An Luo carefully pushed open the door to his Wizard Apprentice Dormitory.
Outside was utterly silent, without a single sound.
Beyond the Wizard Apprentice Dormitory stretched a long corridor, where blue-green magical torches were embedded in the walls at intervals, casting an even more eerie and ghostly glow over the already sinister black passageway.
An Luo took a deep breath and quickly stepped out of the room. He turned left and stopped in front of a battered wooden door, then pushed it open without hesitation.
The door wasn’t locked, but heavy objects were piled up behind it—nothing more than tables and chairs, typical furnishings in a Wizard Apprentice Dormitory. With a forceful shove, An Luo created a narrow gap in the creaking door.
As he pushed, there was movement from inside, as if someone intended to block the intruder’s entry.
An Luo pushed harder with both hands, forcing open a gap wide enough for one person to slip through, and darted inside.
He closed the door behind him, hands clasped, then shoved the displaced table and chairs back against it to barricade it securely. Lifting his head, An Luo sized up the room’s occupant.
His black, shoulder-length hair was disheveled, with strands matted to his cheeks by cold sweat. His pale face was bloodless. He stood propped up by the edge of the tattered bed, looking on the verge of collapse, yet his aura showed no weakness whatsoever.
The gaze he directed at An Luo held the ferocious intensity of a cornered beast facing a threat.
There was also a trace of astonishment.
He seemed ready to fight to the death at the slightest provocation from An Luo.
The man’s appearance was in that transitional phase between boy and youth, but his demeanor lacked any of the freshness or vitality expected of that age.
An Luo knew he had only recently shed his status as a servant to enter the Wizard Tower as a low-level Wizard Apprentice on the lower layer.
It was early in the story, and this was the protagonist from his own pen: Meieruita, seventeen years old.
“Don’t be nervous.” An Luo smiled faintly and approached two steps with composure. “I just wanted to check on you.”
“Check on me?” The protagonist, Meieruita, sneered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What’s the matter, young master? Come to see if I’m dead yet?”
“No.” An Luo shook his head. “There’s no young master anymore.”
“The original owner of this body, Lan Lian, is dead.”
Under Meieruita’s stunned gaze laced with heavy wariness, An Luo continued, “I know you’ll be fine.”
He met Meieruita’s eyes without flinching. “Because you’re my protagonist.”
Meieruita frowned.
Protagonist…?
What did that mean?
An Luo said, “My request is simple.”
“I’m the author. Deduct 50 days from my lifespan, and I’ll tell you the future plot developments.”
Meieruita: ???
===
An Luo stared blankly at the gray stone wall in front of him. Things had changed too quickly; he hadn’t even reacted yet.
One second, he was pulling an all-nighter at work; the next, his computer screen had turned into a stone wall.
His brain presented him with two options:
[1] I’m dreaming.
[2] I’ve transmigrated.
He decisively chose the first.
He must have dozed off on the subway by accident. As for why his mind felt so clear, maybe it was a lucid dream?
With that thought, An Luo settled back into the soft cushioned chair and looked around. He found himself in a cramped stone room. A long wooden table held various bottles and jars, strange instruments of unknown purpose, and a skull embedded with a crystal ball.
This dream was oddly interesting, An Luo thought, though he couldn’t shake a strange sense of déjà vu.
His rigorous analysis: dream scenes came from memories in his mind, so déjà vu was perfectly normal.
An Luo withdrew his gaze and began worrying that he’d slept too long and missed his stop.
Updating his novel was no issue; he’d scheduled automatic releases, and it was only three or four chapters from completion anyway. No big deal.
But soon, he realized he no longer needed to worry about missing stops at all.
Memories that didn’t belong to him flooded into his mind, settling in within less than a minute.
After absorbing them, An Luo’s expression turned grim. If there had been a mirror in the room, he would have come face-to-face with a twisted version of himself.
From the memories, he discovered he’d transmigrated into his own novel.
In public, An Luo was a fresh graduate turned intern; in private, he was a newbie author hammering away at the keyboard, dreaming of a breakout hit that would bring wealth and freedom, propelling him to the peak of life.
