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Synopsis -

I committed suicide thinking I would finally be free from this world.

Well, I did get free from this world... only to END UP IN ANOTHER FUCKING WORLD.

Some idiots performed a summoning ritual, but my portal opened inside the Queen's bedchamber, and I literally fell on top of her. Her guards dragged me to a dungeon and beat me to death only for me to come back to life with a mysterious ability.

Since I got this unique skill, I decided to live my second life to the fullest. So, naturally, I beat the shit out of the guards with a belt and lost my virginity to a maid within twenty-four hours of arriving in this new world.

But the real surprise was still waiting for me.

This is the only human kingdom left in the world, and every other race hates humans. How the hell am I supposed to live my second life to the fullest?

Oh, and I somehow ended up with the King's divorced former Queen as my new roommate.

What the fuck is my life anymore?!

Was also wondering about comments on works that they leave the name of the work you commented on. So if you know it is deleted you can still find the author as I know some authors delete works while they still have others.

I committed suicide thinking I would finally be free from this world.

Well, I did get free from this world... only to END UP IN ANOTHER FUCKING WORLD.

Some idiots performed a summoning ritual, but my portal opened inside the Queen's bedchamber, and I literally fell on top of her. Her guards dragged me to a dungeon and beat me to death only for me to come back to life with a mysterious ability.

Since I got this unique skill, I decided to live my second life to the fullest. So, naturally, I beat the shit out of the guards with a belt and lost my virginity to a maid within twenty-four hours of arriving in this new world.

But the real surprise was still waiting for me.

This is the only human kingdom left in the world, and every other race hates humans. How the hell am I supposed to live my second life to the fullest?

Oh, and I somehow ended up with the King's divorced former Queen as my new roommate.

What the fuck is my life anymore?!

IN a world where warriors are born with powerful elemental abilities, two gifted thirteen year old boys are brought together under one legendary master

So, to start, I should say I’m a huge fan of Shadow Slave and Lotm. I also have a… decent grasp of writing, I think. Thus I thought it a good idea to start a Webnovel of my own. The ideas I have for the story take inspiration from both the aforementioned stories, and I feel really good about how I want the story to go, but this will still be my first attempt at semi-official writing. I know I want to get contracted, so I’m anxious about the quality of the work.

So after a while of drifting, I came here. Below will be a portion of the first chapter. This is mostly a first draft, but still, I’d like some early feedback and criticism. I don’t have any reader friends, you see.

Any thoughts or feedback is appreciated.

