Akash Roy was thirty-three years old and had very little to show for it.
He lived in a crumbling two-room house on the edge of a quiet village in West Bengal. The walls were thin, the roof leaked during monsoons, and the only consistent companion in his life was the faint glow of his laptop screen. Most days he survived on instant noodles and black tea. He had tried regular jobs—tutoring, data entry, even selling insurance—but none of them lasted. The moment a job demanded his soul, he quit.
What he never quit was writing.
Stories were the only thing that made sense to him. He wrote fantasy novels in Bengali and English, uploading them chapter by chapter on small online platforms. Some months he earned twenty thousand rupees when a book found readers. Other months he made barely a thousand. He had grown used to the uncertainty, though the hunger in his stomach had not.
Over time, the dream of becoming rich and respected slowly died. Akash stopped chasing publishers, stopped refreshing his sales dashboards every hour, and simply wrote. The stories became his entire world—more real than the leaking roof or the worried calls from his aging mother.
One humid afternoon, while scrolling through shady websites promising quick money, he came across an unusual lottery advertisement. The design was strange—dark background, glowing golden text. It boldly declared the second prize as one hundred billion rupees. Curiously, there was no mention of the first prize at all.
Desperate and half-amused, Akash spent his last five thousand rupees on five tickets. He laughed at himself as he completed the payment. Another foolish gamble.
Days turned into weeks. No notification came. He forgot about it.
Then, on a sleepy Tuesday afternoon, a courier knocked on his door. The man handed him a heavy package wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside was a thick, leather-bound black book and a stack of official-looking documents. The papers appeared to be property deeds, but the language was bizarre—full of unfamiliar terms and symbols that made no sense.
At the bottom of the stack was a single handwritten note in neat, elegant script:
**"This world is now yours. Read it well and create a myth here."**
Akash stared at the note for a long time. He checked outside for cameras, half-expecting a YouTube prank channel to jump out. Nothing. Just the usual dusty village lane.
The book's cover was simple yet striking. Embossed in silver letters were the words: **Chronicle of the Fantasy World**.
With nothing better to do, he opened it.
---
The novel followed a young orphan boy named Jian who grew up in a remote mountain village. After his family was killed by bandits, Jian discovered an ancient gate hidden in a forbidden forest. Beyond it lay a vast continent ruled by martial artists, cultivators, immortals, and ancient sects.
Jian endured brutal training, deadly rivalries, betrayals, and countless life-or-death battles. Through sheer willpower and a mysterious technique he unlocked, he rose from a weak outer disciple to the undisputed ruler of the martial world—the Martial Monarch, a being who stood at the pinnacle of power.
It was a classic underdog story. Well-written, but not revolutionary. Akash finished it in one sitting, closed the book, and placed it on his dusty shelf. Another entertaining read to pass the time.
Life continued as usual—frustrating, repetitive, and small.
A few days later, during another long, sleepless night, Akash picked up the black book again out of boredom. This time he read more slowly. He noticed details he had missed before: the way morning mist clung to the ancient pines, the metallic taste of blood after a hard battle, the quiet dignity in Jian's silence after every loss.
The characters felt alive. The world breathed.
He read until the oil lamp flickered low. His eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered was Jian standing before the final gate, sword in hand, facing an army of immortals.
---
When Akash opened his eyes, the world had changed.
He was no longer lying on his thin mattress. Instead, he stood barefoot on soft forest moss. Towering trees with silver-white bark stretched endlessly upward, their leaves shimmering with faint inner light. The air was crisp and carried a strange, invigorating energy—like breathing pure oxygen mixed with ozone. Strange birds with iridescent feathers darted between branches, singing melodies he had never heard.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
This wasn't a dream. The scents, the temperature, the texture of the ground beneath his feet—all of it was too vivid.
A few meters away, a young man in worn gray robes stood with his back turned. A chipped iron sword hung at his waist. Even from behind, Akash recognized him immediately.
It was Jian.
The protagonist. The future Martial Monarch. The boy whose entire life Akash had just finished reading twice.
Jian slowly turned around. His face was younger than Akash had imagined—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—with sharp features, messy black hair, and eyes that burned with quiet determination. A fresh cut marked his left cheek, still bleeding slightly.
For a moment, the two stared at each other in silence.
Jian's hand moved instinctively toward his sword. "Who are you?" His voice was cautious but steady. "This is the Forbidden Forest of the Eastern Range. Outsiders are not welcome here."
Akash opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. His mind raced. *How is this possible? I'm inside the book? Did the lottery do this? The note said the world is mine…*
He finally found his voice. "My name is Akash Roy. I… I know you, Jian."
The boy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "How do you know my name?"
Akash hesitated. Telling the truth sounded insane even to himself. *I read your story. I know you will lose your first duel in three days. I know you will discover the Heaven Splitting Technique in the abandoned cave next month. I know you will eventually become the strongest being in this world.*
But saying any of that would probably get him killed on the spot.
"I… saw it in a vision," Akash said carefully. "A powerful dream. I was pulled here somehow."
Jian studied him for a long moment. The suspicion in his eyes didn't fade, but something else appeared—curiosity. In this cruel world, strange things were not entirely uncommon.
"You are not from the village," Jian said, glancing at Akash's modern clothes—faded T-shirt and loose pajama pants. "Those garments… I've never seen their like."
Akash looked down at himself and almost laughed. He looked completely ridiculous in this majestic fantasy forest.
Before he could respond, a low growl echoed through the trees. Three wolf-like creatures with glowing red eyes emerged from the underbrush. Their fur was pitch black, and faint runes shimmered along their spines. Spirit Beasts—low-level ones, according to the novel.
Jian drew his sword in one smooth motion. "Stay back. These are Shadow Wolves. They're drawn to blood."
Akash's pulse spiked. He had no weapons, no training, no cultivation base. In this world, he was weaker than an ordinary person.
Yet as he watched Jian prepare to fight, a strange feeling stirred inside him. He had read this scene before. He knew how it should go.
Perhaps he wasn't just a reader anymore.
Perhaps he really was here to create a myth.
---
**To Be Continued...**