His writing career had started in his junior year. Less than a week after posting his first book, he got a signing notice. The moment he saw it back in the dorm, he was already planning where to buy a house after graduation.
Unfortunately, fantasies were beautiful, but reality was cruel. His debut novel, serialized to this day, barely scraped by on full-attendance bonuses. Forget breakout success—even a single new comment in the review section thrilled him for ages.
As an author, transmigrating into his own story with full plot knowledge should mean easy street, if not riches, then at least a comfortable life. With some personal skill and a connection to the protagonist, he’d soar straight to the top.
But… that was for other authors.
An Luo’s situation was special.
He’d been a veteran reader before writing. Staring at the site filled with urban, fantasy, historical novels… he vowed to be different!
Forge a new path!
Perhaps a newbie author curse, or overconfidence from the quick signing—An Luo aimed big for total innovation, to shock readers and craft a legendary masterpiece.
His brain screamed, “I’m different!”
Under this mysterious self-assurance, he chose a niche wizarding world as backdrop. To grab eyes, he made it brutally dark: knowledge and profit above all. Wizards experimented on entire planes without a care for the lives within.
In short, for all—men, women, young, old—survival meant prioritizing self-interest.
The protagonist? Even more ruthless, perfectly fitting the world. As a mere Wizard Apprentice, he performed live dissections without batting an eye.
Pure shock value.
To make the protagonist’s actions believable, An Luo set him as a native of this world.
No “rebirth” or “transmigration” hot tags, but early-days An Luo didn’t care. Back then, he obsessed over buying a house in Yanjing post-graduation or staying in his university city.
Happily daydreaming, even making a spreadsheet to compare the cities’ pros and cons.
Who needed petty tags?
Sigh.
An Luo sat dazed in the chair, unwilling to face reality.
Sure, he loved reading protagonists in other authors’ books cleaving waves, overcoming trials, achieving legends—but that was for reading, not living.
Was the AC too chilly? Games not fun enough?
Fate had other plans. One blink, and he was in his own novel.
Recalling the world’s background and overall tone, An Luo combined it with the absorbed memories to review his transmigrated identity.
He’d become Lan Lian, a low-level Wizard Apprentice. One of many envious of the protagonist’s talent, but with low IQ—positioned as early brainless cannon fodder. While others bided time or schemed in shadows, he played his cards openly against the protagonist.
In An Luo’s setup, ordinary folk became wizards by passing recruitment tests, then entered either private Wizard Towers or the Wizard Academy, starting as the lowliest Wizard Apprentices and climbing up.
Wizard Academy entrants had some protections due to various interests. But Wizard Tower entrants faced hell mode.
The Wizard Tower’s lord recruited apprentices only when the old ones died off, needing replacements.
In the Wizard Tower, only the exceptionally talented, clever, and ruthless survived the trials to truly embark on the wizard path.
Why didn’t the protagonist go to the Academy?
In An Luo’s plot, he’d temper himself in the Tower, amass power, claim the entire Tower, then head to the Academy with its vast resources.
Everyone thought him a poor kid from the boonies, but he’d secretly own a Wizard Tower and all its knowledge and wealth.
Surprise!
Classic pig-to-tiger act—a huge payoff!
Wizard Apprentices gained knowledge via labor or money.
But money bought little; vital knowledge required Contribution Points from labor.
And that labor caused sky-high casualty rates.
As expendables, apprentices tended the Wizard Lord’s Tower, nurturing vicious Magic Plants and dangerous Magic Beasts.
Tasks were voluntary.
The plants and beasts varied in ferocity: ordinary, fairly vicious, extremely vicious. Sticking to mild ones boosted safety. Over time, one could scrape by.
Everyone knew this: apprentices, wizards, author An Luo included.
So he added a twist with a flourish:
In the Tower, everything—food, clothing, lodging—cost money. Plus, apprentices paid monthly rent for their “Wizard Apprentice” status in gold or Contribution Points. Low-level tasks yielded meager points, barely covering basics—forget knowledge, even rent was a stretch.