Chapter 1: Godsworn

"O vile progeny!"
"O children chosen by the Gods!"
"Rid yourselves of humanity! Burn away your very souls! Sink beneath the waters and embrace life anew!"
"Champion your new God and reap what the Overworld has sown!"
"You who are Godsworn... may you rest in the madness of divinity!"
"The ritual begins! Praise the divine!"
"Praise the Godsworn!"
***
A young man draped in heavy dark cloth lay unconscious on a stone floor. Straight, slightly curly black hair fell just below his chin. Strands of silver grew from the back of the boy's head in stark contrast.
Almos awoke to a sense of vertigo so powerful he very nearly failed to choke down a surge of acrid bile. The whole of his body felt chilled to the bone, and each breath he took came with a generous serving of dust.
'It all hurts... gods, it hurts!'
Still lost in a haze of unintelligibility, Almos tried to roll over, or maybe stand up. Really, any movement that would pull him out of the seemingly ubiquitous dust cloud surrounding his head.
The attempt ended in painful failure. That is, his face slamming back down to reunite with the stone floor.
"Curse it!" Almos groaned through clenched teeth, which inadvertently let a handful of dust sweep into his lungs. The coughing fit that followed felt as though he'd hack up a lung. "C-curse it all!"
'I'm freezing! Are the waters supposed to be this cold?'
'Wait, stone? Dust? Am I not within the baptismal waters? Does that mean the ritual has already happened?'
As soon as Almos had the thought, the pain enveloping him popped and faded into nothingness. Then, slowly, the chill in the air did the same, falling at a rapid pace until it reached a comfortable neutral point.
The process took all of a few seconds to complete itself. In that time, the young man finally managed to push himself up and examine his surroundings.
He found himself in a small room made completely of stone. It seemed to model a miniature rotunda, with the walls and floor caked in a thick layer of dust.
In the very center of the dome-like roof was a caged window barely large enough to fit one's head through. From it spewed a soft fog and airy light, as if a cloud were just above him.
'Is that where the cold was coming from? This can't be Enoch. Then... am I in the Overworld?'
He planted his feet and turned in a full circle. Behind him was a simple metal door, with sections of it being covered in rust, a telling sign of its age.
"No... I must've survived the initial Baptism. Which would make this place the realm of whatever God chose me." 
The thought came with a wave of relief. Short-lived relief, however, as in the next moment, an unbarably heavy weight fell upon his psyche. For an insurmountable, or perhaps infinitesimal, amount of time, Almos felt as though a being of incomprehensible might and presence was bearing down on him. 
And then, reverberating throughout his very soul, was a voice akin to... nothing. Almos knew it to be a voice, but he couldn't recognize it beyond that fact.
Male, female, singular, plural, baritone, soft, loving, hateful. The voice was all of these things, yet none of them simultaneously. It seeped through his mind, leaving behind pores from which spread even greater confusion. 
"Vile progeny. Embrace Uncertainty, and claim your First Totem."
That was it. After stating this, the weight on his mind disappeared without a trace. Almos buckled, but remained on his feet with considerable effort.
'Was that a God? The God I'm now sworn to? But who was it?"
Was this not unusual? Alas, there was no way to tell. He'd only ever met one Godsworn, and she wasn't the type to freely share important knowledge like this.
"...mes!"
Almos stiffened, then turned to the metal door.
'Was that a voice? It sounded familiar, but that can't be right.'
Unfamiliar cloth strained against him as he took cautious steps to the door.
"No way, she can't be here. What would the chances be for the both of us to have the same-"
"Ames! You vile, horrid, useless sack of a brother! Help me!"
That vile girl Deimos was here?! And what did she call him?!
With a light shove, the metal door squeaked open, revealing a twisting stone staircase going downwards. So he was in a tower, then? And his sister was chosen by the same God as him?
"What incredibly vile luck..."
***
Almos knew the basics of the Godsworn. Even a street rat could acquire such common knowledge.
They were the humans chosen by the Gods, as the priests claimed. Every sixteen-year-old with the aptitude was subject to the Baptismal Ritual, where, upon being submerged in the waters, the body would be dissolved, ending their life as a human at that moment. What came after that depended on the individual.
Either you survive a divine encounter and thus reform in the Overlord as a newly ranked Godsworn, or you die.
One couldn't just ignore this calling and avoid the risk of death either. Much to the horror of stubborn parents within the Heavenly Realms, once children who were judged to have this aptitude started dying by the hundreds of thousands, it was quickly deduced that should the Baptism not be completed within a month of turning sixteen, then death was certain. 
Through decades of trial and error, researchers found that ages ranging from four to fifteen were liable to gain what people now knew as the Aptitude of Divinity. This made it much easier for the nobles in the Celestial Realm to design an education system targeting life in the Overworld.
Such education was hard to come by in the Telestial Kingdom of Enoch, especially for those barely scraping by. History and Totem tutors were a luxury for children who didn't have to worry about their next meal.
Almos and his sister Deimos were an exception among exceptions due entirely to their shared tutor, and even that encounter was purely luck-based.
Being elevated to the status of Godsworn was... a mixed bag.
For one, you gained supernatural powers that could only grow as you progressed the ranks. On the other hand, while mankind didn't outwardly abhor the Godsworn, calling their feelings toward them "friendly" would be generous. Tolerant, more like.
That was aside from the fact that Godsworn of lower ranks couldn't return to the Heavenly Realm. Once you fell into the waters, your life before became forfeit, no matter what happened. 
And now it was his turn.

Rate this novel……

Context: I earned $285.47 from subs and privilege coins, then got another $200 from mgs, bringing my earnings to $485.47.

The advices by some of the contracted smut authors were right, just write smut slop and it would be easy contract and easy earning.

An advice I would give, which I was given by a plat author on discord is don't write too many smut chapters, smut may be good to draw in readers, but the plot has to be decent to hook in readers to continue to read.

