Chapter 1: The Rough Road
A Bumpy Start
Clunk—!
The wagon jolted violently.
My silver-white hair, strewn carelessly, fluttered in its wake.
A flustered voice came from the coachman’s seat.
“My apologies, Saintess! I accidentally hit a pothole!”
“No road in this world is perfectly smooth. I’m content just traveling so comfortably. Hehe.”
‘This road’s already a pain in the ass, and now you’re making it worse?’
“Haha. Talking with you, Saintess, reminds me how small and insignificant I am.”
The coachman left a “thank you” and focused back on the road.
A Frustrating Situation
Ugh, this sucks.
Back at the Pantheon, they promised me a covered four-horse carriage with a dedicated chef.
But this damn mouth of mine rejected it all, leaving me stuck on this rickety wagon that smacks my backside every minute.
The priests and devotees who saw me were moved to tears.
I even heard a merchant, inspired by my “humility,” donated all the goods he brought to sell to the devotees.
Fine, let’s say—giving them the benefit of the doubt—that laypeople or priests might react like that.
But Bishop Dominic, that lunatic, shouldn’t he, as a human being, at least provide his order’s saintess with a proper covered carriage?
“Bishop Dominic and I have built much virtue together…”
‘You bastard, after all I’ve covered for you!’
“You mean Bishop Dominic, the wandering preacher? I heard he’s a great man, spreading the gods’ words to the farthest reaches without a temple.”
He’s just a restless drifter who hates staying put.
Living for the thrill of spending every coin he has, he’s a spending addict so thoroughly washed clean you’d think he’d been boiled.
No amount of scrubbing could make someone that pure.
Divine Mockery
[The God of Jealousy is delighted.]
[The God of Justice approves of your words.]
No, the real problem is those gods—or rather, those damn idiots.
Just because I left a few harsh comments, they possess a perfectly fine person into a novel?
And into a woman’s body, no less?
“This, too, must be the gods’ guidance…”
‘Doing whatever the hell they want, crazy bastards.’
If only I hadn’t replied to that email back then…
A Peculiar Hobby
What’s your hobby?
Sports, reading, watching movies, listening to music, gaming—people have as many hobbies as there are stars.
I don’t know the exact definition of a hobby, but if it’s something you enjoy, doesn’t that count?
In that sense, my hobby was reading web novels and leaving harsh comments.
As a busy civil service exam student, it was the perfect pastime.
To be precise, they were constructive critiques, but if the recipient thinks they’re harsh, well, they’re harsh.
I didn’t expect them to change anyway.
My main targets were low-tier novels with a few hundred views, barely kept alive by a handful of dedicated readers’ comments.
Big novels with thousands of readers? Post a provocative comment there, and you’re just ignored as an idiot.
But in these obscure novels, every comment carries weight.
Plus, they’re usually first works or written by inexperienced authors, so my pro-reader eyes spot endless flaws.
A goldmine for critiques.
And these low-tier authors often have fragile egos, crumbling at the slightest jab.
I mean, if I offer constructive advice, shouldn’t they take it and improve instead of quitting?
This hobby’s been around long enough that I’ve gained a sort of following.
When a comment hits hard, it sometimes gets archived in related communities.
I’m practically a celebrity in this niche.
From the authors’ perspective, they probably want to track me down and strangle me.
The Fateful Email
Anyway…
I was preparing to unleash a 5,700-character critique on a newly discovered novel when a ding signaled an incoming email.
It was my burner account for shady sites or trolling, so I didn’t expect personal messages, but I checked it anyway.
The sender’s address made it clear.
‘Oh, it’s those guys.’
It was from a friend who quit writing after my 5,700-character critique.
It was an academy novel, but come on, an academy novel that drags its pacing?
That idiot spent nearly 30% of the story on classroom scenes to show off his setting.
When I dropped some heartfelt advice, he soon posted [From the Author…] and gloriously burned out.
Honestly, I still think it was a necessary service for both of us.
