"Oh."

The "Writer" marveled as he gazed at the auditorium where the entrance ceremony would be held.

A space large enough to seat tens of thousands, built using the latest construction techniques and top-quality materials, with guest seats prepared on either side.

It looked less like an auditorium and more like a World Cup stadium.

In fact, wasn’t there a setting where this place is used as a stadium for sports events later on?

But that was the extent of his admiration. Seeing a place he had once described in his writing was an interesting experience, but he had seen it countless times in his head before.

As he wandered through the auditorium, his thoughts shifted to the prologue.

In the context of his work, it was known as the Bloody Entrance Ceremony, an event that would go down in the history of this world.

Depending on the iteration, the numbers varied, but the tragic death toll ranged from hundreds to thousands.

Hundreds to thousands...

It was an enormous number, but it didn’t faze him much. After all, they were just nameless extras without any lines. Their deaths didn’t really matter to him.

The Writer stopped and sat in one of the seats, reviewing the scenario in his mind.

The root of the problem was a prophecy delivered by a seer to a necromancer.

—You will die at the hands of someone barely a hundred years old, and they will enroll in Lord Howe Academy five years from now.

Instead of fleeing in fear, the necromancer responded in a manner true to his kind.

—If the enemy in the prophecy is going to kill me, why not just kill them first?

It was a simple solution, but it presented a problem.

How would the necromancer identify and kill his would-be killer among the savage and powerful new students of Lord Howe Academy, where every nation sent their most promising youth?

The necromancer spent years pondering this dilemma, amassing power and nurturing his hatred.

The conclusion he reached was simple and horrific.

—Kill them all.

If he slaughtered all the new students at the entrance ceremony, the problem would be solved.

Unfortunately, the necromancer had both the will and the means to carry out such a deranged plan.

Well, in the end, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy anyway...

As a result, the necromancer attacks the entrance ceremony and is eventually slain by the protagonist.

This event catapults the protagonist into global fame and sets off a chain of events.

The problem was...

Who’s the protagonist?

The Writer chewed on his thumbnail as he looked down at the auditorium.

This world resembled the novel he had written, but it wasn’t an exact replica.

The major elements were similar, but certain details were either missing, different, or beyond his understanding.

It’s definitely a mix of different works...

In truth, he wasn’t the sole creator of this world.

It was a franchise universe—a collaborative setting created by someone else, for which he had been hired to write a novel.

Of course, being a creator himself, he hadn’t just stuck to the given material. He had crafted his own unique protagonist and added fan-favorite details.

But that was true for the director of the movie adaptation, the artist for the manga, and the developers of the game as well.

They could’ve been more consistent with the protagonist, though.

The Writer recalled the head of the World-Building Committee, a wealthy benefactor who was content as long as the world’s core elements were maintained, allowing the creators as much freedom as possible.

Thanks to that man, the protagonists varied wildly between adaptations—different genders, even different races.

The film had a handsome male lead, the manga featured a beautifully drawn girl, and the game’s protagonist...

What’s the point? None of them exist in this world anyway.

The Writer cut off his useless train of thought. Ever since he had fallen into this world, he had tried tracking down every potential protagonist, but none of them had been who he expected.

He had even briefly entertained the notion that he might be the protagonist, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

If he were the main character, he wouldn’t have been reincarnated into a body with a privileged background but abysmal skills.

What if the protagonist never shows up?

The thought troubled him. What would happen if the prologue began and there was no protagonist to stop the necromancer?

Would the story just end with, The necromancer killed everyone at the entrance ceremony. The end?

That was ridiculous, but so was the idea of being reincarnated into a fictional world.

...Maybe I just shouldn’t attend the entrance ceremony?

Once you joined the event, there was no escape.

The necromancer, as the prologue’s boss, would surround the auditorium with his undead army, sealing every exit. The sheer number of undead would block off all paths of escape.

And with so many civilians in attendance, hoping for assistance from high-level magic users or military firepower was out of the question.

The only hope lay with the students and the few capable individuals attending the ceremony.

In theory, with some effort, one could survive the initial wave of attacks.

But the real problem is the second phase...

The necromancer himself was the issue. In the novel, as the prologue boss, he was weak. But in the game and movie versions... even thinking about it gave the Writer cold sweats.

A grotesque, monstrous spectacle of rotting flesh.

Maybe I should just skip the entrance ceremony?

As he considered the auditorium, he shook his head.

No, no. If I chicken out from the start, there’ll be no way to get involved in the story.

For the sake of his future, he needed to join the story. It would be even better if he could lend the protagonist a hand and form some valuable connections.

Following the plot and reaping the hidden rewards or opportunities meant he could live a life far more luxurious and exciting than his current one.

While I’m at it, maybe I’ll make a name for myself with the heroines and deal with any annoying side characters.

With that grim, slightly vain thought, the Writer turned to leave the auditorium.

The dark emptiness of the auditorium stretched long behind him as he walked away.

 

The Dung Beetle took a breath.

On the first breath, he fired his shotgun, clearing away the zombies blocking his path.

On the second, he gathered mana into his legs.

On the third, he pushed off the ground, leaping over the zombies' heads.

By the fourth breath, he was soaring above the horde of undead.

But even after leaping over dozens of zombies, the wall of undead was too thick to clear in one jump.

Just as he was about to fall back into the mob, his feet found purchase—not on the ground, but atop a zombie’s head. He leapt again before the rotting hands could grab him.

Behind him, more zombies began piling on top of each other, their decaying bodies forming a grotesque barrier.

A burst of light flashed from the shotgun in the Dung Beetle’s hand.