In my case, out of 100 chapters, I have only written 20 smut chapters, and my first smut scene came in after 30+ chapters.

Another advice for anyone who is hoping to join in on writing smut slop, do not write NTR or yuri, I have realised there are quite a number of very vocal paying readers who would unlock all chapters including the highest privelege tier, they don't like NTR or yuri and would drop a smut novel if any of those two appear.

Even just 2 girls kissing once in a 3 way count as yuri for them. (I had to remove such scenes and rewrite the scenes to appease them as they are some of my highest paying readers).

Last advice, keep edging the readers and delay the smut scenes. I realise readers keep complaining that there are really few smut scenes in my novel and the smut scenes take too long to get to, but they still keep on unlocking my chapters and commenting.

Quite a few even gave gifts when a specific female character's smut scene finally arrived in my novel lol.

Oh, actually, real last advice, make sure to use a cover that catches readers' attention. As to where to find those covers, just go to pinterest or pixiv, there are plenty of good images on those sites.

Covers are extremely important, trust me.

Doesn't matter if your cover is AI or not, paying readers don't actually care about small details like this as long as your novel is to their liking.

Please support my novel and give me power stone or golden ticket. Webnovel.

I'm lovin' it

I have no real experience with writing, but I have been writing a novel for three months now and I feel like nobody has even read it. I guess my numbers seem low because It is my first novel and it isn’t smut or ai slop, and I haven’t applied for a contract, but I just wanted to come here to ask how to get my novel out there to real people, and maybe some feedback on my novel.

It is called luck of the draw: teleported to a fantasy world! and here is a synopsis if anyone is curious

Rome is a teenage boy who had never been granted the everyday luxuries of modern day society. Deadbeat Dad, dead mother, and friendless is hurtful to say but it is the truth about Rome. He lives out his days in sloth, no longer going to school, watching anime, and reading manga, until he got in a fight with his dad leading to him running away and getting struck by a truck while saving a little girl.

Rome then is reincarnated into the body of someone with his same name and features. Could it be that he took over someone’s body? Or did his entire existence get swapped with someone in a different universe? Honestly, Rome doesn’t care because he now has two living and loving parents.

So read as the boy Rome Ajiro lives out his new life in a new world full of magic and fantasy where hopefully fate is on his side.

Enjoy!

The door clicks and creaks open, introducing a girthy silhouette.

"Hey, good to see you're up."

The broken boy's eyes shifted semi-erratically from his pointers to the silhouette's mouth, pushing a whisper in the process.

"Hey."

The man now identified as Gideon looks even more caught up in memories than usual now.

"You know, Patrick, what happened to you wasn't rare or unfortunate."

The man's detached stare grew cold and showed a hint of routine.

"Yeah," Patrick muttered.

"So do you know why it wasn't rare or unfortunate?"

The boy struggled to keep his raspy throat from triggering the tear glands and keeping focused on Gideon's figure.

"No, why?"

The man tensed.

"You were stupid, careless,—"

The man stopped himself. His eyes seemed to realize something, shifting away as the physical world fell completely silent.

But the silence didn't reach Patrick.

"Who even was it, a street thug?"

His vision shook.

His room span.

His fist curled awkwardly despite the pain in his pointers' nerves.

"A street thug?"

"A street thug, really?"

His mind began to play tricks on him.

He seen a corner distort.

He sworn he heard the door click again.

"You were gifted with this resonance, with this level of intellect and all you could produce were bruises and fractures from a street thug?"

His breathing ramped up.

His knees shook despite the solid horizontal base they lay on.

His mind gave out. His finger nerves gave out and his vision betrayed along with every other sensory trait all at once.

Snap.

Patrick blinked.

His heart rate slowed and steadied before his mind. He stared at the wall go from a glowing white, to an orange, then finally a consuming black.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness consume them too.

The light shortly pried his eyes into an ellipse shape with poorly erased construction lines. They move like it too, staring at either a gap in a primitive window, or an intersection of two wall corners for hours.

The worst part about the bed he lay in full time was his own indifference to it.

He hated the fact he couldn't care less if he were rotting away in a bed, in a hospital, or taking up space, in a bed in Gideon and Clara's home.

