The complaint circle had begun.

  Quietly opened by the sect’s exhausted mediator.

  Again.

  They’d rolled out the tea mats, burned calming incense, and (for some reason) brought snacks that screamed when bitten.

  In the center of the floating platform sat a scroll.

  It was sealed with a wax stamp shaped like a confused dumpling.

  The name etched in shimmering gold ink?

  Evelin.

  Beneath it, in smaller print:

  “Writer. Chaos Distributor. Probably Means Well.”

  —

  — I’ll start — said the girl with dusty sneakers and a museum wristband still on her arm.

  Why was I written into a centuries-old painting during a solo museum visit?

  I was wearing jeans.

  I had NO backup hairbrush.

  — You’re lucky you didn’t just want to cook in peace — grumbled a boy with the energy of someone who’d only meant to boil dumplings, but was now the Sole Culinary Pillar of a Sect’s Destiny.

  They named a sacred soup after me.

  I just wanted lunch…

  — At least you weren’t thunder yeeted into a drama set — muttered the man with eyeliner and the aura of someone who'd lost three sponsorships and all his patience.

  My co-star was a fake demon in method acting mode.

  He paused.

  The sword was fake. The trauma was not.

  — Look, I came for demon-slaying sword fights.

  Instead I found out the cultivators sip wine all day and exchange skincare tips with the demon realm.

  One of them gave me a signed peach.

  So yeah.

  I rewrote the entire script.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  —

  — I got body-swapped with my favorite author, remember? — cried the fangirl in a half-melted cosplay wig.

  And I had to finish her bestseller?!

  Her fans threatened to hex me because I changed a ship dynamic!

  — You should’ve just glowed your way out of it — offered a sparkly figure, lounging beside a vanity mirror that had definitely not been there five minutes ago.

  I woke up in a sect. No guidebook, no skincare — just chaos and tragic eyebrows.

  So I fixed it. One tutorial at a time.

  Now they call me “Master of Radiance.”

  She adjusted her sleeve with flair.

  I’m basically a walking cult classic.

  — Can we PLEASE acknowledge the girl who dreamed she was in a xianxia? — someone asked.

  — That was me — said a girl who definitely hadn’t gone to bed wearing that hairpin.

  I binged too many webnovels, fell asleep, and BAM — I woke up with six suitors, three hidden bloodlines, and a demon prince who keeps writing me poetry in hell-script.

  She paused.

  ...Okay, the poetry’s kind of good.

  — I was literally trying not to be in a story — said the man in mossy green, arms crossed.

  I stepped on a sentient dandelion and now I’m apparently the Unwilling Chosen One.

  I don’t want a sword. I want silence.

  — You think you got pulled where you didn’t belong? — said a guy holding a paprika sachet and a travel map.

  I slipped into 2025 Hungary.

  You know how many people offered me pálinka before breakfast?

  — I teached tai chi in a park. Kids call me “Paprika Shizun.”

  —

  The ghost orb near the incense stand shimmered.

  — I was trying to give a lecture — Professor-whats-his-name grumbled.

  And then I got haunted by a snarky general who corrects me mid-slide.

  I can’t even use PowerPoint anymore without feeling judged!

  The general’s translucent form raised a fan.

  — You taught the wrong dynasty. I simply… un-did the lie.

  —

  A comment section formed in the air like smoke.

  — Is this the part where the immortal fanguy shows up again?

  — I thought he retired to watch donghua and critique everyone’s pacing.

  — Yeah, but he’s back. Descended for milk buns.

  And there he was.

  ZhenZen materialized in a casual swirl of mystic flair, already reviewing everyone’s dialogue.

  — Also. Evelin.

  He tapped the scroll.

  — The dumpling emoji in chapter eight was inverted. Fix that.

  —

  At last, the scroll glowed and opened.

  The voice from within sounded tired.

  And possibly hiding behind a stack of rejected outlines.

  — Um… hi? Evelin here.

  Everyone stared.

  — So… you’re real? — the girl in jeans asked.

  — You wrote all of this?

  — Yes. But like… lovingly?

  Muffled silence.

  Then:

  — You put me in three timelines.

  — You gave me a noodle-based prophecy.

  — You made me duel someone for emotional character growth.

  — And you made me drink cursed herbal tea just for a punchline!

  The scroll whimpered.

  — …Would a bonus scene help?

  The immortal snorted.

  — Add snacks. And an apology. And let the cabbage cultivator speak this time.

  The scroll sparkled weakly.

  — …Okay. Deal....

  THE END

  (Or maybe just the beginning of “Volume 2: Evelin’s Apology Arc”)

  #3ExtraStoryIsComing ??