Harry Maxfield's alarm blared for the third time that morning. With a groan, he reached out from beneath his warm comforter and slammed his palm against the snooze button. The digital clock read 7:43 AM—he was already running late.
"Shit," he muttered, throwing off his blanket and stumbling to his feet.
His small apartment was cluttered but comfortable, walls adorned with framed posters of his favorite fantasy novels and anime series. The desk in the corner was overwhelmed with notes and sticky reminders about deadlines for his freelance writing projects.
Harry had carved out a modest living as a fanfiction author, occasionally selling original short stories to online magazines. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills—most of them, anyway—and allowed him to spend his days doing what he loved: creating worlds and characters that readers would become invested in.
He rushed through his morning routine, brushing his teeth while simultaneously trying to check his email on his phone. Three new comments on his latest chapter, a rejection from a publication he'd submitted to weeks ago, and a reminder that his rent was due in two days.
"Great," he said to his reflection. Dark circles had formed under his eyes from staying up until 3 AM finishing a commission. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and he didn't bother trying to tame it.
Harry pulled on a faded t-shirt with the logo of an obscure web novel and a pair of jeans. He glanced at the clock again—8:12 AM. The weekly video call with his editor was at 8:30, and he hadn't even prepared his notes or made coffee.
"Focus," he told himself as he moved to the kitchen. "Just need caffeine."
The tiny kitchen was functional but bare. A coffee maker, microwave, and a half-empty box of cereal were the only things on the counter. Harry filled the coffee maker and hit the brew button, then leaned against the counter and pulled up his latest story on his phone.
It was a fantasy series he'd been working on for nearly two years—a tale about a demon realm where souls were currency and power could be crafted if you were clever enough. His readers were devoted, always clamoring for the next chapter. The pressure to deliver something exceptional each week was both exhilarating and exhausting.
As the coffee brewed, Harry scrolled through the last few paragraphs he'd written. His protagonist was trapped in a situation that Harry wasn't entirely sure how to resolve. The plot had grown more complex than he'd initially planned, with layers of demon politics and intricate power systems.
The timer on his phone buzzed—fifteen minutes until the call. Harry cursed under his breath and poured his coffee into a travel mug. He needed his laptop from the bedroom, but first, he should grab a snack to get through the meeting.
Harry opened his pantry and frowned at the meager options. A bag of chips caught his eye on the top shelf. He stretched up on his tiptoes, fingers just grazing the edge of the bag.
"Come on," he muttered, giving a small jump to reach it.
The bag tipped forward, and Harry stepped back to catch it. His sock-covered foot slid on the smooth kitchen tile, and suddenly, he was off-balance. He reached wildly for the counter, but his fingers found only air.
Time seemed to slow as Harry felt himself falling backward. The staircase leading down from his kitchen to the living room loomed behind him—a feature of his quirky, split-level apartment that he'd always found charming until this moment.
A spike of adrenaline shot through him as he realized what was happening. He twisted, desperately trying to grab the railing, but his momentum was too great.
The first impact knocked the wind from his lungs. The second sent pain shooting through his shoulder. By the third, Harry's world had begun to blur.
His body tumbled down the wooden steps, each impact harder than the last. A sickening crack echoed in his ears as his neck wrenched at an unnatural angle on the final step.
Harry lay at the bottom of the staircase, his vision fading. Strangely, the pain had disappeared, replaced by an encroaching numbness. The ceiling above him grew dim.
I never finished that chapter, he thought absurdly. My readers will be disappointed.
His last conscious thought was of his protagonist, trapped in a demon realm with no way out. How ironic that he would never write that escape.
Then, darkness.
Darkness.
Endless, suffocating darkness.
Harry couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. He couldn't tell if he even had eyes anymore.
Am I dead? The question seemed to echo in the void, though he hadn't spoken aloud—or had he? It was impossible to know.
The last thing he remembered was falling. The staircase. The crack. The understanding that something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
Then, nothing. Until now.
