My Instant Death Doomed Firefly to a Lifetime of Regret

Herta Space Station

"You."

On An Ming's 20th day at the station, a dormant Herta puppet suddenly activated as he passed by. "Your writing is... tolerable. Asta will assign you a room. Write full-time now."

"Payment is settled. Asta handles it."

The puppet powered down, leaving An Ming frozen mid-step, questioning his life choices.

"Asta later clarified Herta's original order: 'Lock that fanfic gremlin in a cellar to type 24/7.' I negotiated it down to 20 daily hours," Asta announced cheerfully, delivering what she called a "compromise."

An Ming wondered how "only," "daily," and "20 hours" coexisted in one sentence. Was Herta trying to kill him via wordcount?

"You think credits can crush my noble, unyielding spirit? Tell Herta she underestimates my integrity!"

"Ten credits per character."

"Where do I sign? Tell Herta she's a visionary! Twenty hours? I'll type in my sleep!"

Asta, long accustomed to his theatrics, led him to his new "dungeon"—a cozy room with panoramic windows, a minimalist desk, and suspiciously ergonomic restraints disguised as chair straps.

"Welcome to the team," Asta said, handing him an employee badge. Her smile screamed You brought this on yourself.

An Ming nearly hugged her legs to smear imaginary tears on her stockings. "I'll honor this trust! Time to pour concrete—ahem—craft literature!"

Thus began An Ming's indentured writing career, though he never stopped side-eyeing that elusive "system." What's an isekai protagonist without cheat codes?

By Day 99, he'd amassed enough credits to buy a small planetoid (or one Peppy golden food bowl), thanks to his 10k-word daily grind. His room now featured a permanently offline Herta puppet—acquired after he'd emailed:

[To the Magnificent Herta,]

[This humble scribe struggles to capture your galaxy-shattering brilliance in prose. Might a puppet muse grace my quarters? Only through constant awe may I scribe your glory.]

[Your loyal wage slave.]

When the puppet arrived, Asta and Arlan exchanged glances. "Did he actually reject Herta's confession once?"

"..."

Arlan stayed silent, mentally tallying An Ming's remaining Amber Eras of regret.

Asta pondered whether An Ming's "fiction" was closer to romantic fantasy or Herta-stalker documentary.

Initially, An Ming treated the puppet like a sacred artifact. Soon, it became a glorified coat rack—three hats piled on its head, an Asta body pillow draped over its arm, and Peppy's "Barkémon" collar hanging from its finger.

No, he definitely didn't try anything weird with it. Nope.

The station shuddered violently. An Ming peered through a viewport and confirmed his suspicions: the Antimatter Legion's invasion had begun. Main storyline: engaged.

He debated seeking out Kafka—high risk, higher chance of becoming Swiss cheese. As a systemless normie, he'd stick to NPC protocol: hide.

Alarms wailed as he sprinted past dead Voidrangers. His prepper checklist flashed through his mind:

Evacuation Routes: Memorized.

Epic Death Video: 19-minute masterpiece regretting never hugging Asta's thighs, plus a paid request for Topaz to "ignite the seas" at his funeral.

Master Keycard: Stolen. No horror-movie locked doors for this guy!

Weapons: Asta had confiscated his online shopping list ("Are you invading the station?!") and gifted a "cute" laser pistol instead. Her reassurance—"The station is 100% safe!"—rang as hollow as "Area 51's totally secure!"

Screw hiding. An Ming channeled his inner Cautious Hero and crept toward the main plot trigger: an unconscious gray-haired girl.

Jackpot—it's Stelle!

He tiptoed forward, spine prickling with unseen eyes.

Elsewhere

"See something?" Silver Wolf didn't glance up from her hacking interface.

"Nothing." Kafka lowered her binoculars. This boy wasn't in Elio's script, yet...

A flicker of familiarity—like someone from a photo in his old locket.

But that man had died long ago.