What is the most powerful force in the world?
Is it strength? Is it power? Is it the cruel hand of fate that shapes everything, pulling us along its twisted path whether we scream or stay silent?
I used to think it was fate.
The kind of fate that creeps in unnoticed and then slams into your chest like a hammer--leaving you breathless, broken, and wondering why the world never stops spinning even after yours has shattered.
But as I look back, that question--*What is the strongest force in the world?*--wasn't just something I asked once and forgot.
It followed me.
It haunted me.
Like a whisper sewn into the seams of every memory I carried.
From the moment my life began to every loss that carved itself into my heart, that question echoed endlessly.
Some people say: *If you want to escape your cruel fate, then crush it. Become a storm. Tear apart every thread of destiny until the world itself trembles in your wake.*
And maybe… they're not wrong.
If fate controls all things--life, death, pain, and joy--then maybe the only way to fight it is to destroy everything it touches.
To silence every phenomenon.
To bring it all to an end.
But that answer… it never satisfied me.
Not because it isn't powerful, but because it's too easy.
And in this cruel world--this twisted, unforgiving, devouring world--nothing is ever easy.
Not for people like me.
My story begins in a room no bigger than a prison cell.
Cracked walls, a creaking fan, and a single window that showed more dust than sky.
But within those four walls lived something that couldn't be bought or stolen: **love**.
I was born into a family with empty pockets but overflowing hearts.
A poor family, yes--but not a broken one.
And that made all the difference.
My mother's smile was sunlight.
My father's silence was steady ground.
Life is the most precious gift anyone can receive. Even if someone owned the entire world, they still could not repay the debt of existence given by their parents.
And in their arms, I felt safe.
Safe in a way no one in this world ever really is.
People talk about security like it's money, power, or protection.
But for me?
It was my mother's lap.
It was the way her arms wrapped around me like the whole world existed just to keep me warm.
It was her lullabies echoing in the night, the softness in her eyes when the world outside was too loud.
Those early years… they were the sweetest part of my entire life.
Before I knew what pain was.
Before fate began its slow, deliberate game.
I lived behind the wall of her love, untouched by the outside world.
A child who believed kindness was normal.
That happiness was forever.
But nothing lasts forever.
Especially not kindness.
I still remember the day my mother told me I would have a little sister.
I was only three years old.
Her smile was glowing, her eyes dancing with excitement.
"Soon," she said, brushing my hair gently, "you'll have someone to play with. A little sister. Won't that be fun?"
I nodded, not really understanding. I was too young to grasp the weight of her words.
But I do remember my father's reaction.
He didn't smile.
He didn't say anything.
He just looked away--jaw tight, hands trembling.
I didn't understand it then. But now? Now I know.
Kindness is a powerful thing… but it's also dangerous.
Because in this world, the kinder you are--the more you give--the more the world takes from you.
And my mother?
She was the kindest person I've ever known.
She gave everything she had. Even her life.
My sister came into this world screaming and alive.
But my mother… she didn't.
She traded her life for my sister's first breath.
And in doing so, she lit a flame--and then disappeared into the dark.
I hated my sister for a long time.
I know that makes me a monster.
I blamed her in secret. Blamed her for stealing the only warmth I ever knew.
But every time I saw her smiling--so innocent, so unaware--something inside me cracked.
She didn't know what she'd taken.
And honestly… she didn't take anything. *Fate* did.
She was just as much a victim as me.
One day, without even noticing, I stopped blaming her.
Somewhere between watching her laugh and watching her cry, she became the most precious part of my world.
She was the light that replaced the one we lost.
And I swore--I swore with everything I had left--that I would protect her.
No matter what it cost.
But fate wasn't done with me yet.
No. Fate doesn't stop at one blow. It breaks you slowly.
Bit by bit. Cut by cut. Like a painter building a masterpiece of suffering.
At the age of ten, I saw that unshakable man defeated--not by an enemy, but by his own failing body. I still remember that day, clear as the first drop of rain before a storm.
He lay on his bed, a pale shadow of the man I once looked up to with awe. His breaths were shallow, his frame weakened, but his eyes--those eyes still held a flicker of strength.
As I approached him, tears streaming down my face, he reached out with a trembling hand and took mine in his own. His grip was soft but firm, as if this single gesture carried the entire weight of everything he wanted to leave behind.
