The Poet's System
Chapter 56: After Passage

Chapter 56: After Passage

A familiar feeling settled in—the gentle comfort of the mattress, the quiet stillness, the sensory warmth. It was unmistakable. This was home. Dexter’s home.

Dexter immediately sat upright, finding himself in his room. A dull headache throbbed in his skull as if he had been asleep for years.

He glanced to his right and saw his laptop resting comfortably on the desk. Rubbing his face, he slowly rose to his feet.

"What a bizarre dream."

He instinctively walked out of his room, heading toward the living room, as if searching for something—or someone.

He stood in the center of the room, completely lost. Little did he know, he was the only one who lived in the entire estate.

"What is this feeling? What am I even looking for?"

Without a moment’s hesitation, he made his way to the bathroom for a cold shower. The uneasiness was beginning to overwhelm him.

He had no memories of anything—just a gaping void where a part of himself should have been. Nearly an hour passed in the bathroom before the sharp ring of his phone pulled him back.

Wrapped in a towel, he rushed out to answer it. It was his boss, calling to congratulate him on the success of his new novel.

"What? What new novel?"

"What do you mean, what new novel? The Poet’s System—the transmigration story you just finished about Daylan. Readers are loving it!"

Dexter stood frozen, lost in a daze. His eyes widened, and his heart began to race the moment he heard that name—Daylan.

He dropped his phone and rushed to his laptop. One glance at the final page—and the tears began to fall.

No... this can’t be happening.

He pinched his arm, desperate to wake up from what felt like a nightmare. But the sharp sting told him otherwise. The pain was real.

The life he had lived—and come to love—was just a story? He had to be sure. With trembling hands, he began reading from Chapter one.

Page after page, scene after scene, it was all there—everything that had happened to him as Daylan.

Astara, Medora, Zira, even his mother, Giselle. Every moment, every memory... it was all written by his own hand.

He began to tremble, but he refused to believe it. Everything had felt too real—the pain, the betrayal, the love.

There was no way it was all just imagination. How could he feel so deeply from something he supposedly made up?

And more than that... how had he even written it? He didn’t remember typing a single word.

He paced the room in frantic steps, his body jerking with confusion and desperation. None of it made sense—but one thing was clear: he had to go back. Giselle was still alive... and she had his blood.

Then it hit him—the bookshop where he got The Ascendant Pry comic book. He hadn’t gone back there to get another book yet. Maybe, just maybe, that’s how he could transmigrate back.

Without wasting a minute, he sprinted out of his estate and made his way to where he had first seen the bookshop. But when he arrived, there was nothing.

Just an empty street.

He stared at the exact spot in confusion, his breath catching. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, overwhelmed by disbelief.

"It was here... I know it was here." His voice cracked.

He wasn’t giving up—not yet. At least now, he knew everything he needed from the book. He had to try.

Without wasting another second, he hurried back to his house. The moment he stepped into the living room, he took a deep breath and prepared to try it all out.

He wasn’t confident. He’d attempted it countless times before, and every effort had failed. But something inside him refused to give up. He had to try.

Zalithor... Nerathis.

Right after reciting the words, he forced himself to sleep. The spiraling thoughts and sharp images racing through his mind made it nearly impossible, but he pushed through.

He began relaxing his body—starting from his toes, working his way up to his head. And before he knew it... he was fast asleep.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally opened his eyes—only to find that just thirty minutes had passed. And the worst part? The spell hadn’t worked.

He slammed his fist into the sofa, frustration boiling over. How could this be? Everything would’ve been different if he’d managed to kill Giselle—but he hadn’t.

And now, there was no peace. No rest. Just the gnawing desperation to return.

"I died... right?" he muttered, eyes wild. "Yes. I just have to die again. Then I’ll go back—or at the very least... it’ll all finally be over."

At that moment, he didn’t care what came next. After all, he was supposed to be dead.

So he made up his mind—he was going to end it. If dying meant he would transmigrate back, then so be it. And if it didn’t... then at least it would all finally be over.

In a hurry, he climbed to the top of his house, staring down from three stories above as his heart pounded in his chest. Fear gripped him—raw and real. He swallowed hard, nerves tightening with every passing second.

But if he didn’t get back... the guilt would devour him from the inside out. He had to push through the fear. He had no choice.

Seizing the moment, he jumped.

The impact was brutal—bones shattered, and blood spilled across the ground. His body twisted unnaturally, broken beyond recognition.

His eyes flickered, barely able to stay open, as a flood of agony surged through him. The pain was overwhelming, too much to process. He couldn’t even tell which part hurt most—everything did.

As Dexter lay there, waiting for everything to end, a shadow fell over him—his boss.

Eyes wide with terror, his boss immediately pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance, his voice shaking with panic. He knelt beside Dexter, trying to keep him conscious, desperately speaking to him, urging him to stay awake.

But this wasn’t what Dexter wanted. Just a little delay from his boss... that would’ve been enough. But no—he had shown up.

He had come over because Dexter had left him hanging on the phone. And as the company’s top earner at the moment, his boss had felt compelled to check in, maybe even say a good friendly chat so that Dexter wouldn’t leave the team. He had no idea this was what he’d walk into.

The ambulance arrived before Dexter could lose consciousness—but the blood loss was severe.

His vision blurred, his body growing colder with each passing second. And just as the sirens wailed toward the hospital, everything faded.

He slipped into unconsciousness.

Though Dexter saw nothing, the sensation was different from when Giselle killed him. It wasn’t despair—it felt like he was nearby, just out of reach, waiting to be rescued.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally opened his eyes to find himself in a hospital bed, his entire body encased in a plaster cast.

His eyes flickered, and he tried to yell out in frustration but only managed to strain his throat.

Was everything just a figment of his imagination after all? He found it hard to believe, but he had no choice but to accept it as the truth—even though every part of him refused to.

He lay there, his emotions numb, his determination to return now meaningless.

The next thing he saw was his boss walking in, wearing a mask of concern that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The moment Dexter saw him, he knew—his boss was using this situation to his advantage.

And he was right. With a rehearsed smile, the man showed him videos and pictures of fans wishing him well and praying for his recovery.

What he didn’t mention, though, was the GoFundMe campaign he had set up in Dexter’s name. A campaign none of the donations were ever going to reach.

He began to wonder—had he really imagined everything just to escape his miserable life?

Daylan’s world wasn’t perfect, but at least he was loved. Here, apart from the fans who knew nothing about who he truly was, everyone who claimed to care only did so to gain something in return.

He lay there in silence, barely hearing a word his boss said. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, empty and distant. Now, he had no choice but to live this life—the only life he had.

But maybe, just maybe, the lessons he’d taken from Daylan’s world would be enough to help him turn things around.

There was no magic here, no special abilities—but he had to try. In the end, both worlds were shaped by people with thoughts, choices, and the power to change.

"Dexter... Dexter... Are you listening?"

His boss’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"As I was saying, I think this is the perfect moment for you to extend your contract with us. You agree, don’t you?"

Dexter shot him a lazy, frustrated look.

"Don’t worry—you won’t have to sign anything. We’ll just need your biometrics. That should be easy enough in your current state, right?"