Pawn Of The Forgotten Fate

It hadn't been long since I regained consciousness, though time felt like a blurred, distant concept. The sharp stabs of pain that had gripped my skull earlier were gone, replaced by an eerie numbness that made me question if I was truly awake.

Above me, a pristine white ceiling stretched out, stark and sterile, with faint cracks running along its surface like veins. The absence of color was unsettling, almost too perfect, as if someone had painted over the world itself.

I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the edges of my sight remained frustratingly blurry. Shadows shifted in the periphery, but I couldn't tell if they were real or the remnants of whatever nightmare I had just endured.

The weight of my own body felt foreign, as if I were occupying someone else's skin. My fingers twitched against the fabric beneath me, soft, cool, and unfamiliar.

Where was I?

The faint hum of something mechanical buzzed in the distance, breaking the silence. It was faint but constant, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.

I turned my head, the motion slow and unsteady, like I was moving underwater. The blurred shapes around me refused to solidify, and frustration bubbled in my chest. My lips parted to speak or maybe to call out, but no sound came.

Something felt off.

The absence of pain should have been comforting, but instead, it unnerved me. It was as if my body had been reset, my senses dulled to keep me from noticing whatever was lurking beneath the surface.

I am lying on an extremely comfortable bed with no pain whatsoever. I was thinking of slowly sneaking out of here, but a voice stopped me.

"Are you feeling alright? You can use the glasses in the drawer next to you for the time being."

The voice was... beautiful. There was no other word for it, though even that felt inadequate, like trying to capture a sunrise with a smudge of charcoal. It wasn't just the sound itself, though that was mesmerizing, a melody wrapped in velvet, smooth and hauntingly perfect. It stirred something in me, something buried deep, a place I didn't know could feel this raw.

I should have been able to describe it better. After all, words were supposed to be my craft, my lifeline. Yet, in that moment, I felt like an imposter. An author stripped of their art, fumbling for syllables that refused to come. Shame prickled at the back of my neck. How could I fail so utterly in the face of something so profound?

The voice lingered in the air, filling the space with an aching kind of beauty. It wasn't loud, it didn't need to be. It seeped into my bones, resonating with a frequency that made my chest tighten.

I closed my eyes, hoping to grasp it better, to pin down its essence. But all I could picture were fragments: the soft ripple of water on a still lake, the way moonlight dances across a silver blade, the fleeting warmth of a hand brushing against yours before it's gone.

How do you put that into words? If only I had my phone with me!

For the first time, I doubted my ability to capture the world as it was. My phone, my voice, my stories, all of it felt dull and clumsy against this one, singular sound.

I opened my eyes again, swallowing down the lump of inadequacy rising in my throat. Whatever this voice was, it was beyond me. Maybe that's why it was so beautiful.

After I put the glasses on, everything came into focus, sharper and clearer than I expected. Surprisingly, they were just the right number for me, not too strong, not too weak. I hadn't expected them to be my prescription, but somehow, they were. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the sudden clarity, and my gaze shifted instinctively toward the source of the voice.

It wasn't what I expected.

And honestly, I didn't know what I was expecting.

Beautiful.

What kind of k-drama is this? Why is this man so good looking?

His delicate face was framed by pure white hair, tied up with strands cascading like silk down his shoulders. Bright turquoise eyes, sharp and unwavering, were fixed on the book pages, his slender fingers turning them with practiced elegance.

The scene felt less like reality and more like an unfinished painting, one where the artist had poured every ounce of life, talent, and devotion into its creation. Yet, even that effort had fallen short, leaving the piece incomplete. Now, it hung in a famous museum, hailed as a masterpiece crafted by the hands of a god.

The description was so good that I wanted to write that down. It'll be helpful when writing the next book. Wait a minute. Book?

I snapped out of it and started panicking.

"What you are looking for is next to you."

His voice rang out again, as beautiful and haunting as before, each word carrying a weight I couldn't quite place. It pulled me from my thoughts, and my eyes drifted to the side.

There it was.

A stunning purple hardback lay beside me, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Silver and black details etched across the cover in intricate patterns, weaving a story of their own. The title glinted boldly in the center: [A Broken Heart].

