currency book

In the hit fantasy game Generic Fantasy, you play as the average-looking protagonist Light Bearer—an allegedly mundane "chosen one" whose only real power is having plot armor, an ever-growing harem, and being in close proximity to true greatness: the villain. The villain’s name? Lemuel Ark. Older brother of the second heroine, rumored sigma incarnate, and a mysterious man who appears maybe once every five story arcs—just to sit ominously or raise a single hand. And every time? The entire player base loses their minds. Why? Because he solos entire armies with just aura. No spells. No blade. Just pure, raw, untouchable presence. But forget about him for a second. This story? It’s not about Light Bearer. Or Lemuel. It’s about Bora Cho—a terminally online girl deep in the trenches of meme culture and brainrot. One night, while snorting at sigma grindset reels and sipping expired soda, she stumbles upon a suspicious job listing on a shady site: “Now hiring: Antagonist. Aura required. Must be dramatic. Pay: 70 billion won.” Her first thought? “Bro what is this, a beta wage cage gig? L ratio. True sigma owns jobs, doesn’t apply for them.” …70 billion won, tho?? Against all common sense, she applies. Without reading the fine print. Without knowing it’s not a job. It’s a summon. Now stuck inside Generic Fantasy as the very villain every player reveres—Lemuel Ark himself—Bora must maintain her new persona with unshakable giga-chad aura, all while her real thoughts get accidentally broadcasted to the heroines, main character, and sometimes even the final boss. Too bad her inner monologue is just: “OH NO NOT THE FEMBOY PALADIN—why is he BLUSHING??!” “I am not built to be this iconic. Someone nerf me.” “Light Bearer go off king—SLAY frfr.” “Skibidi aura grind never stops.” Can she keep up the image of the ultimate villain while trying not to simp over her own harem of enemies or will the world crumble under the weight of her meme-fueled unfiltered chaos? ------------------------------ So this is it—my first original story. Terrifying, I know. Instead of setting myself up for the crushing weight of expectations, I’ve decided to go full YOLO and just write something so painfully unfiltered that I physically cringe every time I reread a sentence. Why? Because apparently self-inflicted suffering is my idea of a good time. Anyway, just a heads-up: this story will be unapologetically below-shitty. Like, trip-over-your-own-footwriting kind of bad. So yeah—you’ve been warned. Enter at your own risk, and maybe bring a helmet. Or a therapist.