The final rejection email hit my inbox at 3 AM.
Subject line: 'Regarding Your Submission.'
I didn't need to open it. My masterpiece was trash. I was trash.
My cramped Warsaw apartment felt like a coffin. Empty ramen cups covered the floor. The glow from my Realme phone was the only light.
It was from Fistoria. The last platform. The one I grew up loving.
Four years. I gave it four years. Dropped out of school. Listened to my parents' "I told you so" on a loop in my head.
This was it. The end.
I didn't cry. Something snapped.
I hurled the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a pathetic thud. The cheap plastic didn't even crack.
Perfect. Can't even break a phone right.
A scream built in my throat. I shoved my face into a pillow and let it out. A raw, guttural sound. Then I went digging.
I found it. A half-bottle of cheap vodka under the bed.
I didn't bother with a glass. The burn was the point. It didn't help. The emptiness just grew bigger.
I looked up at the water-stained ceiling.
"My life is a joke," I slurred.
The silence answered.
Something broke. The last thread of sanity.
"I wish…" My voice was hoarse. "I wish I could go back. Do it all over. Be someone bigger. Someone they can't ignore."
I took another swig.
"Someone who owns the damn game."
The air in front of me shimmered.
Like heat haze off asphalt. Then it twisted.
A man stepped out. Like he was walking through a curtain.
He looked… normal. But not. His clothes were casual—dark jeans, a simple grey hoodie. But they were impossibly crisp. Perfect. He had an ageless face, sharp features, and hair that was artfully messy.
His eyes were a calm, piercing silver.
He looked at me, at the bottle, at the mess. He sighed.
"Ugh. Another creative-type meltdown. The signal is always so… dramatic."
My drunk brain tried to process. Failed.
"Wha…?"
"Alex Thorn. Twenty years old. Aspiring author. Currently achieving a blood-alcohol content that would impress a Russian poet." He snapped his fingers.
My head cleared. Instantly. The fog of alcohol vanished.
I was sober. And terrified.
"Who are you?"
"Anville. Think of me as a… sponsor. A Wishbearer. You made a wish. A loud, pathetic, interesting one."
He paced my tiny room. He didn't touch anything. He looked vaguely bored.
"I can grant it. With conditions."
"A wish?" My heart hammered. "You're serious?"
"Deadly." He stopped and looked at me. "Rule One: You're 20. It's 2026. You go back to 2022. You'll be 16. Do-over."
My breath caught.
"Rule Two: You get a novel. A one-in-a-century banger. 'Chronos Imperium.' Full manuscript. Uploaded directly to your brain. No writer's block. No plot holes. Perfection."
Impossible.
"Rule Three: You publish it. You get contracts. And with every contract you sign…" He smiled. It wasn't warm. "You level up. Power. Money. Skills. The works. Consider it a cosmic sponsorship deal."
My mind raced. A second chance. A guaranteed hit. Superpowers?
"What's the catch?" I whispered.
Anville's smirk widened. "The catch is you have to live with winning. And trust me, for guys like you, that's the hard part."
He didn't let me ask another question.
He snapped his fingers again.
The world dissolved into a silver light.
---
I woke up.
Not hungover. Just… awake.
The smell of my mom's pancakes wafted under my door. Sunlight streamed through Star Wars curtains I hadn't seen in years.
I was in my old room.
I shot up, looking at my hands. Smaller. Softer.
I stumbled to the mirror on the closet door.
A teenage face stared back. Light brown eyes wide with shock. A head of short, tight Jerry curls.
I was 16.
It worked.
Then, it hit me. A pressure in my skull. Not painful. Like a library opening.
Words. Chapters. Scenes. A complete, epic narrative.
The entire manuscript of "Chronos Imperium."
It was all there. Perfect. Waiting.
My mom yelled from the kitchen. "Alex! Your math tutor is here in an hour! Stop dawdling!"
I looked at my reflection. The weary despair was gone.
Replaced by a cold, quiet fire.
A slow smile spread across my face.
"Game on."