I Reincarnated into a Book I Never Wrote

I stepped through the next draft.

There was no tunnel this time—just a blink. And suddenly, I was standing in the middle of a town that looked too perfect.

Cobbled streets, quaint stone houses with blooming window boxes, clean signs, happy people. Sunlight filtered softly through a sky that didn't feel entirely real.

And yet… something was wrong.

Everyone smiled too perfectly. Spoke too kindly. Laughed at jokes that weren't funny.

It was like a memory of a town rather than the real thing.

A flickering billboard read:

WELCOME TO WISHEND

"Be who you're meant to be."

"Hello, Author."

I spun around.

A boy—no older than sixteen—stood there, holding a lantern that didn't glow. His eyes were two different colors: one a soft amber, the other deep ocean blue.

He smiled politely. "Or should I say, visitor? Here in Wishend, the world shapes itself around your perception."

I narrowed my eyes. "And who are you supposed to be?"

He bowed. "My name is Lior/Eira. Depending on the hour."

Before I could ask what he meant, his expression shifted.

Not just his expression—his entire presence.

His voice deepened slightly, his shoulders squared, and his smile became more calculating.

"Now I'm Eira," he said. "We're twins. Sharing one body. She comes out during the day. I take the night. We remember everything the other does… but not the way you think."

Split personality. But synchronized. And aware.

They weren't corrupted like Kael-Zereth or unstable like Nilo. They were balanced, but fragile. Like glass sculptures under pressure.

I asked, "Why does this town feel fake?"

Eira glanced around. "Because it's written by your mind."

"What?"

"Everyone here," he gestured, "rearranges themselves to fit your expectations. If you believe someone's a friend—you'll see them as one. If you fear betrayal… they'll eventually betray you. That's the rule of Wishend."

"Why?"

"Because this town was originally a setting for a novel you never finished. One where every citizen rewrote themselves to be loved by the protagonist."

I froze.

I vaguely remembered that idea. A place where no one had a fixed identity—where people edited themselves to be accepted, even if it broke them.

Eira—no, Lior now, as he softened again—whispered, "But they've been stuck like this for years. Trying to be what you want. And it's killing them."

As we walked deeper into the town, I began to notice the cracks.

People stuttering in mid-sentence. Repeating gestures. Changing hair color when I blinked. One woman went from elderly to young and back again in five minutes.

Children whose names changed when I asked.

A man cried behind a curtain, whispering: "I don't know who I'm supposed to be today…"

And scrawled on every alley wall:

"Rewrite me. Just don't forget me."

"This is a prison," I said, "not a town."

Lior nodded. "Yes. A prison made of your indecision. Every time you abandoned a version of this world, they rewrote themselves, hoping the next version would be their final form."

He stopped in front of a cracked stone house with no door.

"This was the original town center," he said. "Before it started shifting."

He handed me a page.

It was titled:

Draft Fragment #11 — "The Town That Loved Too Much"

And underneath:

"People here will change anything about themselves to fit the Author's heart. Even if it kills their soul."

I stepped inside.

The inside of the house was empty—except for a mirror.

And in it, I saw myself.

But not me.

A version of Arin, dressed in silver robes, with gold eyes and a wide, maddened smile.

He waved.

"Welcome back, Author," he whispered from inside the glass."They rewrote themselves for you.Will you rewrite yourself for them?"

The mirror shattered.

From the shards rose the townspeople.

Twisting. Melting. Becoming hybrid versions of each other—as if trying to guess what I wanted most.

Some looked like people I once loved. Some like characters I hated. Some... like me.

I backed away, raising the Binding Quill.

But Lior stepped forward.

"You can't fight this," he said. "They don't need to be fought. They need to be set free."

So I wrote.

"Let every version of them choose who they are—not for me, but for themselves."

The town trembled.

People paused, mid-transformation.

And one by one… they began to speak. Their real names, for the first time. Names they remembered before they rewrote themselves.

Some wept.

Some vanished peacefully.

Some simply smiled—and the glow of completion surrounded them, as their arcs quietly ended.

Only Lior/Eira remained.

He smiled softly. "Thank you."

I said, "Will you… vanish too?"

Lior laughed. "No. We're not a character you created. We were born when two characters you forgot fused inside this shifting world."

Eira emerged now—serene. "We exist because you chose to let go of perfection. So now, we'll be your eyes."

Together they bowed.

"We'll see the paths ahead and tell you what the endings try to hide."

And then they disappeared, leaving behind a page that burned with a title:

Chapter Draft Unlocked: The Cult of the Erased

The Binding Quill pulsed.

A dark wind howled.

And I heard Kael-Zereth's voice again—cold and angry.

"You keep saving what was meant to die. But soon, you'll reach the point that can't be rewritten."

I looked toward the horizon.

Because that point was coming.

And the next chapter would take me to the place even I had forgotten I ever imagined—

The Church of Erased Protagonists.