(POV - Seth Marea)
My name is Seth Marea. I am sixteen years old and I am an aspiring writer, and well... I love writing. About eight months ago, I started writing my novel. Five hundred chapters. A few weeks after the final online publication of the novel, curiosity took over.
I opened the site's dashboard and, for a second, my breath caught in my throat. Views had skyrocketed, and hundreds of comments were written under the chapters.
I felt a jolt of pure happiness: people were not only reading, but participating actively, offering advice and analyzing key passages. Even the criticisms didn't upset me; on the contrary, they were proof that my story was alive.
Yet, despite that warmth, the knot in my chest did not untie.
Is it time?
The euphoria of the months spent writing and reading books online slowly began to dissipate.
When I read the word "End" weeks after finishing the story, the silence in the room became deafening.
The flame was flickering.
A void formed inside me.
A long sigh escaped my lips.
"Does it end like this?" I muttered in a hoarse voice.
"I... don't want it to end."
I lay down on the bed with a whirlwind of thoughts.
The following days were spent reading novels online, but also obsessively reviewing my own work.
For me stories were no longer just characters, they were worlds.
Every story was a world.
I read thousands of chapters, but the more I read, the more my dissatisfaction grew: they all seemed like copies of one another.
There were few exceptions.
Most online authors preferred to recycle themes already seen: reincarnation, transmigration, time travel, heroes, regression, demons.
I couldn't say they weren't to my taste, yet I felt something was missing.
Originality? Maybe. Still, it wasn't just a matter of novelty. Something deeper was missing, an elusive element I couldn't define.
Rare exceptions existed: works capable of tearing you away from reality and dragging you into another dimension. Stories that didn't limit themselves to being read, but seemed to possess a life of their own. In those texts, you were no longer a simple observer, you became an integral part of the narrated world, capable of perceiving emotions that didn't belong to you, as if you were truly there, breathing that air.
Ping!
A metallic "ping" broke the tension.
An email notification glowed in the dark bedroom.
Subject: Reserved Invitation — Writers' Club
Dear Mr. Seth,
I came across your novel and I must admit I was deeply impressed by your story.
I am writing to you as the President of our Club: a selected group of emerging authors who exchange opinions, techniques, and experiences to push themselves beyond their limits.
I would be truly happy to have you among us. I hope the proposal might interest you.
If you find yourself interested, I leave you the link below for a brief introductory call tomorrow evening at 9:00 PM.
[Link to virtual room]
Best regards,
The President
I re-read the message three times.
A chill ran down my spine. I used an airtight pseudonym. I had never linked my real identity to that profile.
How had they managed to find my name?
All day I kept thinking about it. I remained perplexed, uncertain whether it was a scam or a bad taste joke.
That evening, after dinner, I headed to my bedroom with a determined step.
The computer was already on.
At exactly 9:00 PM, with my heart pounding wildly, I took a deep breath and clicked on "Join".
Click!
Immediately, the webcam light glowed a cold white. I instinctively tried to click the icon to turn it off, but the command seemed dead. There was no way to turn it off.
"I have a bad feeling..." I muttered to myself, feeling a growing discomfort.
A few minutes of silence passed, then, one by one, other people began to populate the screen grid. Five participants entered: two men and three women. Everyone had their camera active, showing me their focused faces, but their microphones were strictly muted.
"Hello? Can you hear me?" I asked, but my microphone button was unresponsive. I was trapped in a forced mutism.
I began to scroll through the names appearing below the video boxes and my breath caught. I recognized some names. From their faces, you could see they were all young kids who didn't exceed nineteen years old. There were two guys and three girls, and I must admit each of them had a pretty face.
I noticed one of the guys: he was visibly agitated, gesticulating fiercely, and his face was a mask of impotent rage.
"He's furious because he can't speak or turn off the webcam," I thought, realizing none of us had control either.
"It's strange... Too strange."
At this point, it seemed all the callers had noticed the complications characterizing this call.
Someone seemed to have lost their mind, like the blonde-haired guy who kept screaming mute words at the lens.
"Is he cursing?"
"Well... actually, his confusion and anger don't seem like such an exaggerated thing to me."
"This situation is actually very strange."
I didn't panic; I've always been an observer who thinks before acting.
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
I felt my heartbeat increasing more and more, but on my face, I tried not to show any signs of anxiety or nervousness.
I didn't like showing my weaknesses.
Each participant reacted in their own way, but most, like me, tried to maintain an apparent calm, fighting the urge to give in to panic.
I noticed one of the three girls; her face was frightened and marked by effort.
From her actions, I figured she was closing the laptop from which she had entered the call.