It looked too perfect, almost as if it didn't belong in this world.

This book seemed awfully familiar for some reason.

"Excuse me but, who are you?" I questioned the godlike beauty.

That blob told me to run and all that nonsense, but honestly, this guy is taking care of me. I mean, how rude would it be to just bolt out of here? My parents would probably crawl out of their graves and smack me across the head if they ever caught me disrespecting someone who helped me.

So, for now, I'll stay. Running can wait.

"It seems that you hit your head rather hard. That's why I told you not to go alone into that unlucky forest."

A sigh escaped him as he stood, his movements calm and deliberate. He was tall, easily towering over me, and looked to be in his mid-twenties—though something about him felt older, like he carried the weight of years far beyond his appearance.

Without a word, he closed the distance between us and crouched slightly, his bright turquoise eyes studying me. Then, with a surprising gentleness, he touched my forehead with the back of his hand. His touch was cool, soothing even, and I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of unease and comfort at the same time.

"Well, at least your fever is gone."

He tilted his head as if pondering something while looking straight into my eyes.

"So you don't remember me. Do you at least remember your name?"

I shook my head slowly, masking my confusion with feigned disorientation.

I should act like I've lost my memories. This man seems to know me, but I sure as hell don't know him.

"The doctor who treated you did say that you might suffer from amnesia," he said thoughtfully. "I'll call him again."

He paused for a moment, then added, "I am Aion, the owner of the bookstore downstairs. Your name is Louie Aldene, a 20-year-old. You were supposed to start working for me yesterday."

"What?"

I blinked, genuinely confused.

Who the hell is this Louie Aldene, and why is this man introducing me by his name?

Aion glanced at me, his sharp turquoise eyes scanning my expression as if he were trying to read my thoughts. Without a word, he reached for something on the table where he'd been sitting earlier. It was a mirror.

He handed it to me, and when I looked into the reflection, I felt my soul momentarily leave my body.

I used to have messy black hair and dull brown eyes, nothing extraordinary, but it was familiar and comfortable. Sure, my face wasn't winning any beauty contests, but it was mine, and I liked it that way.

Now? Now, staring back at me, were piercing purple eyes and long, unruly white hair that tumbled down to my shoulders.

The face wasn't entirely foreign, it resembled how I looked back in college, back when I still had some energy to care about my appearance. But this... this was something else entirely.

Does this mean I've taken over someone's body?

What kind of transmigration nonsense is this? And why do I still look like me? Every manhwa and novel I've read about this kind of thing always has the MC waking up in the body of some ridiculously good-looking character. So why not me?!

I stared at my reflection, a sinking realization settling in.

Poor Louie Aldene. Not only has he lost his body, but now he has someone like me controlling it. The guy is doomed.

"You'll need to protect your skin every time you go out in the sun," Aion said, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. "And use this medicine for your eyes before bed."

I stared at him blankly.

Great. First, I lose all the color I had. Now I'm apparently sick too?

My already poor eyesight has gotten worse, my desire to blend in has been mercilessly thrown out the window, and now I'm stuck with a skincare regimen? What's next? A cursed destiny?

This is officially the worst transmigration experience ever.

"Aion-nim?"

He turned to me, his expression shifting into something halfway between confusion and curiosity. That's when it hit me. -Nim was Korean. And if my name was Louie Aldene, I sure as hell wasn't supposed to be anywhere near that.

"Yes?"

He answered anyway, his tone even.

"Can I give myself a haircut?"

He blinked, clearly surprised by my question.

"Certainly, you can. Why are you asking me?"

My thoughts exactly.

Maybe it was his long hair that gave the impression that it was a trend here, or maybe I'm just plain stupid.

I'll go with the latter.

"Can I dye it as well?"

The white hair was bothering me more than I cared to admit. Standing out wasn't my thing, and this hair was practically begging for attention, good or bad. I just wanted my old, dull hair back.

"...You can, but that will have to wait for the time being. Will that be okay?"

I nodded, reluctantly.

"You should rest today. If you have any questions about anything, you'll find me downstairs."

"Thank you."

This was a genuine thank you, not just politeness. Louie was just supposed to be his employee, but here Aion was, treating me with care that felt undeserved. If it had been my old boss, I'd have been kicked to the curb long ago, no questions asked.

