“It’s kind of weird.”

I muttered to myself while staring at the monitor. On the screen was my current series, .

I’ve looked at this exact screen dozens of times a day for almost ten years straight—so nothing should feel new anymore. But lately, every single day feels strange.

[Good luck.]

[Really enjoying it so far.]

[Oh… it’s giving me chills!]

I wake up and positive comments are already piling up. It’s a great feeling, but the sudden change still throws me off.

‘I was seriously thinking about dropping it.’

Is this what people call a “late-blooming reversal” in martial arts novels? No more hate comments, no more dead silence—my work was finally breathing.

‘Looks like the readers caught on.’

Readers aren’t stupid. They know a free series can get axed any time if the numbers don’t pick up.

So when they see a story they like starting to show signs of life, they tend to drop encouraging comments more often to keep it going.

‘If I were still a starving writer, I’d be jumping for joy right now.’

But honestly, the stats had already crashed too hard.

Way too late to save. Plus it’s peak contest season—thousands of new stories flooding in every day.

My work is buried at the very bottom of the abyss. No sign of the so-called “meteor rise.” The numbers are screaming it’s time to quit.

‘Hm? But who’s this?’

Among the new comments, one name jumped out at me. I quickly checked the profile to make sure it wasn’t a fake—yep, real account.

Level 99.

In other words, max level.

Nickname: ‘CENTE.’

I know this one well. One of the top-tier readers, usually ranked alongside the Five Guardian Spirits like “Divine Warrior.”

[It gets really good from the middle onward, but the beginning is rough. Feels like a big entry barrier. Author-nim, have you ever thought about remaking it?]

Reading the sincere comment, I fell into thought. Normally I’d ignore most reader feedback to protect the story’s direction, but this one felt different.

‘A Guardian Spirit leaving a long comment is super rare…’

These people read so much that it’s hard for them to get attached to any single story. 99% of their comments are just short stuff like “good luck.”

But dropping a full paragraph means they actually felt disappointed. That alone is enough reason to seriously consider a remake.

[I feel the same as CENTE-nim. I’ve read a few of Author-nim’s past works too, but this one hits the best so far.]

While I was still thinking, a comment from “Divine Warrior” popped up. Reading it, I felt a tiny spark of hope light up inside.

Okay—step one: reread my own story from the very beginning. Figure out exactly why reader reactions flipped so dramatically.

‘The plot itself hasn’t changed much.’

I’ve got enough experience as a writer to keep the “climax → victory → conclusion” structure solid. Plot-wise, nothing major shifted.

‘…It’s gotta be the characters.’

I only just realized it, but my early characters had zero charm. I was so focused on plot-driven storytelling that I killed off their individuality on purpose.

Emotionless protagonist.

Submissive, predictable heroine reactions.

Supporting cast treated like disposable tools.

In my novel, they were all just puppets—and I put on a mediocre puppet show for the readers.

‘But the second half is completely different.’

The characters started breaking out of the script I wrote for them and acting on their own. Especially the heroine “Mer”—she basically got reborn.

『──────────

“Do you happen to know the story of ‘Persephone’?”

“…So that’s why you kidnapped me?”

“Looks like you already know.”

“Do you really think I’d fall for you because of this?”

“You don’t exactly have a choice, do you?”

Heh—

Princess Mer of the Ilia Empire looked at the man she loved—Ciel—and gave a soft, confident smile.

Clap clap—!

When she clapped, the knights waiting outside carefully stepped forward, carrying something.

“…What is this!?”

“It’s an elixir that can bring back the dead. With this, you can save your friend too.”

“Are you seriously trying to make a deal with me right now?”

“Exactly. I give you what you need, you give me what I need. How does that sound?”

Looking into Mer’s certain eyes, Ciel felt emotions he thought had worn away from endless deaths slowly rising again.

‘…Is this anger?’

He couldn’t help but feel pathetic—he’d struggled so hard and still couldn’t save anyone, yet she got the elixir so easily.

A petty jealousy toward the princess.

Mer was like a mirror. So clear and transparent that she kept reflecting his ugly inner self back at him.

“…Mer. I still can’t love you.”

“No.”

Mer shook her head firmly.

