Chapter 5
To tell the truth, Ji Xiahan was a little scared.
His novel seemed to have become reality—at least part of it.
The characters—the protagonist "Gou Ming," the victim "Li Xu," possibly even the "killer."
After all, he had used his own city as the novel’s backdrop for convenience and realism.
Now, he’d have to worry not just about countless killers and psychopaths with twisted minds, but also ghosts and monsters of horror. Because his current novel had supernatural elements.
"No."
He couldn’t just sit still and do nothing.
He had to at least fully understand his situation.
"Is my novel affecting reality, or did some entity give me prophetic dreams?"
It wouldn’t be hard to check.
Just change the next chapter.
See if reality changes too.
Something simple—like a street sign the protagonist happened to notice, something that wasn’t there before.
Sitting in front of his computer, Ji Xiahan noticed that his account had posted three more chapters without him realizing. After reading them, he fell silent.
He saw himself in those chapters.
How Gou Ming had suspected him, his conversation at the police station, and how Gou Ming had watched him from the car outside the window—without him even noticing.
And the most terrifying part…
It was all written in blood-red font.
But the comments under the chapters didn’t mention this detail, not even once.
Normally, such an abrupt change in style would spark compints or at least confusion.
But now, it was as if the readers hadn’t noticed anything strange.
As if only his eyes were malfunctioning.
What was the pattern here?
Ji Xiahan leaned back in his chair. His mind raced through all the details he had initially ignored.
Earlier that morning, before going to the police station, he had seen a line underlined in red.
It was about him stabbing a monkey.
But…
Ji Xiahan had never written that.
He had only shown the burial process through Gou Ming’s perspective.
And Gou Ming couldn’t have gone elsewhere to use his ability again to investigate. Not when his skill had a five-hour cooldown—he wouldn’t waste an opportunity to solve the current case just to uncover the killer of a monkey’s corpse.
Even after five hours, if he stumbled upon the right pce by accident, he’d find nothing, because Ji Xiahan wasn’t there at that time.
That line could never have appeared in his novel, since the point of view was strictly limited. What Gou Ming didn’t know, the readers wouldn’t know either.
Accessing a chapter prior to those three, Ji Xiahan also grabbed the printed manuscript. Soon, he understood.
That line came from a small excerpt—a monologue by a "mysterious" person who had seen him that night. The scene was in the third person.
But he knew—the only person active in that forest at that hour could only be the killer.
Ji Xiahan once again reviewed every chapter he’d ever published—drafts, printed copies, and digital files—and soon noticed a pattern.
First, the red text appeared only in published chapters, both online and in print.
Second, it only appeared in sentences he hadn’t written.
In short:
The red text consisted solely of parts he didn’t write… yet which had happened in reality.
Like at the police station, or when Gou Ming was briefly caught on TV during the press conference. Ji Xiahan hadn’t written those, so he hadn’t immediately noticed them the first time.
These things had undeniably happened in reality, and the manuscript had recorded them.
Now…
It was time to determine whether the manuscript was maniputing reality—or the other way around.
He opened an old chapter and added a trivial line:
A somewhat unusual street sign near his current apartment.
Readers wouldn’t notice this change.
And Ji Xiahan had lived in the area for two years. If he didn’t know it like the back of his hand, he’d at least recognize a single grain of rice that hadn’t been there before.
He waited.
Nothing.
No bleeding text appeared threatening him, nor was his modified line mysteriously deleted.
Everything remained normal.
That was even more unsettling.
Either he had inexplicably gained the power to edit reality itself, or his attempt would change nothing.
He didn’t know which unsettled him more.
Being an active killer—or a passive recorder?
Had he somehow killed three people?
Ji Xiahan felt sick.
For a brief moment, he hesitated to leave his apartment.
But that emotion was quickly overtaken by anger.
"Ah—"
He stood and moved toward the entrance, mechanically checking his coat pockets. After finishing the rote ritual, he paused again at the door.
Today, the fear of crossing that threshold cut deeper than it had in years—back to a time when he’d barely dared to leave home.
Leaning his forehead against the hard wood, Ji Xiahan slowly steadied himself.
"Mom, I’m sorry."
"I made a mistake."
"This time… it wasn’t my fault."
With each whispered word, his racing heart calmed. Hypocritically.
He felt disgust.
---
Gou Ming investigated Ji Xiahan.
He learned from people in his community that Ji Xiahan had gone to the western forest for four consecutive days. On the st day, he’d even returned soaked.
Digging deeper, Gou Ming soon got his hands on a full dossier.
Ji Xiahan. 24 years old. Completed high school and one year of university before dropping out for "personal reasons."
He was an orphan. His parents were murdered when he was 20. His younger brother took his own life two years ter.
Ji Xiahan had no other recent suspicious activity—just his trips to the forest to "camp." Before this, he’d been a moderately famous writer with no connection to any of the victims.
Gou Ming sighed.
He picked up another file—one an old acquaintance had secretly slipped him, despite compining the entire time.
It detailed prior dismemberment cases in the forest: the killer’s profile, key clues.
He couldn’t imagine someone who’d lost their parents to a killer possibly committing the same acts.
But nothing was absolute.
He couldn’t loosen the investigation for a moment of sympathy.
---
Ji Xiahan disliked blood. He disliked killers. Didn't like that 'evil would triumph over good'
His crime novels always had the police winning.
Even his most recent previous novel, written from a killer's perspective, was about him paying for his sins and sinking into eternal darkness.
Ji Xiahan hated seeing himself in such a role.
Then when he arrived at the location of the sign he had written, and found nothing, he felt relief.
Even though he knew the opposite would have been better.
That he could prevent future tragedies simply by typing on his keyboard.
That he’d have become a kind of "god."
Ji Xiahan was painfully selfish.
He cared more about the past than the future.
Cared more about what had already happened than to stop it from happening in the future.
It was a weak personality.
One he’d never give to any of his protagonists.
One he despised.
Contempt cut through him, sterile and cruel. But disgust? That cwed up his throat, raw and gagging.