How to Survive as a Trash Extra Villain

Prologue

I was a third-rate novelist.

You might even think the term "third-rate" was too generous after hearing my story.

Ten years of writing experience.

Ten completed works.

Most of them were long novels exceeding 150 chapters, and I often stayed up all night writing and revising. But the critical fact was that the view count for my latest chapters never broke double digits.

At first, I wondered if it was because I chose niche topics… but no, that wasn’t it.

There were works that used the same topics I’d written about first and went on to claim the top spot on platforms like Tooniverse.

When I glanced around, I could see lively comment sections buzzing with excitement, but in my own library, it felt like I was standing alone, abandoned.

It was enough to drive me insane.

What was I lacking?

Effort?

I’d taken part-time jobs to support my writing, and there was a time when I churned out three chapters a day like a novel factory.

But when the fuel of passion ran dry, the factory inevitably collapsed.

There’s no time. I need to make money. I have to become a professional.

Obsession pushed me to the brink. The chasm between my lofty dreams and the wall of reality, coupled with the readers’ indifference, brought about my downfall.

As the pressure and anxiety grew, my hands trembled, and my mind froze.

I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted in front of the keyboard.

In the end, I’d shut the laptop in front of a blank page.

Now, crying over my own pathetic state under the covers had become a familiar routine.

I was a third-rate novelist… no, just a jobless nobody.

If I hanged myself right now, would my works be reevaluated posthumously like those of many artists who gained fame after death?

Hah, as if. They had the talent of madness, didn’t they?

Right now, I had neither madness nor bravado—nothing at all.

God hadn’t granted me the talent I so desperately craved.

But they say there’s always a way out, even when the sky falls. Would you believe me if I said a lifeline had been thrown into my listless life?

[Recola: Hello, Author. I’m a fan.]

One day, a message from Recola reached me like magic.

It felt like the lofty words of a sage who had pierced through all truths. That was the sensation it carried.

“…Huh?”

[Recola: I’ve read every single one of your works thoroughly.]

At first, I thought it might be a misdirected message.

[Recola: I could feel the soul poured into every work, every chapter, every sentence—it was wonderful. You ended your latest work prematurely, but I see potential in you, Author. Don’t you think so too, Author Kim An-hyun?]

Startled, I checked my account security settings. My real name was definitely set to private.

What was going on? Had I been hacked? Was this a prank from a hacker?

[Recola: You’ll write a new work, right?]

It was as if someone was whispering in my ear, a tickling voice. This reader, ‘Recola,’ spoke with unwavering confidence, as if they’d been watching me for a long time.

The question about writing a new work wasn’t one that awaited an answer.

It was a question asked with the certainty that I would, of course, do it.

I had to respond, but…

“Uh, uh, uhh…”

Instead of answering, I stammered for a while.

Should I be upset? I wasn’t sure. I… I was happy. Inexpressibly so.

This was the first time. The very first time someone, a stranger, had read my novels and sent me a message calling themselves a fan. I was so… so…!

“Hic!”

I raised my hand to cover my mouth.

My eyes reddened, and overwhelming emotions poured out endlessly.

It felt like someone had reached out to me, standing alone in an amusement park, inviting me to play together.

To think there was someone who understood and empathized with this aching loneliness…

Blinking to clear my blurring vision, I wrote a long reply.

[Hello, Recola. Thank you for being a fan. I’m truly thrilled and excited that you read my lacking work. I’m so grateful for your message. Yes, I know I’m far from perfect, but when I write, I try to pour everything I have into it…]

It was a rambling, incoherent mess, but one thing I conveyed clearly:

[…Yes. I want to write a new work.]

[Recola: Then I’ll provide an idea. How about writing this?]

They’d provide an idea? Were they asking me to write for them? But if it was just an idea…

No, no, that wasn’t right. Even though I wanted to write something popular, writing exactly what someone else dictated went against my pride.

As a writer, ideas might overlap, but blatantly using someone else’s idea to write? That wasn’t my novel. It wasn’t my world. How was that different from plagiarism? That wasn’t what I wanted.

Why had I struggled for ten years?

To write my ultimate novel.

To dedicate everything to it.

And now they were telling me to write using someone else’s idea?

[Recola: The title is ‘The Fallen Crown Prince of the Cosmos Empire.’ One of the villain characters is borrowed from your works. That’s okay, right?]