I don't know if Aion is just overly kind or if there's another reason for all this.

He...Aion-nim... no, Sir Aion? Is that how I should address him? Whatever. He left after checking my temperature one more time and giving me directions to the room and where things were kept.

I opened one of the drawers and pulled out a pair of scissors.

Louie Aldene may be of average height, but his body? Way too skinny. Did this boy not get enough to eat? My arms felt fragile just holding the scissors.

The room around me was simple but cozy, just enough to hold a bed, a set of drawers, two chairs, and a table. Sunlight filtered through the white curtains covering the balcony, the soft wind making the fabric flutter. It felt oddly peaceful.

Placing the mirror on the table, I picked up a strand of my hair.

I've been giving myself haircuts since middle school, so I'm practically a professional at this.

It took a while, but when I finished, I felt a strange sense of relief. Lighter. I cleaned up the place and stood, shaking out the loose strands from my clothes.

Now it was time for the balcony.

My heart raced for no reason I could understand as I approached the curtains. The closer I got, the faster it thumped, like some hidden part of me already knew what was waiting. I grabbed hold of the fabric and pulled it aside in one swift motion.

My eyes widened.

What kind of place is this?

The view was something straight out of a fantasy novel, the kind where the protagonist wakes up in another world and realizes they're part of some grand adventure. Kind of like me, I guess, minus the adventure.

The sky was a clear, endless blue, the sun shining brilliantly overhead. Below, houses and shops lined the streets, their designs charming and unfamiliar, with colorful awnings and carved wooden signs. The roads were busy with people, everyone moving with a purpose, their chatter blending into a lively hum.

The trees, lush and green, stood proudly along the streets, their branches home to tiny birds chirping melodiously. It was the kind of scenery that made your heart feel lighter, no matter what burden you were carrying.

This place was beautiful.

For the first time since waking up here, I felt a flicker of excitement. I wanted to go out, to explore, to figure out what kind of world this was.

But then Aion's words came back to me. Rest today.

My shoulders fell as reality reined in my enthusiasm. I took a deep breath and looked at the view again, this time with a small smile.

"Tomorrow," I whispered to myself. "Tomorrow, I'll make sure to go out."

Leaving the curtain as it was, I turned and went back to the bed.

My mind buzzed with too many questions and no answers, but for now, sleep was all I could do.

Grabbing the book, I hesitated before flipping it open.

The first line struck me like a slap to the face, and my chest tightened with the sudden wave of familiarity.

This was my novel.

The realization hit hard, sending a shiver of embarrassment down my spine. I felt the cringe creeping in already, goosebumps prickling my arms.

No, not this. Anything but this.

It was my very first novel, written back in middle school. A story I wasn't particularly proud of, to say the least. The premise was as dramatic as it gets: Kang Daeshim, the "chosen hero," was tasked with climbing an impossibly dangerous dungeon with a team of people to save the world.

Sounds cool, right? Wrong.

The story was as generic as it gets. An overpowered edgelord of an MC who viewed people as tools and brooded so hard he probably broke a few mirrors. The opening lines alone were enough to send me spiraling into memories of my delusional teenage self.

I stared at the clunky opening sentence, remembering the hours I spent obsessing over this painfully generic plot. I could feel the flashbacks coming, the late nights I spent scribbling down ideas, convinced I was crafting a masterpiece. The excitement of imagining my "epic" story finally going public.

Does that blob want me to die of cringe?

Every author has a piece of work they'd rather forget, and for me, this was it. I still remember making my best friend proofread it before I tried posting it online. I owe that guy my life. He told me it was straight up shit and shattered my confidence before I could humiliate myself further. I've never been more grateful.

The only reason I wrote it in the first place was because the genre was trending back then. I'd been consuming manhwa and light novels like candy and thought I could do it too. Spoiler alert: I couldn't.

Years later, after publishing my latest (and much better) novel, an old friend reached out and asked about co-writing a book. I thought, Why not give this failed project another shot? So I tried reworking it, managed to rewrite up to the fourth arc... and then I died. Literally.

