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 those words on a phone screen as the speaker—a character who massacred without mercy—disgraced everyone dear to the reader.

Those sorrowful, piercing blue eyes belonged to Luke, a black-haired teenager whose gaze burned with intensity as he scrolled through a novel he utterly despised.

With each flick of his thumb, his heart sank further. Luke followed the unfolding actions, desperate for the next line to finally describe the character's demise—perhaps a swift sword to the heart would suffice.

But as his scrolling reached the final line, satisfaction turned to dismay when the screen displayed: 

*[The Hero's Journey continues]*

---

"Fuck!" 

Luke erupted, tearing his eyes away from the phone in a burst of frustration.

Outside, the orange hues of the setting sun bled into the horizon, while clouds drifted lazily toward it like moths drawn to a flame. 

His blue eyes remained fixed on that brilliant sky as he sat on a lone steel bench by the lake—a secluded spot whose bare surroundings spoke of silent isolation.

Behind him, a garden flourished in the grassy field, with neatly lined trees standing as quiet sentinels. Ahead, a vast, serpentine lake vanished behind towering trees—an eerie vista that could unsettle even the hardiest of souls.

Yet Luke felt detached from it all. He was immovable, 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, its dying embers painting the sky, a deep ache took root in his chest. Hundreds of strangers might have found solace in the sunset, lost in their own musings. 

But surely, none of them harbored prayers for the death of a fictional character.

Luke had come here to find peace, but within minutes, his thoughts overwhelmed him. Luke fumbled for his phone and began typing a comment under the 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.

After hitting send, Luke rose from the bench and set off for his intended escape—jogging. His formal white shirt and black dress pants, accented by bright red running shoes, drew amused glances from passersby, but he paid them no mind.

For the next thirty minutes, Luke pounded the park's pathways beneath a slowly emerging moon, with clouds playing peek-a-boo as if to tease him. 

When he finally returned to the bench, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, his legs trembled in sync with his pounding heart.

A nearby streetlamp cast a faint glow on his sweat-soaked shirt, revealing a gruesome scar on his back—a mark as permanent as an imprint on wet cement, borne throughout his life. Yet the cold lake breeze was soothing, caressing his scar like the gentle flutter of butterfly wings, and a small smile crept onto his face.

Once his breathing steadied, Luke wiped the screen with the inside of his shirt and checked his comment. A surge of satisfaction flickered as he noted over a hundred likes and several replies, most echoing his disdain for Arryn.

Then his eyes locked onto one reply that made his vein throb:

---**I_am_G:** What are you talking about? Arryn's job is to eliminate the enemy. He did it, didn't he? Arryn never ordered anyone to follow him—yet they did, drawn by his aura and leadership. He's a great MC trapped in a lousy story. 

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

Luke muttered, fingers already dancing over the keys. He'd clashed 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. Now, 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'd have the other six continents wage war against Arryn's for their injustices, kill Arryn, wipe out his entire continent, and free their people. 

Luke 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?* 

A strange whisper echoed behind his ears.

Startled, Luke leapt from the bench. His eyes darted around wildly as fear gripped him. 

"Who's there?!" he shouted.

There was nothing but an empty grass field, a few moths circling a streetlamp, and an eerie silence blanketing the park.

'It must be my imagination,'

He reassured himself.

Still unsettled, Luke exhaled slowly and resumed his seat. As he blinked, a moth flitted past his face. And in that single blink—

"A-AAHHHH!" 

Luke staggered backward, the bench clattering to the ground. His panicked gaze fell on his hand, where a bastard sword now gleamed under dim, flickering candlelight.

The weight of the sword in his hand was shocking enough that he hurled it away, retreating until his back met the wall.

Disoriented, Luke scanned the unfamiliar room around him. A massive wooden table sprawled before him, cluttered with half-filled pitchers and empty bottles of booze. Shelves crammed with liquor lined the walls, interspersed with rusted, dust-laden swords and shields.

At the far end, a single door loomed beneath a mounted green horn. The white brick walls—stained with old blood and reeking of spilled spirits—enclosed him tightly, while a small chandelier dangled from the ceiling, its flickering candles casting restless, dancing shadows.

Luke's breath caught in his throat. 

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

he wondered aloud, struggling to process the surreal scene before him. Doubt began to seep in, and he questioned whether he was hallucinating.

Yet every detail around him insisted on one undeniable truth—this was real.

*BOOM!* 

The door burst open in a violent eruption of splinters, scattering fragments across the floor. A thick cloud of dust billowed in, suffocating the room as the air sizzled with the force of the explosion.

Luke froze. His mind raced, dredging up long-buried memories he should never have recalled.

From the settling dust emerged a figure, stepping forward with deliberate, measured strides. Clutching a sword that radiated pure white light, the man's smile was wide and condescending.

 A deep, taunting voice rang out:

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

Luke's throat constricted as he whispered the only name he dared: 

"Arryn Rocheford."

[The Hero's Journey continues…]