Lan Lian came from wealth, flush with starting funds, same batch as the protagonist—who’d been his family’s servant. But tests showed Lan Lian’s mediocre talent, while the servant’s was exceptional.
Unbearable.
At first, Lan Lian played cautious. After two months grasping Tower survival rules, he struck.
Tower rules banned apprentice infighting—they were the Wizard Lord’s property, no internal waste—but loopholes existed.
He shelled out big for a Sleeping Charm from a veteran apprentice, putting the protagonist to sleep for half a month.
Seemed harmless—just a nap, right?
Wrong.
A penniless ex-servant relied on Contribution Points for survival. Sleeping half a month left ten days to month’s end.
Rent was due. No earnings for twenty days meant scraping rent in the remainder required ultra-dangerous tasks.
Those paid well but had 50% death rates, taken by veterans seeking growth. For a two-month newbie? Near-certain death.
Skip it? Fail rent, become experimental material—worse fate.
Viciously clever.
Hadn’t been the protagonist, it’d have worked.
But it was, so Lan Lian failed spectacularly, facing brutal revenge.
Lan Lian was opening cannon fodder: punchbag and starter gift package.
Post-kill, protagonist claimed his wealth, mimicked his handwriting to tap family funds regularly.
No more scraping by.
If An Luo remembered right.
Lan Lian had initially bullied the protagonist as a noble young master, then out of jealousy, he schemed and framed the protagonist. After the protagonist overcame the crisis, he paid Lan Lian back in his own coin, directly using the newly obtained Cursed Witch Tool to control Lan Lian into accepting a high-difficulty mission.
Once the mission was accepted, it had to be completed—otherwise, the consequences would be even more severe, and he’d be dragged off to serve as experimental material for the wizards. Lan Lian had no choice but to go, but since he wasn’t the protagonist, he just bit the dust like that.
Something like that, anyway?
It was a multi-million-word epic that had been serializing for about two years, so An Luo’s memory of the early plot points had grown a bit fuzzy.
Lan Lian’s death served as a minor satisfying moment in the early stages. Readers loved it, giving it likes and commenting that the idiot had finally been written off—such a relief!
By his calculations, the protagonist would complete his mission just today, freeing him up tomorrow to deal with his enemy.
Around noon tomorrow, the idiot would meet his end.
And now, An Luo had become that very idiot: “…”
No matter how weak Lan Lian was, he was still a Low-Level Wizard Apprentice. At the very least, he could read Witchcraft Books.
As for An Luo, the author of this very novel?
He had set the wizards as an intellect-based type, with Witchcraft learning requiring a solid foundation in math, physics, and chemistry. The main purpose was to show off, making himself seem cultured, but he lacked the ability to write genuine academic content, so it was mostly indirect descriptions mixed with nonsense.
During that time, some truly knowledgeable readers couldn’t stand it and pointed out the various errors in his comments. An Luo humbly acknowledged his mistakes but didn’t change—because he truly lacked the skill to write it right. Otherwise, he’d have gone into the sciences long ago.
He could only grit his teeth and keep bullshitting, flipping through obscure math, physics, and chemistry books to pull out theorems and concepts that seemed utterly incomprehensible at first glance but sounded impressive, then shoehorn them into the story.
Readers who actually understood these subjects took one look at the relevant chapters and were profoundly shocked by his ravings, collapsing in the comments section and calling for an ambulance on the spot.
An Luo had just glanced at the Witchcraft Book on the table. The text on the pages wasn’t in Chinese, but perhaps because he had inherited Lan Lian’s memories, he could understand it.
But understanding it didn’t help. An Luo stared at the Witchcraft Book, his eyes turning into swirling mosquito coils.
He simply couldn’t comprehend it—the knowledge wouldn’t enter his brain!
Why had he, a liberal arts major, ever decided to write this intellectual, academic-style setting on a whim?
Why not go with something mystical, like chanting spells or brewing potions in a big iron cauldron?
Oh, right… to show off.
And this was still the most basic, lowest-level Witchcraft knowledge, the kind that could be bought with gold coins. Ordinary people in this world could learn it with effort and a bit more time.
Then he thought about the protagonist’s revenge tomorrow…
Haha, he was done for!
