Chapter 6: Gentle Ripples Through a Distant World
The rain began just before dawn.
Abid sat by the window, sketchbook in hand, listening to the soft rhythm of drops tapping against the metal roof above. Dhaka in the rain was a familiar melody: puddles reflecting the dim glow of streetlamps, rickshaws moving slowly through narrow lanes, and the earthy scent of wet stone and jasmine.
He drew without thinking—lines flowing across the page like ink remembering where it needed to go.
A boy in a hooded cloak.
A lantern held low.
Footsteps in the mud.
The Wanderer again, this time crossing a worn bridge under gray skies.
Abid didn't realize it at first, but the drawing mirrored something inside him: the quiet courage it takes to keep going on days when everything feels heavy.
The system pinged.
[Daily Bonus Unlocked: "Mood-Based Inspiration Boost" Activated]
[Drawing Speed +15%, Story Flow Enhanced for 6 hours]
He smiled faintly.
"I guess even systems know what rainy days feel like," he murmured.
---
By midmorning, Abid had completed seven thumbnail panels for Journey of the Wanderer, Chapter 4. This time, the Wanderer would reach a broken village where stories had been outlawed. The people lived in silence, their voices stolen by fear. But the Wanderer, with only pictures drawn in sand, would teach them how to share again.
The idea came from something Abid had seen as a child—an old mute beggar who used charcoal to draw faces on the walls of abandoned buildings. Faces of people who looked like they'd once laughed. Abid had always thought of it as magic without noise.
As he drew, the new brush—*Echo Edition*—gave his panels a soft resonance. He noticed it more when inking the characters' eyes. There was something subtle there now. A weight. A warmth.
Like the ink itself carried emotion.
He submitted the chapter around noon. The scroll vanished as always, shimmering with quiet grace.
Within minutes, comments from the fantasy world began to trickle in.
@GlimLeafChild: "Is it true people in your world can *draw* rain? I'd never imagined something so gentle could be captured."
@CaptainBorell: "My youngest cried reading the panel where the Wanderer drew the children in the dirt. Thank you, seller Abid."
@LibrarianThessa: "The old woman who once banned picture-books in our village… she just read this chapter twice. Then she gave me back my sketchbook."
Abid read every message.
He always did.
---
Later that afternoon, a new system notification appeared.
[System Alert: Your Manga Has Reached 1,000 Unique Readers (Otherworld)]
[Congratulations! Your Merchant Tier has been upgraded.]
[New Title: "Manga Merchant - Tier 2"
Rewards Unlocked:
* System Wallet (Auto-Converts Otherworld Currency to Bangladeshi Taka)
* Basic Analytics Tool (Track Reader Interests, Favorite Characters)
"Market Tent - Virtual Stall" Module Activated]
The screen shifted, and a small digital stall appeared, like a pop-up shop in an old RPG game. It had shelves, banners, and a wooden counter. Abid could drag his manga titles onto the shelves, decorate the stall, and even name it.
He stared at it for a long time.
A merchant. That word felt strange to him. Alien, even.
He wasn't selling swords or potions. He wasn't some trader in the marketplace of Virellin. He was just… telling stories.
But perhaps stories could be merchandise, too.
He clicked to rename the stall.
Name: Abid's Lantern Light Library
A soft golden glow filled the virtual shop's image. Warm. Inviting.
He dragged Journey of the Wanderer onto the main shelf and added a small sign:"Free to Read—For All Who Carry Quiet Sorrows."
---
As the day darkened again, Abid brewed a second cup of tea and checked the new analytics feature. A simple chart displayed the most bookmarked panels by readers.
* Panel 9 (Chapter 2): Wanderer looking at his own reflection in a stream.
* Panel 12 (Chapter 3): "Art is memory."
* Panel 4 (Chapter 4): Children drawing with sticks in the sand.
It wasn't action scenes they loved.
It wasn't flashy magic or fights.
It was moments of pause. Softness. Humanity.
That realization felt like sunlight through mist.
Abid had once worried that his stories would be too quiet to matter. That people wanted spectacle, not silence.
But this world—this otherworld—hungered for calm like dry earth craving rain.
And perhaps… so did his own.
---
That night, another message arrived. Not from a fan this time.
It was from Curator Anra.
Private Scroll:
"Dear Abid,
I hope this reaches you well. I must inform you that our city's High Librarian, Master Ellurin, has personally requested to speak with you.
Your scrolls have created quite the stir among the intellectual circles of Virellin. There are discussions now—serious ones—about whether 'drawn storytelling' could be added to our national education guild's curriculum.
If you would be willing, Master Ellurin wishes to commission an educational manga—something simple and moral-based—for use in village schools.
We await your thoughts with great respect.
– Curator Anra."
Abid reread the message several times.
A commission? From someone who ran an entire city library? For schools?
He set the phone down and stood up, pacing slowly.
This wasn't just fan appreciation. This was responsibility. The kind he'd never expected to carry.
And yet…
He thought of the little girl who laughed again. The old woman returning a sketchbook. The teacher in his memory, chalk in trembling hands.
He sat down again and wrote back.
To Curator Anra:
"I would be honored to create such a work. Please ask Master Ellurin what themes would be most helpful to your village children. I will begin storyboarding immediately."
No haggling. No payment talk. Not yet.
Some commissions deserved to be labors of love first.
---
He opened a new folder: "Project: Moonlight Lessons"
Concept: A short, gentle manga about a curious forest child learning values from animals—a bear who teaches patience, a bird who shows how to listen, a cat who helps her sit with sadness.
Simple drawings.
Big feelings.
Like the stories he used to tell himself when his parents were still around.
He began sketching the first few pages right away.
---
As the clock neared midnight, Abid paused.
A light breeze stirred the curtains.
He could hear the soft hum of life outside—stray cats meowing, a motorbike buzzing in the distance, the ever-present rustle of a city that never fully sleeps.
And yet, within him, there was silence. Not emptiness, but peace.
The peace of an artist who had found a place—not just in this world, but in another. Not just in the pixels of a screen, but in the hearts of people who had never heard his name… yet still cared for his work.
He saved his file.
Stood. Stretched. Closed the window.
And for the first time in years, as he turned off the light and crawled into bed, he whispered:
"I'm doing okay."