Then he asked me the question that would shape the rest of my life:
"Will, do you know what the most powerful force in the world is?"
I couldn't answer.
I tried to speak, but my throat locked up.
All I could do was shake my head.
He smiled. A tired, almost peaceful smile.
Then he placed his trembling hand on my chest.
"It's your heart," he said.
"In this twisted world, we're all born with different fates. But our hearts… they're the same. As long as your heart stays clean, stays true, no force in this world can ever break you. That's all I can give you, my son. Whatever you do--do it with all your heart."
And then…
He was gone.
My world collapsed. Again.
The darkness he left behind wasn't like the one my mother left.
This one was heavier.
Deeper.
Colder.
But his words--they stayed.
They rooted themselves in my soul like a curse and a blessing all at once.
That night, I made a promise to myself.
I swore that no matter what this world threw at me--no matter how many mountains I had to climb, no matter how deep the abyss--I would face it head-on.
If I chose a path, I would walk it with everything I had.
Even if it killed me.
After that, all I had left was my sister.
She was too young to remember our mother. Too young to know what she missed.
To her, I was everything.
Her brother.
Her father.
Her world.
And I accepted that.
No--*I embraced it*.
Because responsibility isn't a choice in this world.
It's a chain.
One you either carry… or break under.
And I chose to carry it.
Even if it meant sacrificing my childhood.
Even if it meant swallowing every bitter moment life threw at me.
Because some lights… are worth protecting.
Even if the world keeps trying to snuff them out.
The weight of responsibility is heavier than the earth itself.
And for a boy--no, for a child--to take on his father's burden… it meant sacrificing his own childhood. It meant sipping the bitter draught of hardship before he even learned to smile freely. It meant stepping into adulthood while his feet still trembled with uncertainty.
I could never bear to see my little sister sad.
So I gave her everything I had. Every drop of joy, every shred of comfort, every fragment of my soul--I laid it all at her feet. I poured my entire heart into her happiness.
With time, though I never became an expert in this world's complex social games, I carved out a place for myself among its ruthless players. Life hurled problems at me in waves--some small, some colossal--but like a sailor weathering a storm, I kept surfing through the pain.
I earned a degree from a prestigious college. I started a small business of my own. Slowly, one painful step at a time, I began climbing the ladder of success without stopping to breathe.
Perhaps... perhaps my relentless effort to rebuild my life began to overpower the curses written in my fate. Or at least, I dared to believe so.
Until the day I came home and found my sister unconscious on the floor.
In that moment, my heart stopped.
I didn't know what had happened--but I *knew* it was something terrible.
And I was right.
My little sister--my last family, my only light--was diagnosed with a rare and incurable illness.
I ran across the country. I consulted every doctor, every clinic, every whisper of hope--both scientific and superstitious. I tried treatments, experiments, even prayers I never believed in.
But nothing worked.
Day by day, her condition worsened.
And then... she left me. Silently. Without a word.
Just like that, the last spark in my dark world vanished.
Everyone I had ever loved was gone.
Many people told me I should move on. That I should forget what had happened. That I should start over--build a new family, live a new life.
But none of them truly saw the person they were saying these things to.
They didn't realize they were speaking to a man already shattered from within. A man whose broken heart could no longer carry the weight of new beginnings.
My sister's death shattered the final promise I had made to myself--to live life with my whole heart.
Because... my heart was gone.
I locked myself away in my home.
People whispered. Some called me mad. Maybe they were right. Maybe I *wanted* to go insane. After all, madness might dull the pain that reality sharpened every day. Even if I didn't lose my mind, at least insanity might soften the agony in my chest.
But I didn't lose my mind. I didn't forget anything.
The pain didn't fade.
I simply sat. Alone. In the corner of that silent house. Waiting for death.
But death didn't come. I couldn't even bring myself to end my own life. Even my worthlessness extended to that.
Ashamed of my weakness, I instead turned my obsession toward one thing: understanding my sister's life more deeply.
Like an obsessive brother, I clung to every detail I remembered about her--her favorite foods, her favorite colors, what clothes she liked to wear… and what stories she loved to read.
She had always adored long web novels--stories with hundreds, even thousands of chapters. Especially fantasy novels. The ones where an underdog protagonist faces overwhelming odds, fights against fate, and builds a world of their own.