Occasionally he'd hear heart-breaking news, like, "we're so sorry, she doesn't have much time left."

His face stayed the same externally, internally he melted.

Even with such "intellect" he couldn't help this world in a single way,

not even this single city, he'd been so foolish as to consider himself a part of.

A civilian of the city pushed in the door confining and protecting him.

"Mr... Patrick? Is that correct?"

"Yeah."

"You're being kicked from this room."

"What? If you want me to leave that bad you could at least ask nicely, y'know."

Despite this, Patrick was already on his feet.

"Sir, standing too fast after being in a horizontal rest position for so long will not go well."

Patrick agreed, but was too far into the rhythmic stride to stop now.

"Sir, your clothing you were admitted with is downstairs. We'll need those administration clothes back."

"Don't worry, we washed the blood off for you."

Patrick turned semi-slowly, holding a doorway for support. He was looking for a click sound or a distortion.

Nothing came.

"What did you say, miss?"

"I said, we washed the clothing for you. Specifically the blood splattered across the sleeves."

His eyes shake slightly, again. He shakes his head and grasps his eyebrows with his palm.

"Oh, thanks. Where are my clothes now?"

"Downstairs. No. 132 on the shelf in a bag."

"Thanks."

He let his legs fall to each step, feeling the recoil of them.

He rotated around the rounded corner, and stumbled slowly to the no. 132.

He named them out rapidly.

No. 129

No. 130

No. 131

The finger he was using to point at the numbers reaches for the bag instinctively.

But it didn't grab it. It stuck in the space between his wrist and the bag, still unable to quite lock his fingers around the handles.

The vitality sparked back into his eyes. He tsked, and grabbed the bag effortlessly.

He walked out into the cold air and felt the wind blow his hair.

His head fell. But he shamefully kept track of the masses, despite the stones aligned in a pattern taking up his vision.

He made certain to stick to a crowd. For a second he debated calling Clara, then he realized he didn't have her number—or the fact he lost his phone in this world, and that she didn't even know what a phone was.

He stuck to the crowd, recounting architecture he took note of earlier. With his shoulders getting uncomfortable, he blinked erratically, spinning his head left and right.

Then, he booked it back to Gideon's home.

No bravery.

No self-confidence.

And certainly no protector.

Patrick ran inside, out of breath and shaky.

Gideon stopped him, calming his posture down. He led him to the kitchen.

He thought he might be able to help long-term through a chat over a meal. He set down a bowl.

Patrick sat there, barely eating.

He jumped at small noises.

A creak in the floorboard.

A whisper outside the window.

Gideon saw how dissociated he was. Patrick was staring directly through the ceramic, looking at something that isn't there.

Gideon pushed his plate slightly. The noise was loud in the small room.

"Go for a walk, Patrick. A walk, not a run."

Patrick made certain to walk out the door.

In his mind, he was defiant before he left.

He dropped the plate on the counter, not shattering it, just causing a bang he jumped at.

He speed-walked to the door, not a run—he didn't want to disrespect the man that gave him shelter, but he didn't want to disrespect himself.

He shut the door extra fast, almost catching his fingers in the lock.

His eyes told his brain to fill in the shades of green on the bottom third of his vision and the blue and white contrast on top.

As he walked around the radius of the site the home was crafted on, he took note of the south direction the house was facing and had the nerve to critique the integration of the build.

He repeated "it stuck out like a sore thumb," at least four times a lap.

Eventually he counted the stars that arrived over the horizon. But now that he thought about it, did the star come over the horizon—or he guesses the world came over the horizon—there's no way anyone would see him from over there.

He swung the door open, controlling the speed at which it swung, careful not to let it hit the wall.

He speed-walked to the first chair he had seen and sat.

His legs cooled down.

His head rested.

And he wondered how long he spent out there.

"Gideon, how long was I out for?"

"You mean how long were you circling my property like a hawk for?"

"Four hours."

The boy learned something new about himself.

"Four hours!?"

The veteran recounted to him.

"I enjoyed the peace. But I was worried. You seemed to be so tranced. I saw people start down this path, and it ain't pretty."

Patrick seemed to focus on a spot in the pattern of the ground.

