PROLOGUE — "Fools We All Are"
Dmm.
Dmm.
Dmm.
Fingers tapped softly against my desk—wooden, scratched, tired like me.
Fwwwshh.
The curtain, orange-black striped, danced against the frame as wind slid in through the half-open window.
The laptop screen in front of me glowed.
A blinking cursor.
A blank page.
I stared.
"Where do I even start?"
The question echoed into the small bedroom like a question I'd asked a hundred times.
Above me, shelves sagged with dusty, dog-eared books—my past works and others I tried to forget.
Behind me, a tall, dark wardrobe.
Left of me, a bed barely big enough for my 5'4" frame—though I measured that myself with a tape rule, so who knows.
"I need to write a new book... but where do I even start?"
You'd think that's something a newbie would ask.
Or maybe someone having a moment of self-doubt.
But me?
I've written books. Decent ones.
I know how to bait a reader, keep them hooked, drip-feed dopamine chapter by chapter until they're locked in.
Slap on a name like "SSS-Ranked Godkiller" with a cover featuring some half-naked swordsman glowing in red, and boom—instant traffic. A few bucks. A few thousand readers. Repeat.
I've done it.
More than once.
I don't lack ideas. Not even close.
I could write about a cursed boy who awakens a forbidden bloodline.
Family killed. Betrayed.
Now he seeks revenge with a system so broken, it practically turns pages for the reader.
Sure, it's cliché.
But clichés sell—especially with the right coat of polish.
So again, why haven't I started?
...
I think I'm just bored.
Not of writing.
But of this.
The same twists, same recycled tropes with slightly different seasoning.
Characters that don't feel like people, but vending machines for power-ups and monologues.
I write about men who challenge gods... while I sit shackled to a desk, cursed by my own system:
Daily word count. Daily updates. Daily dopamine.
I write about "trash" protagonists who rise to greatness, while I cling to mediocrity—safe, profitable mediocrity.
And the readers?
They call the MCs "trash" in the comments—then click Next Chapter anyway.
They complain about overpowered protagonists—then riot if the MC gets beaten.
They say:
> "Cliché cultivation garbage."
Right below a badge that says:
> "Read up to Chapter 212."
I don't hate them.
In fact, I think I understand them better than anyone.
They don't read to be challenged. They read to escape.
To delay the next morning, the next shift, the next dose of monotony.
Just like me.
The only difference?
I'm the one writing the drug.
And I'm tired of it.
So now, I sit here. Same chair. Same screen. Same question:
"Where do I even start?"
But this time, I think I have the answer.
I want to write something that breaks the loop.
Something about the addiction. The farce. The roles we all play.
Me—the peddler.
Them—the users.
All of us—fools.
And I'll call it exactly that.
> Fools We All Are.
So if you're here for the strongest swordsman, the dragon-blooded chosen one, or the broken system that turns a loser into a god overnight...
You might still get it.
But you'll also get this.
The truth underneath it all.
Welcome to the book.