The death END

Write a novel, theme "@graypantslngmzlakas "Ang tanga Naman ng bida!" @titepopls "author! ang immature talaga ng main character mo! " @akonalangkase " anu bayan nakakaumay mag basa kung parating ganyan. " @kingnamo " author ano na?? " @pangit_ugaleimissyou_stela " tumigil ka nalang kaya magsulat?! " @ilovemaloi " walang kwentang nobela yan! " @nademonyoka " pangit nanga ng plot pangit pa bida?" @pepemolangsapatna " pano eh pangit din ang nagsulat!" *Aba tarantado to ha!? Jade slammed his laptop shut, the screen reflecting his fury. The comments, a torrent of vitriol, attacked his latest novel, "The Assassin's First Kiss is Stolen by the Crown Prince." His heart pounded, a drumbeat of frustration against his ribs. How dare they? How dare they dismiss his work, his characters, his carefully crafted world? "They don't understand," he muttered, his voice tight with anger. "They don't see the depth, the complexity, the sheer brilliance of my writing!" He was a proud graduate of the Philippine Military Academy, a man of discipline and unwavering resolve. He was also a renowned manhwa and novel author, a master storyteller who believed in the power of his words to move hearts and minds. He held a special place in his heart for "The Assassin's First Kiss," a story about a cunning assassin who falls for the Crown Prince, a tale of forbidden love, political intrigue, and a world where the line between right and wrong was constantly blurred. He had poured his soul into the story, crafting every character, every plot twist, every emotional beat with meticulous care. He believed in the power of his words to change the world, to inspire hope, to show that even the most seemingly insignificant person could achieve extraordinary feats. But the internet, that fickle beast, had decided his work was trash. His anger, a simmering volcano, erupted in a sudden, violent burst. He reached for his coffee, a steaming mug of black liquid, and as he brought it to his lips, his hand slipped. The mug tipped, the coffee cascading onto the table, spilling onto the extension cord that powered his laptop. A sudden, blinding flash. A searing pain that shot through his body. And then, darkness. Jade awoke to the sound of birdsong, a melody so sweet and pure that it felt like a dream. Sunlight streamed through a window, casting dancing patterns on the floor. He sat up, his head throbbing, his body aching. He looked around, disoriented, his mind struggling to grasp the situation. He was in a room, a simple, elegant room, with walls adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of a fantastical world. The furniture was crafted from dark, rich wood, and the air was filled with the scent of lavender and something else, something sweet and exotic. He was not in his apartment. He was not in his world. He stumbled to his feet, his head spinning. He looked out the window, his breath catching in his throat. He was in a sprawling palace, a sprawling city, a world unlike anything he had ever seen. He was in the world of "The Assassin's First Kiss." He was a character in his own story. A wave of nausea washed over him. He had been transported into his own creation, a world he had crafted with his own two hands. But this world was not the world he had imagined. It was darker, more dangerous, more real. He looked down at his hands, his fingers slender, his skin pale. He was not himself. He was a character, a side character, a minor player in the grand scheme of his own story. He was, in fact, the character he had named "Jade," a young man who worked as a scribe for the Crown Prince. He remembered his story, the plot twists, the betrayals, the love affairs, the battles. He knew the fate of every character, every major event, every pivotal moment. He knew how the story ended. He knew that he would die in Chapter 3.