Wen Yiqian had transmigrated.
Well, perhaps it wasn't the most earth-shattering revelation.
After all, such miraculous twists of fate were typically reserved for those rare few chosen by destiny—legendary figures whose lives unfurled like epic poems.
That it had happened to him was, frankly, as if his ancestors' graves were emitting lucky smoke.
Naturally, he imagined that what awaited him was the classic arc: the rise of the underdog, a triumphant awakening, a meteoric ascent that defied fate.
At the very least, he should have been on track to become a duke or minister, living a life of opulence, his days filled with silken robes and a harem of beauties.
But at this moment, Wen Yiqian felt nothing but dread.
He hadn't just transmigrated—he had landed in the very novel he himself had written, occupying the role of the male protagonist.
On the surface, this didn't sound too dire.
The trouble was, Wen Yiqian was a failed author specializing in grimdark fiction—his works teemed with madness, killers, and psychological horror. In his world, even a casual stroll could end in an encounter with a deranged serial murderer.
"Why the hell did I transmigrate into this cursed world?" he moaned, sitting in his dingy rental apartment, consumed by helplessness.
He was like an ant on a hot griddle, mind racing, stomach twisting.
If the heavens granted him a second chance, Wen Yiqian swore he would never again write grimdark novels.
Wouldn't it have been better to craft a cliché power fantasy with simple joy and low stakes?
Such novels had wide appeal, minimal expectations, and were far less likely to be censored.
If he had transmigrated into one of those carefree tales, he would've awakened laughing in delight.
Instead, here he was, paralyzed by anxiety.
After slowly regaining his composure, Wen Yiqian began piecing things together.
First, it was clear he had entered the world of Masks, his latest serialized novel.
Second, he had become the male lead of the story—also named Wen Yiqian.
Yes, that's right. The protagonist of the novel bore his exact name, the kind of self-insert only authors burdened with either delusions of grandeur or total idiocy would attempt.
Wen Yiqian was clearly a mix of both.
Though a giant online, he was timid in real life—he couldn't even watch horror movies alone. Yet, ironically, all his stories were drenched in darkness and terror.
Masks was still a work-in-progress, barely 200,000 words in. The premise was simple: the protagonist, orphaned early in life, had inherited cognitive impairments from his mentally unstable parents, leaving him slow-witted and socially outcast.
Until, one day, a blow to the head unlocked a dormant brilliance within.
He wasn't a fool at all, but a misunderstood genius with an astronomical IQ.
Having seen too much cruelty, his heart had long festered with madness.
The protagonist descended, step by step, into the abyss.
He was not just the main character, but also the final boss.
His post-awakening arc was a dance of intellect and menace, as he "toyed" with various serial killers using his superior mind.
The only golden finger he had—was his extraordinary intelligence.
But now, Wen Yiqian, the author, found himself in the protagonist's shoes—without that one advantage.
And he knew full well he was nothing close to a genius.
The intelligence he had written into his character was built from omniscient plotting and hours of forced logic.
To pit his real self against homicidal maniacs? He would collapse from fear.
"May 31, 2019."
He glanced at his phone. The date on the screen matched the timeline of the novel's latest chapter.
Which meant that even though he had created this world, he had no idea what would come next.
He was a seat-of-the-pants writer with no outlines or drafts to fall back on.
"What's the point of transmigrating if I can't even predict the d*mn plot?!"
"Heaven truly seeks to destroy me!"
Wen Yiqian clutched his head in agony.
The phone screen dimmed, casting his reflection.
"…D*mn, I'm good-looking."
Momentarily stunned, he couldn't help but smile foolishly.
The protagonist of Masks was supposed to be dangerously handsome—a brilliant, twisted beauty.
But seeing it in the mirror, up close? Even he was impressed.
"Still… not quite as good as the real me," he muttered.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong!
The doorbell jolted him from his thoughts.
Because he couldn't foresee the story ahead, he had no idea who might be outside.
Cautiously, he approached and opened the door.
Standing before him was a graceful, mature woman in homely attire, her smile warm and disarming.
"You are?" he asked instinctively.
Across the hall, a door stood ajar—hers, no doubt.
His mind raced.
She must be Xu Xuanmei—thirty-three years old. She lived across from the protagonist with her husband, Zhang Yi.
On May 27th, she discovered her husband cheating and, in a fit of rage, killed both him and his mistress.
She had remained in the apartment with the corpses for two days before venturing outside.
In the novel, the male lead had noticed something amiss on May 30th and paid her a visit.
As the author, Wen Yiqian knew every line of her character's backstory.
She was, in the novel, an insignificant murderer—a mere plaything for the protagonist's twisted games.
Yesterday's scene involved the male lead teasing and provoking her after deducing the truth.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
Despite her gentle demeanor, this woman had blood on her hands.
To the original protagonist, such people were pawns.
But to the real Wen Yiqian—an anxious, average man—she was a nightmare made flesh.
The elegant woman stepped forward, smiling.
"Playing dumb isn't a very good habit, little brother…"
Her voice was soft, but the fruit knife in her hand was chillingly real, its gleaming tip pressed against his abdomen.
Wen Yiqian froze, raising his hands instinctively.
He had always mocked movie hostages who surrendered too easily.
Now, he understood—fear paralyzes. Thought slows.
He didn't dare scream, didn't dare move.
After all, even if the stab didn't kill him…
It would still hurt like hell.