Now, here it is, sitting in my hands, mocking me. Of all the stories I've written, why this one? Why couldn't it have been something I was actually proud of?

Kang Daeshim wasn't just a tragic character, he was a walking compilation of cliches. He started as a bright-eyed cute teen, eager to help his team and save the world. But as the dungeon chewed through his companions and tore apart his trust, he transformed. By the time he reached the final floor, he was cold, ruthless, and utterly alone.

I remember making him refuse to trust anyone ever again after finishing the dungeon. The betrayal trope had gotten so repetitive that even I got tired of it while writing. But the idea was that Kang Daeshim didn't just conquer the Tower of Eternity, he became a part of it. A guardian of sorts, bound to its walls and trials, doomed to test the next chosen one.

Looking back, the story was a reflection of where I was mentally at the time. Life was kicking me down left and right, and I poured all my frustration into Kang Daeshim. Writing was supposed to be my escape, a way to process everything. And, maybe, I thought if the book got popular, people would like me more. Naive, right?

But I'll give younger me some credit. The writing... wasn't terrible. The descriptions were vivid enough that it felt like the scenes were playing out in front of me.

Good job, stupid me.

Still, the slow character development frustrated me. Even as a tragedy genre, did he have to be so naive? How could he let new people into his life after being stabbed in the back so many times? It was obvious I'd written him as a stand-in for myself, which only made it cringier.

Kang Daeshim needed a break. A real one. Forget saving worlds, this kid deserved a vacation, a cozy cabin in the woods, and a therapist. Same for my younger self, honestly. But no, teenage me was an insufferable overachiever who didn't know how to take a hint.

I sighed, closing the book. I wasn't strong enough to keep reading. Call me a coward, I don't care. Some things are just too much, even for me.

I lay down on my bed hoping to fall asleep, but it never goes the way I want. Not even ten minutes had passed when the door to my room was opened with a loud bang.

"Lou! Your favourite uncle came to visit you! Where are you, kid?"

Barely managing to lift my head, I glared at the person who decided it was a great idea to barge into my room so loudly.

I wanted to kick him.

On second thought, maybe not.

With long purple hair pulled up in a bun and dark green eyes practically sparkling with delight, yet another ridiculously handsome man had walked into my life.

Fantastic. Just what I needed.

If Sir Aion was all ethereal beauty and grace, then this guy was his complete opposite, a walking muscle advertisement. His well-built physique strained against his shirt, every movement flexing muscles I didn't even know existed. It made me hyper-aware of Louie Aldene's frail, underfed body.

And his entrance? Arms spread wide like he was expecting me to throw myself into his embrace.

Yeah. No. That's not happening.

The broad grin on his face deepened his dimples, giving him a roguishly attractive air. He looked like someone who could charm the world with just one smile.

I, on the other hand, wanted to slap that smile right off his face.

Why are the men around me so good-looking? Where did I go wrong in life?

"I already told you he lost his memories. Now stop bothering him," Sir Aion said, his voice cutting through the moment like a whip.

Before Muscle Man could respond, Aion shoved him aside with a practiced ease and sat down beside me.

My savior. My grace.

The way he carries himself is so graceful and elegant that I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be some kind of prince.

"How are you feeling now, kid?"

It felt odd, hearing someone who looked to be around my age call me "kid." Well, technically, Louie Aldene is younger than them, so I guess it's understandable. Still, it didn't sit right with me.

"I'm feeling much better now," I replied, trying to sound polite.

The purple-haired man gave me a small smile, and, against my will, it nearly blew me away.

"So you really didn't lie to me," he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

"Don't group me with the likes of you," Aion snapped, his tone colder than I'd ever heard before.

The purple-haired man pouted dramatically, as if the words had physically wounded him. "Your words sting, Aion."

Aion-nim... no, Sir Aion glared at him with a mixture of disdain and annoyance as the man dragged a chair in front of me and took a seat. His smile never faltered, like it was permanently etched onto his annoyingly handsome face.

"Then allow me to introduce myself," he said, leaning forward slightly. "I am Lyaeus Argyras, your favorite person in this entire world."

"That last sentence is a delusion of his," Aion interjected flatly, his glare unwavering. "So it's better if you ignore it."

I will.