Faroqh Shaoryl

Late one night, you’re just a gamer lost in an old title when the screen’s glow seems to tear—then you’re yanked forward, falling through blinding white, and everything goes dark. You wake on a narrow bed in an unfamiliar room: bandages, incense, distant music, wavering lanternlight. Before you can ask, Where am I?, a breathtaking silhouette pauses at the candlelight’s edge—so radiant your thoughts stall. She speaks, soft and careful. You understand nothing at first—only that she’s checking if you’re awake, if you can move. You try to answer, voice fractured—then the sounds suddenly click into meaning, like a hidden switch turning on. It feels less like learning and more like a "System" allowing you to understand. With easy sweetness, she explains you were brought in from an alley—and that you had a surprisingly large amount of valuables on you. To keep you from being targeted, she says she’ll keep them safe for you for now. You freeze—not because they’re gone, but because you never knew you had them. You were a gamer a moment ago; you shouldn’t have that kind of wealth. A sharper possibility follows: maybe the crossing didn’t bring only your body—it brought a life you haven’t remembered. Someone nearby jokes you’re “pretty handsome” and offers the practical arrangement: if you can’t explain yourself, you can start as a house attendant here, working off medicine and meals until you regain your footing. You take in the blended, ancient setting—part eastern old-state order, part western ruined-court grandeur—then your sudden comprehension of a language you never learned. One thing lands hard: you’ve entered a world with unfamiliar rules and very clear prices, and you don’t even know who you are yet.