Chapter 1 : GHOSTED DREAMS

  The silence of Baridih was never truly silent. It was a thick, heavy layer of sound that Arjun Kumar had heard every single day for twenty years. It began at 5:45 AM with the rhythmic thud-thud of his mother’s wooden pole against the grain, followed by the distant, sharp crow of a rooster that sounded as tired of the village as Arjun was.

  By 6:02 AM, the mist still hung low over the 225 hectares of paddy fields. From the rooftop of his family home, the world looked like a gray-scale photograph, blurred and damp. Arjun lay flat on his back inside a yellowing mosquito net, the mesh smelling faintly of old kerosene and laundry soap. He didn't move. He couldn't. His body felt like lead, weighed down by a thought that had been looping in his brain for the last six hours.

  Why did she block me?

  He reached for his phone—a cracked-screen budget model that was his only window out of the Itki subdivision. The power had cut out ten minutes ago. The ceiling fan, a rusted three-blade beast, had groaned to a halt, leaving the room stiflingly hot. A single bead of sweat rolled from Arjun’s temple, trailing down his medium-wheatish cheek and soaking into his pillow.

  He unlocked the screen. The blue light blinded him for a second. Even without an active internet connection during the power cut, the cached images were there. He scrolled to his Instagram search bar. "Priya_12".

  User not found.

  The words were a physical punch to his stomach. He knew she hadn't deleted her account. He had checked from his brother Amit’s phone yesterday. She was there. She was vibrant. She was laughing. But for Arjun, she had ceased to exist. He was a ghost in her digital world.

  THE GHOST OF 2022

  Arjun closed his eyes, and the gray mist of 2026 was replaced by the brilliant, burning orange of the 2022 festival. He could almost smell the bubbling oil of the jalebi stalls at the Itki mela. He could hear the deafening roar of the local speakers playing Nagpuri hits.

  In his mind, he was back at Vidya Public School. They were seventeen. They were "classmates," a word that covered the secret notes passed during science lab and the shared cycles back toward Baridih. Priya had looked at him that day with eyes that didn't see a farmer’s son or a boy with a 45% grade prospect. She saw Arjun. They had taken a selfie in front of the waving orange flags of the temple. In that photo, Arjun looked strong, his hair styled with cheap gel, his arm tentatively draped around her shoulder.

  "We’ll go to the same college, Arjun," she had whispered over the sound of the crowd. "Ranchi isn't that far. We'll make it."

  But Ranchi was 23 kilometers away, and in the world of Jharkhand academics, 23 kilometers might as well have been the distance to the moon. Her Class 10 boards had been a triumph; his had been a disaster of procrastination and manhwa-reading. She went to Marwari Girls College. He was relegated to Bero College—a place where the walls were stained with betel juice and the lectures were as rare as a rainy day in April.

  The Weight of the House

  "Arjun! Re, Arjun! Shop kholo!"

  His mother’s voice shattered the memory. The clanging of a steel tawa against the stove downstairs was the morning bell of his prison. He rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the cool, packed-earth floor.

  He moved through the house like a zombie. In the courtyard, he saw his father, a man whose skin looked like the bark of a sal tree, already deep into his chores. His father didn't look up. He was milking the cow, the rhythmic ping-ping of milk hitting the metal bucket keeping time with the morning.

  "The shop won't open itself," his father grunted, his voice thick with the phlegm of a lifelong smoker. "And don't forget to check the pump in the north field. The maize needs water before the sun gets too high."

  Arjun grabbed a mug of water, splashed his face, and stared into the cracked mirror near the well. He was 5'8", slim-built, wearing a faded T-shirt that said GAMER. He looked like a thousand other boys in the Ranchi district, but inside, he felt like a King who had been regressed to a Level 1 Peon.

  "Papa," Arjun started, his voice cracking. "I was thinking... maybe I could take the bus to Ranchi today. To check on some books."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  His father stopped milking. The silence was louder than the rooster. "Books? You haven't touched a book since 2022, Arjun. You think I don't see you? You think I don't know you're staring at that girl's photos? She's in the city now. She’s going to marry a lawyer or an officer. You? You are a shopkeeper. Now go open the shutters."

  ?27 REALITY

  The kirana shop was a small, concrete lean-to attached to the front of the house. It smelled of dried chilies, washing powder, and the dust of the road. Arjun slid the heavy iron shutters up with a screech that set his teeth on edge.

  He sat behind the counter, on a wooden stool that wobbled. This was his throne. His kingdom of Parle-G biscuits, loose cigarettes, and 1-rupee chocolates.

  By 10:00 AM, the heat was already 34°C. The power was still out. The Jio signal on his phone was down to a single, pathetic bar. Two school kids from Vidya Public—wearing the same uniform he used to wear—cycled up, their bells ringing.