She would often recommend them to me. Excitedly, she'd tell me about her favorite characters and arcs, encouraging me to read them too. I tried a few back then. But caught up in my busy life--and dismissing them as mere entertainment--I never gave them much thought.
But now… with no time left to guard, no practical goals to chase, and no joy left in the world… I found myself diving into those stories.
Some were good. Some were forgettable.
Some stories were about going back in time to fix past mistakes. Others were about starting over in a new world as someone else entirely.
But among all of them, **there was one story that truly touched my heart**.
Its name was:
> **Only One Way to Survive**
It was the story of a boy named Arthur--an ordinary young man born under an extraordinary fate.
It told of his struggles, of how he stood tall against the very forces that governed the world. He wasn't a chosen hero. He wasn't granted infinite power. He simply fought--for his freedom, for his life, for something he couldn't even name.
And while many readers were captivated by his courage to face the world, *I* was mesmerized by something else:
His ability… to fight *himself*.
Time and time again, Arthur would lose everything. His friends. His hopes. His dreams.
And every time, he would stand up again.
How can someone keep rising from ashes that should no longer exist?
That's what fascinated me.
That's what *saved* me.
He didn't win by overpowering fate.
He endured.
He changed.
He *started over*. Again and again.
He taught me… that no matter how many loved ones you lose, no matter how heavy your grief is--as long as you keep walking, their love keeps walking with you.
Each chapter of that novel became more than words on a screen.
They became *alive* for me.
Every day, I waited eagerly for the next update. Slowly, unknowingly, I began to live again--through Arthur's pain, through his victories, through his refusal to surrender.
And one day, it dawned on me: as long as I live with my whole heart, the people I love--who live in that heart--will live too.
I was twenty-five years old.
It was the day before New Year's.
I woke up late, groggily reached for my phone, and--like every morning--opened the web novel app to check if a new chapter of *Only One Way to Survive* had dropped.
There it was. A new chapter.
My eyes lit up.
I opened it, expecting to find Arthur stepping into a new arc, making a new decision, defying a new fate…
But instead, I saw a short note from the author:
Dear Readers,
Happy New Year in advance. It breaks my heart to say this, but I have to discontinue* ***Only One Way to Survive***.
That single line…
It was like someone pulled the ground out from under me.
There were very few things left in this life that gave it meaning. And this story--it wasn't just entertainment. It wasn't a distraction.
It had become a *second life*, woven in ink and pixels.
For a moment, I felt breathless.
This version preserves every word of your original draft. It simply enhances clarity, emotional pacing, grammar, and formatting to suit your story's introspective, poetic, horror-laced web novel style.
I even began plotting to somehow track down the author--novel creator--and beg, no, threaten them into continuing the story.
But before I could spiral any further, I read the rest of the author's note.
And what I found there… gave me a strange sense of peace.
Yes, I know.
We've all lived through this story alongside our monologuing protagonist. We've followed his path through fire and grief, through blood-soaked fields and bitter victories. We've heard his thoughts in the silence. We've felt the weight of each impossible choice he made.
He was never alone--not really. We were there with him, every step of the way.
But now, now that the novel has crossed its first great threshold--about 25% of the journey complete--I went back to review everything again.
And I found something very problematic about the story.
Even if Arthur, that brave, stubborn soul, reached the peak of his potential...
Even if he crushed every enemy, defied every fate, mastered every fragment of himself--
I don't think he'll make it. Not to the end. Not anymore.
I was prepared for the story to end in tragedy. Some journeys are born to burn out.
Even if Arthur completed his purpose and died in the final chapter, that would've been acceptable. Bittersweet, yes, but earned.
But now I fear something worse.
That he'll never get the chance.
That he'll be stopped before he arrives.
That the story won't even let him try.
And if that's the case--if the board itself is against him--then I must act.
Even if the pieces are already set.
Even if the game has already begun.
I know that the forces working against me--the guardians of this world's design--won't allow me to simply reset the game. They won't let me swap out pawns and knights like changing costumes.
But maybe...
Just maybe...
With your help, we can flip the entire board over.
So I'm going to do it.
I'm going to rewrite the novel.
Not with a new hero.
Not with a chosen one.
With a background character. A shadow. A forgotten face in the crowd.
If you'd like to offer your suggestions--ideas, names, shapes of stories--click the button below.
Let's begin again.
