Bien sûr, tout livre écrit par une IA va ressortir avec le même style lisse et froid… Ben non…

Cette étape consiste à utiliser l’IA pour imiter votre style d'écriture, et si vous n’en avez pas encore, à vous en donner un solide et éprouvé. La méthode la plus efficace consiste à fournir à l'IA des exemples de vos écrits antérieurs, à les faire analyser, puis à intégrer cette analyse (après l'avoir ajustée, bien sûr). Vous pouvez également créer un nouveau style, notamment si vous souhaitez en adopter un que vous n'avez pas encore expérimenté. Créez un fichier distinct du codex contenant votre style, nous l’utiliserons fréquemment par la suite.

Copier/coller son style avec l’IA :

Révisez le résultat, sauvegarde-le dans un fichier « STYLE ».

Imposer un style à l’IA :

Oui, oui… vous avez bien vu : pas besoin de savoir le faire, ni même de le comprendre, juste de demander à l’IA de le faire pour vous… alors les romanciers, ça va toujours ? Ou ça commence à mouiller un peu le col de la chemise ?

Résultats (extrait, retrouvez le manuscrit dans l’article de conclusion) pour notre roman d’exemple :

The night air hung heavy with the scent of sand and diesel. The moon cast long, ghostly shadows over the mercenary compound nestled among the dunes. Inside, dim lights flickered behind canvas tents and makeshift shelters, portraying a picture of deceptive calm.

In the darkness beyond the camp’s perimeter, a group of UN peacekeepers moved with calculated precision. Their faces were painted in camouflage, their eyes hidden behind night vision goggles that glowed an eerie green. Each soldier knew their role, their movements choreographed to a silent rhythm.

"Alpha Team in position," whispered Captain Lang through the radio, his voice barely more than a breath.

From their vantage point atop a ridge, the peacekeepers had been watching for a few hours. Checking the intel provided straight from UN headquarters in New York. They recorded every shift change, every patrol route, even though they already had the information. They knew the layout of the camp better than its inhabitants, but part of the mission was to corroborate the intel given to them, and not just eliminate the threat.

"Bravo Team, ready," came another hushed voice.

Lang raised his hand, signaling forward motion. The peacekeepers advanced like phantoms, their boots barely rustling a sound on the sandy ground. They reached the outer fence, and one of the soldiers quickly cut through it.

Inside the compound, a mercenary yawned and stretched, oblivious to the silent intruders. He turned away from his post to light a cigarette. He never saw the peacekeeper who slipped past him into the shadows.

"Go," Lang commanded.

A series of muffled pops echoed through the night as tranquilizer darts found their marks. The mercenaries dropped silently where they stood or sat, eyes rolling back in unconsciousness before they hit the ground.

In one tent, two men hunched over a map spread across a table, marking targets with red Xs to identify the best civilian villages to bomb in order to destabilize the region. A figure loomed in the entrance before they could react.

"Hands up!" barked Sergeant Diaz as he burst in, his rifle trained on them.

The mercenaries froze, eyes wide with shock and fear. They glanced at each other as if seeking an explanation for this sudden turn of events but found none.

Outside, chaos unfolded in eerie silence. Peacekeepers moved methodically from tent to tent, subduing each mercenary without a single shot fired from either side. A generator hummed in one corner of the compound; its steady drone masked any minor sounds that might have betrayed their presence.

Lang approached what looked like a command center—a large tent with more equipment than any other structure in sight. He signaled for two men to flank him as he entered.

Inside, rows of monitors displayed surveillance footage and tactical maps. A lone mercenary sat at a console with his back to them. He spun around at the sound of footsteps but found himself staring down three barrels before he could react.

"Don't move," Lang ordered.

The man’s hands shot up instinctively. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool desert night.

"What the fuck? How did you know?," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Lang's eyes flicked to the screens showing live feeds from surrounding villages—peaceful scenes that belied any imminent danger.

"Secure him," Lang ordered curtly.

The peacekeepers bound the man’s hands and gagged him for good measure before dragging him outside. Lang scanned the command center quickly but thoroughly—looking for anything that might hint at immediate threats or hidden traps.

"All clear," came reports from various teams across the compound. Not a single casualty among them; every move anticipated as if scripted by an unseen hand guiding them through this nocturnal ballet of precision and stealth.

Lang allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction before refocusing on their task—disarming the missile launchers these mercenaries had set into motion against innocent lives nearby for the sole purpose of destabilizing the region.

"Gather intel and secure all hostiles," he instructed through his radio. "We need to pack before dawn."

He relaxed. While he had emitted serious doubts about this strange mission, he had to admit every bit of intel had revealed accurate, and the attack strategy provided had proven flawless.

He grabbed his satellite phone to inform Command of their success.