BOOM!

The magically silver-plated lead shot tore through the wall of rotting flesh.

Flesh and putrid blood splattered all over the Dung Beetle. The stench was overwhelming, and his clothes were ruined.

But he didn’t stop moving. His eyes fixed on the necromancer, who was desperately channeling mana into his wand.

“O King of the Undead! He who has killed even death itself!”

The moment the Dung Beetle planted his foot on the last zombie’s head and leapt, the necromancer finished his spell.

CRACKLE!

The wand glowed with an unnatural, sickly green light, a disgusting magic that defied the laws of nature, flying straight toward the Dung Beetle in mid-air.

It was a perfect shot aimed at the moment of vulnerability in his jump. The necromancer’s pale face twisted into a triumphant smile.

But that smile lasted less than a second.

Just as the magic collided with the Dung Beetle, a radiant light burst forth from his waist.

[Cursed Decline! To think such a vile curse still lingers in the world!]

A noble voice echoed in the Dung Beetle’s mind at that moment.

[Fear not! I shall protect you!]

Hearing that dignified voice, the Dung Beetle almost wanted to throw away the unicorn horn he was holding.

Twisting in mid-air, he kicked out toward the necromancer—a heavy, direct strike that had nothing to do with the elegant techniques of Bakseti.

“A unicorn horn?! What grudge do you have against me—ugh!”

The Dung Beetle’s kick landed squarely on the necromancer’s back as he attempted to flee.

It was a kick filled with emotion, the strike of a superhuman. The necromancer flew a short distance before crashing to the ground.

Before he could even think about standing, the Dung Beetle closed the distance.

“Kuh... Wa—gah!”

The Dung Beetle grabbed the necromancer by the throat and lifted him. His golden eyes pierced through the necromancer’s pallid face.

Without offering any deal or compromise, he tightened his grip on the necromancer's throat. The sound of bones cracking echoed as the necromancer’s body went limp.

The Dung Beetle tossed aside the limp body. The one who had mocked the dead now lay lifeless on the ground.

[Noble warrior! We have won...]

But the Dung Beetle let go of the staff he had been holding in his left hand and turned his gaze toward the path leading out of the pier.

Beyond the necromancer’s body and the truck, something was crawling across the ground.

“Hey.”

The Dung Beetle began walking toward the figure. Hearing the approaching footsteps, the figure scrambled to its feet and tried to run.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t fast enough. The Dung Beetle took a single powerful step and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck.

It flailed, trying to break free, but realizing escape was impossible, it began to beg.

“P-please don’t kill me! I... I don’t know anything!”

The Dung Beetle looked into the eyes of his captive. It was a middle-aged clerk clutching a bag containing the awakening potion, his teeth chattering in terror.

“I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”

“Then... then ask! Ask anything! I’ll tell you everything I know!”

Though his words were jumbled, the Dung Beetle didn’t care and proceeded to ask his question.

“Who orchestrated this deal? Where did the order come from?”

“…”

“Yeoido? Gyeongmu? How far do the necromancer’s connections go?”

The clerk’s face twisted in fear. He tightly closed his eyes and spoke in a trembling voice.

“If... if I tell you, will you... will you let me live?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate. The Dung Beetle tightened his grip on the man’s neck and added:

“But your family will live.”

The clerk’s face turned even paler. His eyes darted around frantically before they settled on the corpse of the necromancer.

Staring at the broken-necked body, he seemed to resign himself to his fate and let out a deep sigh.

“The ones behind this deal… are the Patriots.”

“The Patriots?”

“They’re people willing to sacrifice everything for our country and nation.”

Country and nation? The unexpected words caused the Dung Beetle to frown.

“Explain clearly. Who are these Patriots? Are they an organization? A group? Or…”

“I don’t know why you killed the necromancer, but… you’re Korean, right?”

“…So what?”

“Then… couldn’t you retreat? I’m not asking for my own life, but for the sake of our country and nation.”

The clerk’s empty gaze dropped to the bag he was clutching. The Dung Beetle’s eyes followed his.

He knew exactly what was inside that bag.

The Awakening Potion. A liquid that, with a slim chance, could awaken someone as a mage.

That cursed potion had led the Janitor Guild to steal corpses and sell them to necromancers. That same potion had caused the government to murder his comrades and humiliate them.

And now, the people responsible for these acts had the audacity to call themselves Patriots and speak of their nation?

It was absurd. So absurd that the Dung Beetle couldn’t help but ask.

“Selling the corpses of your fellow citizens—is that what you call patriotism?”

“That… that’s not… ack!”

The Dung Beetle tightened his grip, barely holding back the urge to snap the man’s neck right then and there.

“That’s enough nonsense. If you want a quick death, tell me who these Patriots are.”

The clerk writhed in agony, barely able to speak under the crushing pressure.

“The P-Patriots… they’re on the other side of the dimensional rift…”

[You wretched creature!!!]

Something interrupted the clerk’s words. The Dung Beetle recognized the voice—it was the necromancer’s.

His body still lay on the ground, but something above the truck was rising into the air, defying gravity.

A rectangular black box.

With one look, the Dung Beetle knew it was a coffin.

[How dare you! How dare you, you insect! Break my neck!]

With a loud clang, the coffin lid opened, revealing its contents.

A massive skull, missing the lower half of its body.

The same sickly green glow that had emanated from the necromancer’s wand now burned in the skull’s eye sockets.

“So, there was a separate true body.”

No wonder it had seemed too easy.

The Dung Beetle threw aside the clerk and reloaded his shotgun.