Without waiting for my response, ID Recola sent me a lengthy message. It was, frankly, a scenario so vast that calling it an “idea” felt inadequate.

The framework was already perfectly constructed, with muscles attached. All that was left was to add the flesh.

And they were entrusting this to me?

[Recola: I believe in you, Author. More than anyone, you’ll complete this work brilliantly.]

My pride was wounded. What did they take a writer for? I might not be popular, but I hadn’t abandoned my writer’s pride!

[Recola: So trust me and give it a try. My idea will lead you to success.]

But one magical word struck my heart fiercely.

Success…?

My hand naturally moved toward the keyboard.

Sure, trying it wouldn’t hurt me. The content wasn’t from a published work, and while the main structure was set, I’d need to flesh it out. Couldn’t I think of it as a kind of co-authorship?

Even if it failed, I’d gain experience…

As I read further, an exclamation escaped my lips.

“Wow, the story’s good.”

Recola’s The Fallen Crown Prince of the Cosmos Empire felt like it was crafting an epic saga.

I skimmed the overall story, then obsessively analyzed the prologue I needed to write first.

“…What is this?”

A shiver ran through my body. No matter how many times I revisited the same scenes, the perfect, meticulous progression gave me chills.

“Who is this person…?”

For a moment, suspicion about Recola rose in my chest, but it didn’t last long.

Soon, I was consumed by ugly desires.

***

“Uh, huh…?”

Around midnight, less than an hour after posting the first chapter, the view count had reached 200. There were 200 likes and dozens of comments. My jaw dropped at this unprecedented response.

[karna20: Wow… I thought I’d read a lot of web novels, but this is a true masterpiece.]

[Enigma1407: Did you pour your soul into the prologue or what…]

[koreakimchi: Ugh, it’s a crime I found this so early. Please post more… I’ll pay anything.]

The comments were overwhelmingly positive. It was almost unbelievable.

Another comment appeared soon after.

[Demon Hunting: Wait, how are the views and likes the same? Thought it was clique behavior, but there’s a reason…;;]

I stared blankly at the comment section for about ten seconds, then closed the window at lightning speed and opened my inbox.

[The response is amazing. Have you seen it?]

My hands and feet trembled as I typed that short sentence. I worried they might claim it was their idea now.

But no reply came. Thinking they might be slow to check, I waited a day. Thinking they might be traveling, I waited three days. But Recola had vanished, as if their task was complete.

Yet the scenario Recola sent remained on my desktop.

My idea will lead you to success.

Could I really write it as Recola’s scenario dictated?

At first, I had many doubts, but as time passed, my anxiety and nervousness faded. In the end, I succumbed to the devil’s whisper.

With tangible results finally in sight, I couldn’t go back to the past.

From that moment, I wrote like a madman. I wrote and posted three, four, five chapters a day without rest.

I was certain this would work. The writing flowed so well. It was as if I’d lived in that world, the sentences pouring out effortlessly.

Like someone who’d walked an endless abyss alone and finally found light after decades, I threw myself into it.

And the result was a success.

The attention and love from readers, along with offers from prestigious publishers, elevated me to a place of glory.

And so, I became an established author.

***

“Recola, Recola, Recola.”

As I approached the completion of Part 1, I repeated Recola’s ID in my mind like a prayer to a god.

“Recola, Recola, Recola.”

Who are you? Please, tell me who this noble person is. Why did you throw me salvation and then disappear? Why did you quench this burning thirst?

I thought of ID Recola dozens of times a day, but not once did they contact me.

Well, it didn’t matter anymore. I had already been saved.

At the point of nearing the completion of Part 1 of the wildly popular serial The Fallen Crown Prince of the Cosmos Empire, beloved by both male and female readers, I was enjoying unprecedented fame. I was hailed as a reliable author, and various writer groups were desperate to invite me. It was clear that whatever I did now, my path would be smooth.

Yes, this is the time to return to my roots.

With confidence, I continued writing while starting to plan a new work in my spare time.

Like when I first wrote genre fiction, I intended to pour everything into my work once again.

But…

On the day Part 1 of The Fallen Crown Prince of the Cosmos Empire was completed,

was it because of overwork? Or because I’d been too greedy?

Suddenly, my vision went white, and I couldn’t move my body.

My limbs stiffened, and breathing became difficult.

My eyes slowly closed. My mind sank beyond the dark abyss, into the chaos below.

And so, I lost consciousness in front of my computer.