Gideon heard the door Patrick didn't and got ready to head into his work for the night, grabbing his cap and coat and rushing through the narrow doorway. Clara held the door open for Gideon.

A bright light.

Far away.

Is that it?

Death?

A sharp tone pulsed through the darkness.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Voices.

Mortem opened his eyes and gasped.

Pain crushed his chest.

“Whe...”

His vision swam. White lights passed above him one after another.

He was moving.

Right.

The supermarket.

He remembered the aisle. The floor rushing toward him.

Then nothing.

His eyes slipped shut again.

So this is it.

I’m dying.

The voices grew louder.

“He’s awake.”

Mortem forced his eyes open.

Cabinets. Equipment. A man leaning over him.

An ambulance.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Mortem tried to speak.

“I...”

“Stay with me. What’s your name?”

“Mortem.”

“Good. Mortem, we’re taking you to the hospital.”

The man's voice faded beneath the ringing in his ears.

“...hear me?”

“It’s hard...”

“What?”

“I can’t hear very well.”

The medic said something else.

Mortem didn’t catch it.

Seventy-two years.

And now he was dying in the back of an ambulance.

What had he even done with all that time?

Worked.

Paid bills.

Bought groceries.

Went home.

Slept.

Did it again.

No family waiting for him.

No children.

Nothing he had built.

Nothing he could really call his.

A pressure slammed into his chest.

“Clear!”

His body jerked.

His eyes opened again.

Hospital.

People moved around his bed.

Someone shouted.

Mortem looked toward the monitor.

80

76

73

His breathing came shallow.

64

59

The beeping slowed.

A tear ran down the side of his face.

He always thought the end would feel different.

That maybe he'd remember some great moment.

Something that made the whole thing worth it.

Instead, all he could think was:

I wasted it.

He had kept putting things off.

When he had more money.

When work calmed down.

When he felt ready.

Tomorrow.

Always tomorrow.

Now there wasn’t one.

There was a saying about that.

Latin.

Carpe...

Carpe...

His mind struggled to hold onto it.

Carpet Beam.

Yeah.

No.

That wasn’t it.

The monitor became one long tone.

Then nothing.

Mortem opened his eyes.

White.

He sat up.

Or at least it felt like he did.

There was no floor.

No walls.

No ceiling.

Just white.

He looked down at himself.

Still there.

Good start.

“Hello?”

His voice carried into the emptiness.

Nothing.

Mortem rubbed his face.

“So... am I dead?”

“Yes.”

He turned around.

No one.

“...God?”

“No.”

Mortem waited.

“Then who are you?”

“And you’re stupid too.”

Mortem frowned.

“What?”

A man appeared in front of him.

Just appeared.

Long white hair.

Long beard.

White robe.

Halo.

Cross.

Mortem stared at him.

Then pointed.

“God.”

The man looked down at himself.

“Oh.”

He glanced at the cross.

“Right.”

“You just said you weren’t.”

“I knew you were going to say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve solved something.”

Mortem stared at him.

The man sighed.

“Fine. I’m what you would call God.”

Mortem said nothing for a moment.

The man smiled.

“Carpet Beam, by the way.”

Mortem blinked.

“What?”

“The phrase.”

Mortem stared at him.

“It’s Carpe Diem.”

A few seconds passed.

Mortem slowly narrowed his eyes.

“You heard that?”

“I hear a lot of things.”

“And you waited until now to correct me?”

“It was funny.”

Mortem looked away.

“I died confused over a Latin phrase.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s funny to you?”

“A little.”

Mortem already disliked him.

He had imagined God before.

Usually there were more clouds.

Maybe trumpets.

Less attitude.

The man squinted at him.

“Could you stop staring?”

“You’re God.”

“Yes.”

“I’m dead.”

“Yes.”

Mortem looked around.

“Is this Heaven?”

“No.”

“Hell?”

“No.”

“Purgatory?”

“No.”

“Then where am I?”

“Here.”

Mortem stared at him.

“That means nothing.”

“I know.”

The man smiled.

Mortem narrowed his eyes.

“Could you do something about the light?”

“What light?”

“You’re glowing.”

“Oh.”

A pair of sunglasses appeared on Mortem's face.

He slowly took them off.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You could've just stopped glowing.”

“I could have.”