  "Bhaiya, two packets of Parle-G and one pen," the taller boy said.

  Arjun handed them over. "Twenty-seven rupees," he muttered.

  He watched them cycle away. ?27. That was his contribution to the world today. Meanwhile, on his phone, he had seen a screenshot in a WhatsApp group of a boy from Ranchi who had made ?10,000 in ten minutes on a trading app.

  The contrast was a physical ache in his chest. He felt like the protagonist of Returner’s Magic Should Be Special, but without the magic. He was stuck in the "before" part of the story, where the hero is humiliated and weak.

  He opened his phone and navigated to his "Reading" folder. He had spent over 10,000 hours reading manhwa—stories of boys who were granted "Systems" by the Universe, boys who could see the future, boys who could level up until they were gods.

  Universe, he thought, staring out at the dusty road where a lone goat was chewing on a mango plant leaves. Give me a system. I don't want to be the boy who sells ?2 pen. I want to be the man who buys Ranchi.

  The Lapung Distance

  Around noon, his mother brought him a plate of dal-bhaat. She looked tired.

  "Your Bua Kamala called from Lapung," she said, wiping her face with her sari pallu. "The house is coming along. The government money came through for the roof. She wants us to come next month for the Griha Pravesh."

  "Lapung is 60 kilometers away, Ma," Arjun said, picking at his rice. "Who will stay at the shop? Amit is busy with his friends, and Papa won't leave the fields."

  "We will figure it out," she said softly. "Family is family. Anisa and Santoshi are working hard there. Even your uncle (Sughar Singh) is helping with the bricks. It’s good they are building something real. Something that stays."

  Something real. The words stung.To his family, "real" was bricks, cows, and government schemes. To Arjun, "real" was the feeling he got when he saw Priya’s smile. He wondered if she ever thought about him.

  The Aviator’s Crash

  Evening fell like a heavy blanket. The crickets in the paddy fields began their high-pitched vibrating song. Arjun was back on the rooftop, the only place where the Jio signal was strong enough to load a video.

  He didn't open Instagram this time. He couldn't handle the "User Not Found" message again. Instead, he opened the Aviator app.

  He had ?540 left in his digital wallet—money he had slowly skimmed from the shop's change over the last month. It was his "seed money." His "System" money.

  He watched the little red plane on the screen. 1.1x... 1.2x... 1.5x... CRASH.

  His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a rush of adrenaline that the kirana shop could never give him. He placed a bet. ?500. Nearly everything he had.

  The plane took off. 1.10... 1.20... "Come on," he whispered. "Give me a win. Just one win to show the Universe I'm ready." 1.35... He reached his thumb out to "Cash Out." He just needed it to hit 2.0x. If he doubled his money, he could buy that data pack. He could maybe buy a new shirt. He could feel like a player. 1.42... CRASH.

  The screen turned a cold, mocking red. -?500.

  He whispered "I wish I could just see the truth. Why does it always crash when I bet?"

  Suddenly, his phone didn't just light up. It glitched.

  The screen didn't show the "Insufficient Funds" message. Instead, the red Aviator plane on the screen began to vibrate. The red color bled out, turning into a piercing, electric System Blue. A series of data strings began to scroll vertically across the cracks in his glass—faster than any human could read.

  Arjun froze. He didn't breathe. The blue light grew stronger, illuminating the water tank and the drying clothes on the line. Then, the scrolling stopped.

  A single, translucent blue line appeared, floating just above the screen. It wasn't an ad. It wasn't a notification. It was a Vision.

  [SYSTEM INITIALIZING: HOST ARJUN KUMAR] [TRUTH-SIGHT ACTIVATED: AVIATOR ALGORITHM DECRYPTED]

  Arjun watched, trembling, as the Aviator app reopened itself. But it was different now. Next to the "Bet" button, a small, glowing blue timer appeared that only he could see.

  [NEXT FLIGHT PREDICTION: 14.52x] [CRASH POINT CERTAINTY: 99.9%]

  Arjun’s breath hitched. He watched the next round start. The plane took off. People around the country were betting, cashing out early at 1.2x or 2.0x. But Arjun watched the blue timer. It ticked up perfectly alongside the plane.

  10.0x... 12.0x... 14.0x... At exactly 14.52x, the plane vanished. CRASH.

  Arjun's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The System wasn't talking to him about banks or accounts. It was showing him the Future. It was showing him the "True Crash."

  He looked at his empty wallet—?40 left. He couldn't play. Not yet. But the blue light in his eyes didn't fade. For the first time since 2022, the dust of Baridih didn't feel like a grave. It felt like a foundation.

  "I see it," Arjun whispered, the blue light reflecting in his dark brown eyes. "I see everything”.