily, unnoticed.

The first words were clumsy. The language I used was simple, stiff, lacking rhythm. But I didn’t care. I wrote to soothe myself, to make the world in my head feel more real, more warm.

I created characters. I built a world.

In that world, there was no moldy smell, no sound of rats scurrying in the ceiling, no loneliness. I wrote about courage, about broken dreams, about friendship, about magic—things I had never touched, but wanted so badly to believe existed.

I posted my story on a small, free platform. A place where no one knew me.

I expected nothing. No fame, no money. I just didn’t want the words to die with me.

Day after day, no one read it. I wasn’t disappointed. The silence wasn’t any different from the silence I’d grown used to over the years.

Until one day, a comment appeared.

“I don’t know why, but your story… it really feels.”

I stared blankly at the screen.

A reader.

It was as if my heart skipped—not from excitement, but from the shock of being seen again. It had been so long since anyone called my name, recognized me, told me I was worth something.

From that day on, the comments came regularly under every chapter.

She asked questions, gave suggestions, joked around. She didn’t know who I was, and I knew nothing about her, except for a short username and a blurry avatar.

But every time I finished a chapter, I felt nervous—not because I feared making mistakes, but because… I hoped.

I wasn’t just writing for myself anymore.

I was writing for her.

A year passed. My first story had grown beyond 130 chapters. I didn’t know how good or bad it was, but I knew one thing for sure—it had pulled me back from the edge.

I had planned to keep writing until the day she stopped reading.

And then, that day came.

One afternoon, she left a single comment:

“Sorry, author. Your first story was better... this one just isn’t for me anymore.”

That was all.

Not criticism. Not an attack. Just a quiet goodbye.

But it felt like someone had pulled out the only beam still holding the roof above my head.

I stared at the screen in silence.

I opened my laptop many times afterward—but only to look at the dark screen.

The blinking cursor waited…

But I had nothing left to write.

I reread her comment over and over. Then I shut the laptop.

And I never opened it again.

No more new chapters.

No more new stories.

I stopped writing.

I still worked. Still lived. But there was no one to share my imagined world with anymore. No one left to hope would understand me.

Tôi từng nghĩ chỉ cần một người đọc là đủ.

Turns out… I was wrong.

Tonight is just like every other night.

I sat up in the darkness — aimlessly, without reason.

The dim light from the old desk lamp spilled across the dusty surface. My laptop lay there, lifeless, like a silent, cold extension of my own body. The black screen reflected my gaunt face, sunken eyes, and the kind of exhaustion one no longer tries to hide.

I didn’t turn it on.

I just stared at it… as if it were a tombstone for a dream that had already died.

Outside, the wind whispered softly against the window. The shadow of trees danced on the walls like silent hands murmuring secrets. I closed my eyes, trying to lull myself back to sleep.

But then… a sound echoed.

Unfamiliar. Not wind.

A voice — clear, ringing, right by my ear.

“Wake up, Heukwol.”

My eyes flew open. No one was there.

My heart pounded. That name… No one had called me that in years. Heukwol — the first pen name I ever used. The name that stood for my dream of writing. The name behind the sleepless nights I had spent pounding out stories no one read.

I let out a dry laugh, thinking I must be hallucinating again.

But then… the room began to shift.

The cracked walls vanished. The broken ceiling, the old windows — all gone. I stood in a vast, floating void, like a dream not yet fully formed.

And in front of me… was a girl.

Her hair was long and white, falling like snow to her waist. Her eyes were white too, but glowing like stage lights. Her clothes were colorful — like a traveling performer or a mime actor from another world.

I stood frozen.

She stepped closer, lips curled into a mysterious smile.

“We meet again.”

I instinctively took a step back.

“Who… are you?”

She tilted her head, eyes shimmering.

“Do you think you even have the right to ask?”

I swallowed hard.

“…A goddess?”

"Không,"

"Không," cô nhẹ nhàng đáp.

“No,” she replied softly. “I am more than that.”

Her voice dipped, like the sadness of forgotten pages.

“I read your first novel. It wasn’t perfect. It was rough, awkward. But it had something real. Something that was truly you.”

My chest tightened.

“Vậy thì tại sao…”

“Then why…” I began.

Her hand clenched.

“Why didn’t you ever finish it?”

I couldn’t answer.

She stepped closer, her eyes sharpening.

“You abandoned your own story. Let it rot, fade into nothing. And I — born from your words — was left behind, trapped forever.”

I had no argument.Không có sự phòng thủ.

“Why didn’t you continue?” she demanded.

“Why leave it unfinished?”

"Vì tôi không đủ tốt,"

“Because I’m not good enough,” I finally choked. The words scraped out of my throat.

“Because… no one needs it anymore.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“No one needs it?”

“Do you think the world you created has no soul? That it doesn’t ache from being abandoned?”

I looked down.

Her words cut deeper than any insult — straight through my dried-up pride.

“Anh đã từng hứa,”

cô thì thầm.

cô thì thầm. “Anh đã nói sẽ viết đến cùng. Dù chẳng ai đọc. Dù chẳng ai hiểu. Anh đã nói… anh sẽ viết đến tận lúc chết.”

I closed my eyes.

The memories surged in like waves:

Sleepless nights.

A few lonely words of encouragement at the end of each chapter.

And her — the last reader.

The one I never even met.

She reached out her hand, palm open.

“Finish the story. For me. For yourself. And for… her.”

I looked up.

“What do you want?”

“A game,” she said with a smile — this time, cold as winter night.

“A wager. If you can rewrite and finish the story true to its original emotion — without distortion — I’ll grant you what you’ve always been searching for.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Simple. I’ll send you into the world you created.”

“And… the rules?”

She paced in a circle, and with a wave of her hand, a black light sliced through the void.

“I make the rules. If during your journey, the most important characters — your protagonist and heroine — die… the ending will be changed.”

“What?”

“I’ll send my creations. Monsters. Aberrations. Shadows,” she said, eyes gleaming.

“If you fail… the world will be erased. So will you.”

I swallowed dryly.

“And if I win?”

“You get to return. And one wish.”

I froze.