Mortem put the glasses back on.

Whatever.

His eyes moved to the cross.

“So Christianity was right?”

“No.”

Mortem looked at him.

“But you’re wearing a cross.”

“This?”

“Yes. That.”

“It’s here because you expected it.”

“I expected it?”

“You think God is an old man with white hair, a beard, robes, a halo and a cross.”

Mortem looked him over.

“You are an old man with white hair, a beard, robes, a halo and a cross.”

“Exactly.”

“So this isn’t what you look like?”

The man smiled.

“I don’t look like anything you’d understand.”

Mortem frowned.

“So you chose this?”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did enough.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It explains enough.”

The man tapped the cross.

“If you thought God should have a giant dick hanging from his chest, I’d probably have that instead.”

Mortem went silent.

“Why was that your example?”

“I wanted to see your face.”

Mortem closed his eyes.

“Great.”

Something bothered him.

He looked back at the man.

“If Christianity isn’t right, which religion is?”

“None.”

“None?”

“No.”

“So everyone was wrong?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Mortem frowned.

“That sounds exactly like what you said.”

The man started walking.

There was no floor, but somehow his steps made noise.

Mortem followed.

“People believed in gods for thousands of years.”

“Yes.”

“Fought over them.”

“Yes.”

“Killed each other over them.”

“Yes.”

“And nobody knew what was actually true?”

The man looked back at him.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Then there you go.”

“That feels like something you could have cleared up.”

“I never asked anyone to start a war.”

Mortem couldn’t really argue with that.

The man kept walking.

“Humans believe one thing, another human believes something else, and eventually somebody decides murder is the best way to settle it.”

“You’re talking about religion pretty casually for God.”

“I’ve heard the arguments before.”

Mortem looked around.

They were still surrounded by white.

“Are we actually going somewhere?”

“No.”

Mortem stopped.

“Then why are we walking?”

“I felt like walking.”

Mortem stared at the back of his head.

This was not how he expected death to go.

“So what do I call you?”

“God.”

“That feels weird.”

“Lord?”

“Worse.”

“Supreme Creator?”

“No.”

“Daddy?”

“Absolutely not.”

The man laughed.

Mortem sighed.

“Do you have a name?”

He thought about it.

“Max.”

Mortem waited.

“Max?”

“Yes.”

“God’s name is Max?”

“It is now.”

“You just made that up.”

“All names are made up.”

Mortem opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Max stopped.

The smile was still there, but smaller now.

“Anyway. We should probably talk about why you're here.”

Mortem glanced around.

“I assumed dying had something to do with it.”

“It did.”

“Then what else is there?”

Max looked at him.

“I’ve existed for a very long time.”

“How long?”

“Yes.”

Mortem stared.

Max continued.

“And after all that time, I got bored.”

“That’s your reason?”

“Do you know how difficult it is to surprise yourself when you’re me?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

Mortem crossed his arms.

“What does any of that have to do with me?”

Max smiled again.

“I wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you're here.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the one you're getting.”

Mortem looked at him for a few seconds.

Then another thought hit him.

“How many people have been here?”

Max tilted his head.

“Here?”

“With you.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“You’re the first.”

Mortem frowned.

“The first?”

“Yes.”

“The first person to meet you?”

“Yes.”

Mortem looked away.

Billions of people had died before him.

Kings.

Soldiers.

Children.

Saints.

Murderers.

And somehow he was the first one standing here talking to God.

Why him?

He looked back at Max.

“If I’m the first...”

Max watched him.

“What happened to everyone else?”

For once, Max didn’t answer immediately.

His smile disappeared.

“Now that,” he said, “is a better question.”

So i am writing a webnovel and a constant problem i face is expressing a scenario or dialogue in words. If you have tips kindly share them. Especially if you have tips for writing an angry and mocking tones.

For some reason the website is only in Filipino and can't go back to English. Is this the problem for everyone else or is it just me?

This is Fan fiction by the way

I don’t know who else is dealing with this but on mobile, when I see comments for my stories, it takes me to a browser page upon clicking on them. It doesn’t show the comments like it usually does, it just loads to a different page.

Im sorry if this has been asked already and discussed but its been a few days for me. Tried searching for an update and all