But her face was red from exertion.
"Can't she close it?"
"What kind of joke is this?"
Looking at the laptop in front of me, I tried to close it with a decisive movement, but nothing.
It stayed fixed.
It didn't move a millimeter.
Instinctively, I tried to get up to check better if there was anything wrong with the computer, but...
"I can't get up..."
"I can't feel my legs."
My thoughts became faster and more complex. Sweat began to form on my forehead.
The atmosphere was tense. We stayed like that, staring at each other through pixels, waiting for someone else to make their move or join that strange silent conversation.
The background of each webcam revealed different locations. The blonde-haired guy was in a damp, dark alley, lit only by the intermittent light of a distant streetlamp. One of the girls seemed to be outdoors, in a deserted public park at night, with tree branches swaying restlessly behind her back. Another still was hoarded in a suffocating room, submerged by piles of books and scribbled papers, as if she lived in an abandoned library. Fortunately, however, I didn't seem to be the only normal being staying in his room. The other two girls were wearing bizarre clothing; one looked like she had come out of a rock band wearing an oversized black shirt and pale makeup on her face, while the other... I wouldn't say she was bizarre, rather she seemed very fixated on the color pink.
We stared at each other, and the air in the call changed density. Most of us knew each other, or at least knew each other's works and the aliases they used as writers. Some names were already known in the web novel world, but the faces... the faces had always been a mystery.
Then, a new box lit up. No video, just a white fox theatrical mask with a mocking smile.
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
The voice coming out of the speakers was altered, synthetic, but imbued with a ceremonial and deeply theatrical tone. "Welcome, everyone. I am the President of the Club," he began, taking a slow, solemn bow toward the camera.
"I am glad to see my invitations were accepted. Each of you managed to write something that stands out from the crowd, little masterpieces. Some more acclaimed, others less, but in my opinion, you all have the potential to surpass even the greatest hits."
The figure paused, letting his words weigh in the virtual air. Then, with a fluid gesture, he shared an image. It was the cover of the most read online novel of the last three years.
"You all know this book, right?" he asked, in a tone oscillating between playful and serious. "A true masterpiece, so they say. The story, the setting, every single emotion studied to be perfect..."
He let a few seconds of silence pass, observing our confused expressions. Then, slowly, his gloved finger rose toward the camera, pointing at himself.
"I put time and sweat into writing it. You know? I am the one who wrote it."
What? Are we kidding?? I don't believe it...
A light laugh came from the speakers, amused and almost cynical. The fox mask didn't move, but the amber eyes beneath it seemed to shine with cruel amusement.
In front of the screen, silence had become total. I could see the kids' faces: none of them had taken the masked man's words seriously. I mean, who would believe him so easily? We were talking about the most legendary figure in the web novel world.
We were standing before the legend in person, and for the first time, we realized we had ended up in something much bigger than us.
"Hehehehe... I like your faces. It seems none of you believe it. Maybe it's better, at least it will be more fun," the mysterious figure said in an amused tone.
"Now that I've introduced myself, I'd say we can start the real show," he continued speaking in a serene voice.
The masked figure, self-proclaimed Kami Dwine, leaned forward. The monitor light reflected a sinister spark in the fox mask.
"You know, the pleasure of writing this story at the beginning was overwhelming, then noticing how it was acclaimed was fun... If only they knew? I always wondered," he paused, a silence that weighed like lead on our shoulders. "Considered a God of writing, but the truth was very different from the reality all of you know. And now? I've decided to do something completely new. And you... will be the protagonists of this experiment."
Kami Dwine reached his hand out toward the webcam lens. Between his fingers, he held a small object, a black sphere that seemed to absorb the light of the room, pulsing at an irregular rhythm.
"...What is that?"
I remained paralyzed at the sight of that sphere; I didn't yet know that sphere would change everything.
I wasn't the only one disturbed by the situation; by now, none of us could remain calm.
From the mysterious figure and that sphere, a distant danger could be perceived, yet at the same time close to each of us.
"Welcome to the first chapter of your new reality. Do not turn back."
The screen shook, distorted by violent interference. A flash of blinding white light exploded from the webcam, invading my room, my mind, my world. The computer didn't turn off; it flew open, becoming an abyss ready to swallow me.
The darkness never arrived. Only the sensation of falling arrived, of being ripped away from one's chair, dragged into the very heart of the blank page.
The masked figure, now left alone in the glassy reflection of the computer monitor, whispered one last phrase before the entire system collapsed into darkness.
"Maybe you will manage to do what I failed to do."
"In case of failure... I will have no choice but to try a much bolder move."