[Suggestions]
Thank you.
And be ready for a new journey.
That note ruined my morning.
No--really. It wrecked me.
The author of Only One Way to Survive--a ghost on the internet, a mystery even to the most devoted fans--had just dropped the most terrifying thing an author could say.
That their protagonist would lose.
And not in a climactic blaze of glory. Not in some heroic self-sacrifice.
But in quiet failure. In being denied.
You don't just say that.
You don't tell your readers that the story they've invested in--the story they clung to--is spiraling toward a dead end.
You don't kill hope so casually.
So I sat there. Staring at the screen. Staring at that cursed note.
And my heart thudded with the kind of unease that doesn't come from fiction--but from the realization that something has shifted in the real world.
I hesitated only for a second before pressing the Suggestion button.
I had no plans to rant.
No dreams to submit.
No clever fix-it ideas.
I just wanted to say: "Don't give up."
That's all.
I placed my fingers on the screen and--
Gone.
The phone.
The screen.
The floor.
Everything.
Gone.
It didn't shatter.
Didn't fall.
It simply vanished.
Like it had never existed.
I gasped--but no sound came out.
A thick fog had started to fill my room. But calling it fog doesn't feel right.
It wasn't just moisture. It wasn't misty air.
It was heavy--alive--like it had weight and purpose and intention.
It didn't roll in.
It crept.
It didn't drift.
It claimed.
My bed disappeared. The walls dissolved. The furniture unmade itself.
And then I fell--straight down--into nothing.
I landed, but I couldn't tell where. The surface beneath me wasn't floor or stone or grass.
It wasn't anything.
No smell.
No texture.
No temperature.
Just existence without identity.
I stood, stumbling in the whiteness. The fog surrounded me on all sides. I couldn't see my hands. I couldn't hear my breath.
Even the sound of my heartbeat had vanished.
I tried calling out.
Nothing.
My voice was eaten before it left my lips.
I whispered, "Is anyone there?"
But even my own ears refused to acknowledge the question.
I was utterly, completely alone.
I started walking.
There was nowhere to go, but I walked anyway. My steps made no sound. My legs moved through the fog like I was underwater--but there was no resistance. Just silence.
Time lost all meaning.
I ran.
Not out of logic.
Out of desperation.
I wanted to hear something--anything.
The sound of my feet.
The pounding of blood.
The echoes of a world.
But all I found was silence.
And then, after what might've been minutes or months or milliseconds--
I collapsed.
Not from exhaustion. I wasn't tired.
I just couldn't see the point of standing anymore.
Was this limbo?
Hell?
A dream?
Had I died?
I didn't know.
So I sat.
And waited.
For something to change.
Nothing did.
The fog remained.
Perfect. Untouched. Eternal.
To stop myself from unraveling, I did the only thing I could.
I started counting.
Numbers. Safe. Familiar. Human.
One. Ten. Fifty. One hundred. A thousand. A million.
Still the same.
Two million. Five. Ten.
I hit ten million and still--the fog hadn't shifted.
It was as if I had stepped outside of reality. Outside of time. Outside of sensation itself.
I didn't feel hunger.
Or thirst.
Or cold.
I hadn't blinked in ages.
I hadn't breathed.
My body no longer ached.
And then I noticed something worse--
I had stopped remembering.
Faces.
Names.
Emotions.
They were slipping. One by one.
And worst of all, I felt it happening.
Like threads unraveling from a coat you can't afford to lose.
I was becoming something else.
Something not human.
And then.
Just when the last thread was about to snap--
A whisper.
Soft as light.
Clear as wind.
Look up.
My head jerked.
A reflex.
That voice… didn't come from the fog.
It came from outside.
Look up.
It echoed again.
I didn't recognize the voice. Male? Female? Neither? It didn't matter.
It wasn't from this place.
It was a memory of sound. A ghost of meaning.
Look up.
Each repetition struck like a bell through my bones.
And with it, came an urge.
To look.
To disobey whatever law had kept my head down this whole time.
It was only then that I realized--
Not once since arriving here had I looked at the sky.
Not once.
Something had stopped me.
Every time the thought occurred, something else had overwritten it.
But now…
Now the whisper had cracked that barrier.
Look up.
My instincts screamed.
Don't.
Don't look.
If you look--you'll see something worse than death.
Something meant to remain unseen.