This was a side of her no one in the royal family had ever seen—the youngest who always gave in to her siblings.

“Ciel. You will love me.”

She lifted his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. His usually emotionless eyes trembled slightly.

“Because I’m going to make you.”

──────────』

Rereading the scene I posted yesterday, I realized again just how active “Mer” had become.

She used to be nothing more than a obedient support character—there to patch up the protagonist’s mental state. Now she carried the full force of royal blood.

‘And the reason it turned out this way is…’

Definitely because of the contract marriage.

Having that safety net removed the pressure to force the story into a money-making shape.

So I threw out the tightly planned plot and just wrote whatever felt right. Somewhere along the way, the image of the sea overlapped with the princess.

‘Even the protagonist changed because of it.’

Ciel has the ability “infinite regression.” That’s it. No matter how hard he tries, only the “process” changes—the ending stays fixed.

After repeating that miserable future over and over, his emotions wore down until he went numb to everything. Saving the princess was just a random whim.

‘I originally planned to go full cider route.’

Like most regression stories—use the cheat of “kill him early because he’ll do bad things later.” But once the princess’s personality changed, the whole story veered off.

‘What if she becomes the one person who actually changes his repeating future?’

The emotionally dead protagonist will do anything to “use” her. In the process, a tiny spark of hope reignites, and his frozen feelings slowly start waking up.

The heroine knows he’s trying to exploit even her heart—but she firmly believes the tables will turn someday.

‘This could actually be really interesting.’

Once I sketched out the rough structure, I could see exactly which parts needed fixing.

Skip the frustrating early stuff, slow-build the heroine’s changing feelings—readers would get pulled in much deeper.

‘Actually… not that many changes needed.’

This much is doable without a full remake. One or two days of editing should cover it.

Right as I decided and was about to start rewriting—

A new notification popped up.

[It’s fun.]

For a second I thought my eyes were lying.

The princess actually left a comment. She never comments—not even on other people’s stories—just drops support.

‘…Her level’s lower than I expected?’

I naturally assumed she’d be max level.

Level doesn’t really matter that much anyway. Actually—it’s good news for me. Means I satisfied even her picky taste.

I hurried to hit Like, but got: *Comment has already been deleted.* She posted and immediately took it down.

‘But she donated again… huh?’

Notification refreshed. I checked—and froze.

[100,000G]

I blinked a few times to make sure. Yep—100,000 won. The biggest donation of my entire life.

‘Okay. Now I’m 100% sure.’

The tiny bit of doubt I’d been holding onto completely disappeared. Fix the early chapters and this thing is going to blow up.

Filled with confidence, I started typing right away. For the first time in forever, writing actually felt fun.

* * *

“Any word from Kangjak-nim?”

“He signed with Jeil Media.”

“…What about Parkjak-nim?”

“He’s close with the youngest writer, Choi…”

*Ha…*

Choi Jin-cheol, CEO of the tiny publishing house , sank deeper into his chair. Another heavy sigh escaped as harsh reality closed in.

“Guess it’s really time to take down the sign.”

The web novel market has been growing steadily these past few years. More full-time writers, naturally more publishers too.

But like always—only a handful ever taste real success. Daehan Media had been pushed out of the game.

‘…Same vicious cycle repeating.’

Can’t secure good works → gets buried on the platform → can’t promote other writers → management loses value.

No wonder writers drop loyalty and jump ship to bigger agencies.

“How many episodes left to finish?”

Contracted works keep shrinking. Now there are fewer ongoing series than employees.

Truth is, I’ve been thinking about closing shop for a while. Only dragged it out this long because of responsibility toward the writers we still had.

“How many more chapters until completion?”

“ is fully submitted. has about 10 episodes left. The other one is…”

“Kim Ha-neul.”

Kim Ha-neul.

Been with Daehan Media since debut. Hard-working, good personality. Only real downside—no breakout hit.

‘That was our fault too.’

We had some decent titles.

But we couldn’t give proper promotion like the big agencies, so we got more complaints than praise. Basically honorary employees of Daehan Media.

‘I really wanted to stay with him until the end.’

Reality isn’t that kind. Company debt alone is crushing. Even office rent comes out of our own pockets—can’t even face our families.

