The Villain I Loved Has Broken Free and Transmigrated Out of the Story - Chapter 42

The bound manuscript floated before Cang Lanyan, its pages flipping rapidly.

Yin Ya sat uneasily in her swivel chair, mentally reviewing whether she had written anything she shouldn’t have. But no matter how she racked her brain, she realized she had remained completely focused on developing Cang Lanyan’s storyline.

Her portrayal of Cang Lanyan was cold-hearted and ruthless, driven solely by the Merfolk Tribe’s interests. Beyond briefly touching on her tragic past, the narrative primarily depicted her conquests and the elimination of threats to her people.

Unlike the two protagonists, who were perpetually entangled in romance, this Major Antagonist had steadfastly pursued her career path, untouched by romantic entanglements.

Nothing could sway her. Her emotionally vulnerable kin were both her weakness and the fuel that made her invincible.

She lived like a true protagonist.

Although she had just played the victim before Cang Lanyan, Yin Ya genuinely believed the readers’ complaints about “upstaging the main characters” were reasonable.

If she loved this character so much, she should have made her the protagonist in the first place, focusing on her growth and struggles instead of pitting her against the main characters while also giving her overwhelming superiority in every aspect.

Cang Lanyan read quickly. Before half an hour had passed, Yin Ya was brought back to her thoughts by the sound of the chapter being closed.

“I don’t often read novels, so I won’t comment on whether it’s ‘good’ or not,” Cang Lanyan said, placing the carton of fresh milk on the coffee table with an unusually serious expression. “Is that all I get in the story?”

“Actually, the rest hasn’t been written yet,” Yin Ya admitted. “But you probably won’t appear again.”

Meeting Cang Lanyan’s puzzled gaze, she explained, “I don’t know what’s going on either. After you arrived here, I tried revising the chapter about your disappearance, but no matter how I changed it, it felt wrong, as if some rule was preventing it.”

She paused, carefully choosing her words before continuing, “In other words, your disappearance is already set in stone. So even if I wrote the story to the end, you probably wouldn’t appear again.”

“…I’ve read the entire thing, and it mostly matches my past experiences,” Cang Lanyan said, flipping to the last page. “However, the ‘disappearance’ you wrote about me was only what the protagonist heard. In reality, it wasn’t like that at all.”

“Actually?” Yin Ya paused, startled.

“After that battle ended and the situation stabilized, I grew weary of slaughtering those ants,” Cang Lanyan said. “So, in accordance with my earlier agreement with the Clan Chief, I entered a slumber within the Sacred Tree. This was planned years ago, but due to the frequent wars at the time, the spell to detach oneself from the Seven Emotions and Six Desires hadn’t yet been widely deployed throughout the army. Thus, I agreed to continue fighting for my tribe for a while longer.”

“Wait, so you’re here while still in a state of slumber?” Yin Ya asked urgently. “I remember you saying before that you didn’t know how you came to be here.”

“I indeed don’t know how I left the Book World,” Cang Lanyan replied. “But after I entered slumber within the Sacred Tree, I awoke once.”

Yin Ya was instantly confused. Just as she was trying to sort out the situation, Cang Lanyan continued: “It was the Sacred Tree’s withering that awakened me.”

“How is that possible?!” Yin Ya paled, exclaiming in shock. “That Sacred Tree is the lifeline of the Merfolk Tribe! If the Sacred Tree withers, it means the Merfolk Tribe’s destruction! This… this can’t be happening!”

“The Sacred Tree’s branches and leaves withered, its bark shriveled, and its roots dried up. I witnessed it with my own eyes!” Cang Lanyan’s voice turned solemn.

Yin Ya’s heart sank.

To understand the situation, she gritted her teeth and steeled herself, saying, “Please continue!”

“When I emerged from the Sacred Tree, I discovered that the familiar sea around me had been replaced by an endless desert, with only a few pillars made of special minerals remaining,” Cang Lanyan continued. “I initially thought it was a vast illusion, so I carried my other ‘self’ and, guided by memory, traveled to the borders of my tribe’s sea. But to my shock, the outside world was also a vast expanse of yellow sand…”

She suddenly stopped, frowning. “Are you listening?”

Yin Ya was speechless, overwhelmed by the flood of information.

What’s going on? she thought. As the author, how can I be getting spoiled the ending by a character in my own book? And it’s a tragic ending?!

This is ridiculous!

“Yin Ya!”

Hearing Cang Lanyan raise her voice, Yin Ya snapped back to reality, letting out a bewildered, “Huh?” “I’m listening, but… but this is just absurd!”

The Sacred Tree dead, the ocean turned to desert, the outside world also desertified—wasn’t this the collapse of the entire Book World?

Her Book World was perfectly fine. Even if she couldn’t write anymore and had to reluctantly end it badly, at worst it would just have an imperfect conclusion.

Because, if the earlier parts hadn’t laid a logically solid foundation, writing an “apocalyptic” ending wouldn’t be a clever twist—it would be pure reader abuse, a “newspaper” trick. She despised authors who did that, and she would never do such a thing herself!