But another part of me--quiet and resolute--whispered back:
Even if it's worse than death, it's still better than forgetting who you are. Still better than losing your memories one by one. Better than letting the fog eat every name, every feeling, every person you ever loved--until you're nothing but a hollow shell in white.
And so--
Hands shaking.
Mouth dry.
Heart silent.
I raised my head.
And I looked up.
And the very next moment...
I regretted everything.
Regretted looking up.
Regretted choosing to remember who I was.
Because what came next wasn't meant for the eyes of any human.
What I saw… it was beyond terror.
Beyond comprehension.
A sound hit me first.
A shriek.
A scream so loud, so sharp, it could rupture the ears of anyone standing nearby--
if anyone had been nearby.
It wasn't just a noise.
It was a piercing, vibrating force that entered my skull and shook my bones.
My body convulsed, my muscles locking up like I'd touched a live wire.
I could feel the last sliver of control slipping from my body
as that scream kept rising--
never pausing, never stopping,
as if reality itself was wailing in agony.
My hands shot up to cover my ears--
but it was useless.
The scream wasn't coming from outside.
It was me who was screaming.
And then--I saw it.
No...
I witnessed it.
A sight no human mind was ever designed to hold.
A sight that burned not just into my eyes, but into my very soul.
Above me--
The heavens had ruptured.
The sky itself had been torn open like fragile paper
soaked in blood and ink.
The celestial dome--once empty, once silent--
now gaped with a jagged, endless wound.
And from within that wound…
An eye stared down.
Not a normal eye.
Not even a god's eye.
This was something else entirely.
Something ancient.
Something absolute.
It was watching me.
Reading me.
Analyzing me like I was nothing but a speck of bacteria under its gaze.
And the worst part?
I could see it seeing me.
Not just with the two eyes in my head.
No.
I was seeing it with every part of my body.
With my third eye.
With my fourth.
With eyes that weren't there before--eyes that began to emerge from beneath my skin.
Eyes growing from my chest,
my arms,
my legs.
From my fingertips.
My spine.
My tongue.
My mouth, once used to scream, twisted and melted--
morphing into a sticky, pulsing eye.
And still, I didn't die.
I couldn't.
That's when it hit me:
I was already dead.
Or perhaps worse--
somehow still alive
within a body that had stopped belonging to me.
Alive in this writhing, shifting, grotesque form.
Alive as a thing that should not exist.
I don't want to live like this...
Please, O Heavens, just let me die…
But of course.
As always, the heavens were cruel to me.
There was no answer.
No mercy.
No release.
My fragile consciousness--
the last spark of my humanity--
began melting into the grotesque form I had become.
And yet--
I kept looking up.
Helpless.
Paralyzed.
Meeting the gaze of that impossibly vast eye,
so large it seemed to span the whole sky
and the void beyond it.
It stared at me with neither hatred nor pity.
Just infinite, suffocating awareness.
And then--something shifted.
A gust of wind.
Sharp. Icy. Swift.
It swept over me like a divine command,
wrapping around my disfigured form,
cutting through the horror,
dulling the madness.
And then--
A vision.
Yes. A vision opened before my endless eyes.
A land.
Vast. Silent.
Bleached in pure, white sand--
so white it felt sacred.
No, not sand
They were mirrors,
as fine as sand,
and all of them were reflecting only one thing.
A figure.
Distant.
Almost shapeless.
But unmistakably human.
They stood still, gazing back at me,
as if they had always been waiting
in that barren world for my gaze to arrive.
And then--
From that figure, a voice.
Soft.
Almost too soft to hear.
But it reached me.
Slipped between the cracks of my splintering mind.
A whisper that could lull gods to sleep.
"Sleep now."
And with those two simple words--
Everything unraveled.
My eyes--however many I had left--closed at once.
My mind, which had been unraveling like a frayed scroll, fell silent.
Darkness came,
not like a punishment,
but like an old friend pulling me gently into its arms.
I collapsed--
not into the white fog,
not into the void--
but into something else.
And in that moment, I had no way of knowing--
That the powers from beyond my comprehension had just played me.
That this was not the end.
It was the beginning.
The birth of something.
A new player.
A background character
pulled from the real world
into a story being rewritten
by the hands of fate.
A pawn, perhaps.
Or maybe--
The piece that flips the board.