“Contact the authors and thank them for everything. I’ll talk to Kim Ha-neul myself.”

“Boss… are we really closing?”

“What else can we do? Unless a massive hit suddenly explodes or some conglomerate randomly buys us out? Your salary’s three months late already.”

“Maybe something could still happen.”

“What?”

Park Do-jin, the last remaining employee, shrugged. He turned the monitor toward Choi Jin-cheol.

“Kim Ha-neul’s new work is looking pretty strong.”

“Strong my ass. Early stats were trash—he’s probably buried at the bottom of the contest.”

“He made it into the rankings.”

“Huh?”

Rankings = top 200 in the contest leaderboard. Means the latest chapter got at least 100 views.

“…For real?”

“Pre-saves are climbing fast too. The wrecked early metrics are recovering.”

“Is that even possible?”

“The cheetah’s finally stretching its legs.”

There’s a running joke among writers: “The cheetah’s smiling.” Self-deprecating humor about their buried-in-the-abyss works suddenly shooting to the top one day.

But memes exist for a reason. A dead story coming back to life is basically a miracle.

‘…Unless you’re a pervert, nobody goes down to the abyss to read.’

Top 200 in the contest is one thing. Getting on Today’s Best is another. That’s the bare minimum to even attract readers.

Who reads something that can’t even hit the minimum? Sure, there’s the weird “Abyss Exploration Team,” but satisfying their taste is another level of hard.

“Two of the Five Thrones jumped on. Plus a donation from ‘Princess.’”

“What? Those are people you can’t even gather in the top contest ranks. Did someone post a recommendation?”

“Not yet. Looks like the author rewrote the early chapters—and it made a huge difference.”

“Move over!”

“But I’m fine right here in the CEO chair…”

“Get up!”

Choi Jin-cheol shoved Park Do-jin aside and sat down, immediately diving into Kim Ha-neul’s story. His mouse wheel scrolled faster and faster.

“…What the hell? This is actually good.”

“Right? Been a while since I read something this fun.”

Being an editor means reading dozens of stories a day—sometimes reading itself starts feeling like “work.”

People who began because they loved novels eventually end up tearing their hair out. But was just… enjoyable.

“…This is a problem.”

But Choi Jin-cheol couldn’t celebrate. If it’s this story, monetization is basically guaranteed—but no one knows how far it’ll go.

And if it does monetize, he’d have to read at least 150 chapters. Even daily updates would take five months minimum.

‘…Our company can’t survive that.’

The best move for everyone is to cancel the contract. No advance paid—so it can end cleanly.

“But hey, at least it’s good news. Kim Ha-neul’s finally gonna make it. Let’s part on a high note.”

“You’re really letting go?”

“We both have families.”

After all this waiting, his colleague is finally seeing success. Sad they couldn’t stay together till the end, but Choi Jin-cheol had zero doubt this was the right choice.

‘Getting this far is already a miracle.’

Ring!

Just as he sighed and stood up, the desk phone rang. Unknown number.

Debt collector?

After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up.

“Daehan Media.”

“Yes? What did you just say…”

“Really?! Yes! I’ll head over right now!”

Click.

He hung up, hurriedly threw on his jacket. Park Do-jin grabbed him.

“Where are you going?”

“Do-jin… looks like I’m not dying today after all.”

“Huh?”

“I might be able to pay our overdue salaries. Double, even.”

Confused by the cryptic words, Park Do-jin tilted his head. Choi Jin-cheol patted his shoulder.

“I’ll explain when I get back. Don’t move from here. If a call comes, pick up immediately.”

“…Are you running away?”

“If I was, I’d have done it ages ago. Oh—contact Kim Ha-neul too! Tell him to write as much as possible—we’re gonna push it hard! Hahaha!”

Whoosh!

With those words, Choi Jin-cheol rushed out. Park Do-jin watched him go, then let out a long sigh and shook his head.

“…Ugh, job hunting again is gonna suck.”

He was convinced the boss had just fled. Looking around the empty office, he picked up the phone with another heavy sigh.

“Author-nim. Did you rest well? This is Park Do-jin. Your work just entered the rankings this time…”

Just one more time—I’ll believe.

With that thought, Park Do-jin forced himself to keep talking.