Time had no meaning in this place. Harry might have been floating in the darkness for minutes or millennia. Occasionally, he thought he sensed something—a distant sound, a shift in the nothingness around him, a faint pulsing that might have been his heartbeat if he still had a heart.
And then, gradually, something changed. The darkness seemed to thicken around him, becoming almost tangible. He felt confined, compressed. What had been an infinite void now felt like a small, enclosed space.
With this new sensation came awareness of his body—or at least, a body. He could feel limbs, though they didn't move quite right. His skin felt strange, too sensitive, too responsive to the warm fluid that now seemed to surround him.
Fluid? Yes, he was floating in something viscous. The realization triggered panic, and Harry instinctively thrashed. His new limbs pushed against a barrier—a soft, yielding wall that surrounded him on all sides.
He needed air. The thought struck him suddenly, primal and urgent. He needed to break free, to breathe, to escape this confinement.
Harry pushed harder against the barrier, scratching at it with what he realized were sharp, claw-like fingers. The wall resisted, then began to give way. A small crack appeared, allowing a faint light to penetrate his prison for the first time.
Encouraged, he redoubled his efforts. The crack widened, and more light streamed in. The fluid around him began to drain out through the opening, and Harry followed it, pushing and clawing his way toward freedom.
With one final effort, he broke through, his body spilling out onto a surface that felt hot and granular beneath him. He gasped, drawing in his first breath in this new existence, only to choke on the acrid, sulfurous air.
As he coughed and sputtered, Harry's vision began to clear. He looked down at himself, and shock jolted through him.
His skin was dark red, almost black in places, with strange patterns etched across it like tribal markings. His hands ended in sharp talons, and when he touched his face, he felt small horns protruding from his forehead.
Panic threatened to overwhelm him again, but Harry forced himself to look up, to take in his surroundings.
The sky above was foreign—deep purple with swirling clouds that glowed an eerie green at their edges. A massive moon, larger than any he'd ever seen and tinted the color of a fresh bruise, hung low on the horizon. Its light cast strange shadows across what appeared to be a beach, though the sand was black and red, still warm with volcanic heat.
And all around him, scattered across this hellish shore, were eggs. Thousands of them, in various sizes and colors. Some were already hatching, revealing small creatures with forms as twisted and demonic as his own.
The realization struck Harry with the force of a physical blow. The stories he'd written, the worlds he'd created—this was eerily, impossibly familiar.
I've read about this. I've written about places like this. This is...
A name appeared in his mind then, unbidden. A true name, a demon name, long and complex and undeniably his.
Korvus Meryer Ywatt Alucard Lundisha Bloodborn Skywalker.
Harry—no, Korvus now—felt a hysterical laugh bubble up through his chest. Of all the fictional realms to be reincarnated into, he had somehow found himself in one where demons were born from eggs on a volcanic shore, where souls were currency and power was limited only by imagination and resources.
"I'm in a demon realm," he whispered, his new voice raspy and strange in his ears. "I've become what I wrote about."
Around him, more eggs were hatching. More demons were emerging. And in the distance, he could already see the stronger ones turning on the weaker, beginning the brutal struggle for survival that he knew all too well from the stories he'd crafted.
Korvus looked down at his taloned hands again, flexing them experimentally.
I need to survive this. I need to understand what's happening to me.
And most importantly, he needed to remember everything he knew about demons, souls, and power. Because if his suspicions were correct, that knowledge might be the only advantage he had in this strange new existence.
The sound of cracking eggs grew louder around him. The hunt was beginning.
Korvus took a deep breath and prepared to face his new reality.
...
If you've read so far, just know this was an experiment using AI to write these chapters. A shit load of promts and various instructions with meticulous details were used to create these 10 chapters.
It kinda veered off course in the later chapters though, I not sure why, LOL XD.
But if anything, please read my other fanfic that I'm Editing, named: HxH: I Will Be Supreme.
Support my Patreon at: patreon.com/chibi_mon_mon