But…

But Cang Lanyan’s words couldn’t be made up.

Even if the Old Spirit loved sweet talk, there was no reason to lie about this.

“It’s absurd, but everything I’ve described is what I witnessed over a thousand years.”

Cang Lanyan’s next words struck like lightning.

“A thousand years?” Yin Ya was utterly confused. “What do you mean?”

“I coexisted with another ‘self’ in that desert for over a millennium, never encountering any other living beings.” Cang Lanyan’s voice remained calm, as if those past, lonely millennia had passed in the blink of an eye. “Amidst the yellow sand, we found stone tablets, bones, and other artifacts inscribed with writing. We spent our time collecting and deciphering them as we wandered.”

“Is the world you’re from really the same as the one in my book?” Yin Ya asked, bewildered.

“I don’t know,” Cang Lanyan said, tapping her fingers lightly on the paper. “But the experiences I had before I fell asleep were exactly as you described them.”

“You’re just trying to scare me, right?” Yin Ya muttered. “If this is true, the timeline and events don’t match up!”

“What do you mean?” Cang Lanyan pressed.

“I always assumed you came to this world after I wrote the ‘disappearance’ plotline,” Yin Ya explained, looking at her. “In other words, it was my writing about your disappearance that caused your transmigration. But now you’re telling me you’ve experienced a desertified world. That means…”

Her thoughts raced, quickly arriving at a terrifying conclusion.

“Then… you’re actually from a future I haven’t written yet?” Yin Ya said. Realizing how ominous that sounded, she quickly added, “And not just any future, but one I’m least likely to ever write about.”

“Please be more concise,” Cang Lanyan said, frowning. “Don’t just talk in riddles.”

So Yin Ya opened her computer and laid out the timeline for her.

“My novel—well, at least the latest chapter—is set not long after you fell asleep beneath the Sacred Tree,” Yin Ya explained, opening another document to show Cang Lanyan the plot developments after her disappearance. “Since you didn’t travel through time during your sleep, the time period you arrived in doesn’t exist yet in my story—and probably never will.”

“Why not?” Cang Lanyan asked, puzzled.

“Because I’m determined to give this story a proper ending,” Yin Ya said firmly. “I’ll give it a logical conclusion, not let the entire world spiral into destruction.”

“Then, aside from the author’s plans, what else could lead to the destruction of the Book World?” Cang Lanyan countered.

Yin Ya paused, taken aback.

“If this book ceased to exist, or if its author disappeared, would that cause the Book World to be destroyed?” Cang Lanyan continued, offering a new perspective.

Following her train of thought for a moment, Yin Ya nodded slowly and solemnly.

It was indeed possible.

She had started writing web novels in high school, maintaining a contract with Banxia Novels for five years. During that time, driven by her passion and sense of responsibility, she painstakingly completed each story one step at a time.

However, five years was long enough for many things to happen.

Out of ten authors who signed contracts around the same time as her, only two or three were still actively writing.

The rest had various reasons for leaving. Some saw their traffic and reader feedback consistently fall short of expectations. Others managed to maintain their updates during school but, after graduation, found their busy work lives left them no time or energy for writing, forcing them to take a break or abandon their stories entirely.

Some authors would finish their final story before leaving, while others, unable to complete their work, would hastily toss out a rough outline as a substitute for a proper conclusion.

Some authors… would lock down unfinished stories with no future, or delete them completely, as a permanent farewell to that stage.

Even though she knew Cang Lanyan couldn’t fully understand yet, Yin Ya patiently explained all the possibilities using words she could comprehend.

“Perhaps you’re from another world, where I wrote the same story, and you’ve crossed over here.”

Finally, Yin Ya murmured, “She must have experienced something that made her abandon a character and story she loved so much.”

“And the reason you’ve been able to survive in that world that’s already turned to desert is probably because of the ‘ageless’ setting.” She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling a sudden surge of bitterness and pain. “In this book, I only gave you that setting, so…”

So in the end, only Cang Lanyan and her jellyfish survived.

For a hundred years, a thousand years, the heartless Guardian God and the “self” she had stripped away from herself would keep each other company in endless solitude.

That’s why she hated the Creator God who had granted her the curse of immortality.

In a world that had already collapsed, this wasn’t a blessing but a curse.

Yin Ya suddenly remembered a day not long ago when Cang Lanyan had cornered her against a wall and seemed to sing her a song.

She couldn’t remember the melody or the lyrics at all. Now she could only vaguely recall the associations and feelings she had at the time.

She felt as if she were wandering alone between the deep sea and the desert.

“Yin Ya.”

As the name was called, a pair of hands gently settled on her shoulders.

Yin Ya looked up. Tears she couldn’t hold back had fogged her glasses, blurring her vision.

The next moment, a hand suddenly removed her glasses.

Cang Lanyan’s fingers gently curved, gathering her tears into her palm, forming a murky droplet.

“Why are you crying?” she asked softly.

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