But what was this lunatic emailing me for now?
I clicked the email titled [No Subject].
…Couldn’t he at least put a basic title on it?
The contents were even more absurd.
It wasn’t just him—there were other self-proclaimed authors I’d critiqued.
“This guy wrote hunter stuff, that one bailed on a showbiz novel, and what’s this? Even the guy who wrote drone crap is here.”
Seeing their names brought a strange nostalgia.
I kinda wanted to reread the comments I left them.
The downside of this hobby? When a story disappears, so do the comments.
Sometimes they get archived and haunt the internet, but that’s rare.
The email’s gist was: “We, victims of your harsh comments, collaborated on a new world and story. Read it and share your thoughts.”
Attached was a text file nearly 1MB in size.
No idea how many chapters that translates to, but it looked substantial.
“Well, they’re begging me to read it, so I guess I’ll give it a look.”
Ugh, these guys made me skip studying today.
They should be thanking me.
A Lackluster Novel
The novel had no title.
Let’s just call it [No Subject], like their email.
I read it, but it didn’t leave much of an impression.
A fantasy academy with a cider-pathic protagonist, a brainless, feel-good, one-trick story.
If it hit big, it might get picked up by teens.
But the incomprehensible plot and pacing made me stop multiple times to play games.
The heroines were so poorly crafted.
Contrived love lines, treated like glorified cheerleaders—I skimmed those parts.
The main heroine had some potential, but the rest was such a mess it didn’t matter.
It was about three or four volumes long.
Pacing-wise, it ended just as the protagonist finished his first year and was about to leave the academy for some reason.
Sprinkling pointless foreshadowing while preparing to leave, I didn’t bother with the last few chapters and closed it.
For the first time in ages, I thought I’d rather have studied than read a novel.
Seriously, I could’ve memorized a vocab word in the time I spent on this garbage.
But maybe it’s a good story for sparking study motivation in a burned-out exam student?
Either way, my reply was practically decided.
[Subject: Re: No Subject]
[Content: I read your novel. My first thought upon receiving your email was, “Writing a book with eight people must be tough.” And that thought was spot-on, chillingly so. Too many cooks spoil the broth, as they say. You’re like a beast with too many heads, charging forward without knowing which way’s front. Eight IQ 20s don’t make an IQ 160. You asked for a review, but honestly, I’m at a loss. I’d just end up cursing, so I’ll keep it short. I’m a critic, not a troll. Have a good night, and maybe look into other jobs—like loading trucks.]
The Possession
After sending that email, I woke up in this body.
The body of a girl named Isidora, moments before receiving an ordination.
Before I could say anything, a priest’s hand touched my head, and I was blessed.
At that moment, the eight gods’ bishops nearby reportedly received a simultaneous revelation.
Find a girl with sky-blue eyes and an old man’s hair in a rural village.
She’s the saintess chosen directly by the gods.
The bishop serving the God of Dreams, the closest, arrived that evening.
While I begged for time to process, the other bishops rushed over.
After an all-night debate, they decided no single temple could handle me and sent me to the Pantheon to serve all the gods.
The Culprits
The eight gods were, as expected, those idiots.
If they’d possessed me into a novel I’d critiqued before, fine.
But why this one, where I said I couldn’t even review it?
If they were sane, they wouldn’t have done this in the first place.
I’m starting to doubt they’re even human.
[The God of War issues an oracle!]
[Eliminate the bandit horde.]
[The God of War tells you to look to your left.]
A Sudden Threat
Lost in memories, I jolted upright at the gods’ sudden call.
Looking left, I saw tiny black specks kicking up dust, heading our way.
“A trial from the gods…”
‘Are you fcking serious, you bastards?’
“W-What do we do, Saintess?!”
The coachman’s voice trembled with fear.
The specks had grown from grains to quail eggs in size.
They’d reach us in minutes.
[The God of War says to hang in there.]
You fcking bastard, seriously.