The night had grown quiet again.
Only the crackling fire remained, painting shadows on the nearby trees. The wind whispered softly, brushing against the dying flames.
Arjun stood still, eyes scanning the fallen bodies of the slave merchants. Behind them, the cart remained — intact.
He and Vhim moved toward it cautiously.
The cart was longer than it looked. On the back were iron-barred cells — five of them. Cramped, rusted, reeking of sweat, blood, and fear.
Inside, dozens of people sat or lay — some barely conscious, some alert and watching with hollow eyes.
"Slaves…" Vhim whispered.
Arjun clenched his jaw.
He stepped forward, and as he did, his system flooded with alerts.
> [King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
[King-level individual detected.]
Seven in total.
Names followed.
> [King-level individual: "SARVAD" detected.]
[King-level individual: "VARAD" detected.]
[King-level individual: "KRIPAT" detected.]
[King-level individual: "ZINGA" detected.]
[King-level individual: "SARION" detected.]
[King-level individual: "HIXOMARU" detected.]
[King-level individual: "MANGLU" detected.]
Arjun froze.
"…Manglu?"
He turned his head sharply, scanning every face in the cages. His heart raced.
No one looked like Manglu.
He stepped closer. The people inside shrank back, unsure whether he was a friend or just another captor.
"Bhim," Arjun called. "The keys."
Vhim came running with the ring of keys they had found on the merchant leader.
Without wasting time, they started opening the cells.
The doors creaked open one by one.
The prisoners stepped out — some with help, others crawling.
Arjun watched each one carefully, searching.
And then they reached the last cell.
A heavy iron door.
It took Vhim two tries to find the right key.
When it opened, the air changed.
The stench of rot and blood thickened.
Inside, a boy sat hunched in the corner.
His body was limp. Barely skin over bone.
Eyes gone — just black, empty sockets staring into nothing.
His mouth moved, but there was no sound.
Arjun stepped inside slowly.
The boy's legs were twisted unnaturally. Both arms bent the wrong way. Old wounds. Dried blood. Scar over scar. His lips were torn, and his jaw trembled as he tried to speak.
"…Manglu?" Arjun whispered.
The boy flinched.
He tried to raise his head.
He tried to answer — but no voice came.
Only a hollow wheeze.
Arjun knelt beside him, and the boy reached out — one trembling, broken hand.
A hand that had once held fruits. Once wrestled playfully with them under the village trees.
A hand now shattered.
Arjun's fingers brushed it gently.
He didn't need confirmation.
It was him.
Manglu.
He closed his eyes for a second.
There was no anger. No scream. No rage.
Only silence.
Joxon stood by the doorway. His fists clenched. Vhim stared at the ground.
No one said anything else.
The fire crackled quietly in the distance.
In a dark place, the same boy who had once come to Arjun's dream sat silently on a chair. Shadows moved around him like fog.
His closed eyes slowly opened.
"My king! Your foundation is breaking."
"Will you be able to accept the truth right now?"
"I don't know what will going to happen. But whatever path you choose, we are with you. After all, this world isn't yours. This world is real. And you need to let go of your fears to accept it. Your past."
"My king. Please, this time… don't be the loser again."
A dusty hallway. Fluorescent lights flickering. In the far corner of a half-abandoned school building, three older boys stood around a younger one, kicking and yelling.
"Where's your money, bastard?"
Arjun, fifteen, lay curled on the cold floor. His school uniform torn. His face swollen. Blood dripped slowly from his mouth as he coughed. He didn't cry. His eyes were blank, not from bravery — but from numbness. Not the first time.
They took his lunch money. Again. Laughed. Walked off.
He didn't move until they were gone. Then slowly got up. Dusted off his uniform, though the dust stuck to the blood. He dragged himself home.
When he arrived, his mother — thin, tired, but with gentle eyes — rushed to him.
"Arjun!? What happened? Who—?"
But Arjun snapped.
"SHUT UP!"
She froze. He'd never shouted before.
"What can YOU do? NOTHING! I get beaten up every damn day! We're poor! You're just an adopted widow! Nobody cares about us!"
His voice cracked. He ran into his room. Slammed the door.
Inside, darkness. Quiet. Except the ceiling fan's hum. He sat at his desk, pulled out a torn notebook.
And he wrote.
He didn't know what exactly. His hand moved faster than his thoughts. Words poured out of him like blood from a wound.
A world where being poor doesn't mean being weak. Where kindness is power. Where the strongest man loves the weakest one like a brother. Where demons kill, yes, but good people fight them with breath, sword, magic — family.
He wrote a name.
Vhim.
A powerless boy, laughed at during his soul awakening. But then… something awakens. A family power. His true power.
Another name.
The Demon.
Kills orphan children. A turning point. The birth of a hero.
That's all. Just one page. He didn't know why. Or what came over him.
He laid down — exhausted — and fell asleep with the pen in his hand.
In that sleep, something stirred.
A dream. A glimmering world. Magic. Brotherhood. Fire and steel.
When he woke up, he remembered almost nothing.
Just one thing: "I want to be a god in that world."
---
And now…
Maybe that dream became real.
Maybe when Arjun died, something deep in his subconscious — the broken, tired child — clung to that dream. That page. That world.
And maybe… that is where he is now.
Because losers — people like Arjun — often dream of control. They don't want the grind. The struggle. The humiliation of trying and failing.
They want to wake up strong.
Not become strong.
(Author note: like me.)
So his subconscious fabricated a story where he's not weak — he's the creator. The system is his. The powers are his. He is the god, not the victim.
A complex psychological phenomenon — a hallucinated power delusion — a defense mechanism. Common in trauma survivors, especially teens who suffered prolonged bullying. Their minds build fictional worlds where they're safe… powerful… needed.
But what happens if that illusion breaks?
What happens if Arjun realizes...
He's not a god.
He's not the system's creator.
He's just… a scared boy who wrote one page of fantasy before life crushed him.
Worse — the main character of his story, Vhim, hasn't even fully awakened. Because Arjun never finished writing it.
That's the terrifying truth looming behind the curtains.
What if he wakes up to the fact he's just another powerless struggler in a brutal, real world with no mercy?
Will he break?
Or will he become… something else?
---
Somewhere, far away — in a space outside space — smoke drifts like silent screams.
A dark room. No walls. No ceiling. Just haze.
And in that haze, a being stirs.
A silhouette in the smoke. Eyes like twin red moons.
He smiles — a cruel, knowing smile.
"Hahahaha… hahahaha… Oh Arjun, my king…"
His laughter shakes the void.
"It's time. Time to shed your skin.
Time to become… what the world truly needs."
The shadows deepen.
"It's dark time, king.
I'm coming."
---
(Author Note: Here comes the badass darkside.)