The bench was cold. Not that he minded. Silence blanketed the mall like the calm before a monsoon. Around him, the world buzzed—laughter from the food court, footsteps on tile, the distant crackling of announcements in Japanese he barely understood. But none of it mattered. Not to him.
His name was Ren. At least, it had been. He was a novelist, and at that moment, he was writing—not for fame, not for money, but because words were the only way he knew how to breathe.
His fingers tapped over the laptop keys, rapid, determined. He sat beneath the broad skylight of the Shibuya Central Mall, a place he visited often while traveling. High above, clouds darkened like ink spilled across parchment.
He paused.
Typed one word: "End."
And felt nothing.
Maybe because it wasn't his best work. Or maybe he had grown numb to endings. It was a tragic fantasy, laced with irony. A villain who was never evil. A hero who never knew he had died.
He closed the laptop. Exhaled. The sound of children playing echoed through the marble atrium.
Then it happened.
A sound split the air, like a scream torn from the earth itself. The ground jolted. Cracked. Lights flickered. Screams followed—raw and primal.
Earthquake.
The bench trembled. He tried to rise, but the floor surged beneath him like a wave. A chandelier shattered. Glass rained.
A voice. A child crying. A mother yelling in panic. Then—silence.
And the roof collapsed.
A single thought passed through his mind before it all faded:
So this is how it ends. Not in fiction. In reality.
Then—darkness.
He didn't wake to fire. Or pain. Or screams.
He woke to books.
Thousands of them. Shelf after shelf, taller than the sky. Leather-bound, aged with dust and time. Candles burned without flame. Shadows danced like memories on the walls.
He stood, barefoot. No longer in jeans. No longer in his body.
He looked at his hands—smaller, thinner. Younger?
Where am I?
A voice echoed through the void, neither human nor machine.
[System Installation Complete.]
His spine stiffened. That was a phrase he had written himself—hundreds of times. But never spoken to him.
[Welcome, Lyris.]
The voice sounded gentle. Not warm. Not cold. Just… neutral.
"Lyris…?" he repeated, the name dry on his tongue.
[You are Lyris now. 12 years of age. Resident of Farrow's Edge, Southern Territory. This is your second beginning.]
The walls of the room pulsed—pages flapping like wings. His thoughts collided. Logic demanded answers. Emotion only fed the confusion.
"Why?"
[You died.]
"Yes. I remember."
[You created worlds. Now you must survive in one.]
He stepped forward. The books whispered his name. He read a title:
Chapter 1:The Beginning.
A shiver rippled through his chest.
"This is… my story?"
[No. This is your life. You will no longer write the plot. You will live it.]
Before he could ask more, the floor dissolved beneath his feet, and he fell—
Cold air. Damp. The scent of hay, earth, and old wood.
He gasped. Sat up.
His vision swam, then cleared. He was inside a small house—stone walls, thatched roof. A wooden bowl beside the bed. A flickering oil lamp.
A woman stirred in the corner, humming a lullaby in a language half-familiar.
"Lyris?" she called softly.
He turned.
She looked young. Tired. Her eyes held the wear of years spent in fields, not cities. Her hands were scarred but gentle.
"I… yes?"
She smiled, touched his forehead.
"You fainted again. You shouldn't skip meals."
He blinked. The body responded. This was his voice now. Lighter. Younger. Twelve.
She handed him bread. It tasted like memory—old, dense, real.
Something inside him trembled. Not fear. Not joy. Just weight. The kind that comes from knowing a story has already begun, and you don't hold the pen anymore.
That night, he sat alone outside the small house. The village stretched around him—wooden homes, stone paths, a dying sun. A place untouched by metal or electricity.
He stared at the sky. No satellites. No jets. Just stars.
Then it spoke again.
[System Activated.]
"Explain," he said simply.
[You are not chosen. You are not the hero. You are common-born, Lyris. Your body is average. Your bloodline is plain. Your magic, non-existent.]
"So I'm nothing."
[No. You are something. A thinker. A creator. A solver.]
"And the system? What's your function?"
[To assist. Not to empower. I do not give skills. I do not grant strength. I record. I respond. I ask.]
He narrowed his eyes. "You ask?"
[Yes.]
The system paused. Then:
[What do you want, Lyris?]
He laughed—quietly. Bitterly.
"I wanted to write books. Then I died. Now I live inside one."
[Is that what you believe?]
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at his hands again. Dirt under the nails. Small scars. Callouses forming.
This was not a dream. Dreams don't ache.
He looked toward the village. Smoke rose from chimneys. A bell rang in the distance.
And he knew this world would not be kind.
He returned inside.
His new mother—Aela, he recalled—slept quietly. Her breaths steady.
A mirror hung by the door. He approached it.
A boy looked back. Brown eyes. Pale hair. Thin frame. Not weak. Not strong. Just—there.
He stared at himself.
"I am Lyris," he said aloud.
Not Ren.
Not the novelist.
Just Lyris.
He stared deeper. "But I still think like one."
The reflection didn't argue.
In the days that followed, Lyris walked. Observed. Took in every detail of the village.
Farrow's Edge. A farming settlement. Population: under 300. No military presence. One elder. Two hunters. One healer. Twelve fields. One library—barely.
He asked questions.
Why do the cows have double pupils?
Why does the water from the east well taste like iron?
Why does the priest always pray facing south, when the sun sets west?
The villagers saw him as curious. Maybe strange. But not threatening.
He listened. Took mental notes. Built maps in his head.
The system spoke less now.
But always responded when he asked.
[Status?]
[Commoner. Age 12. Body Condition: Average. Mental Activity: High.]
[Skills?]
[None registered.]
[Classes?]
[None eligible.]
[Inventory?]
[Worn clothes. Bread crust. A question.]
He raised a brow. "A question?"
[Yes. You carry one.]
He waited.
[Why were you reborn?]
His chest tightened.
A good question.
One without an answer.
Yet.
That night, he dreamed.
Of the mall.
Of falling ceilings.
Of a boy named Ren who ended his novel seconds before the world ended him.
And in the dream, a voice whispered:
You created too many stories… so now, you must finish one.
He awoke in sweat. Cold wind on his skin.
Outside, a scream echoed in the woods.
Not human.
Then silence.
He stood. Walked to the door. Opened it slowly.
The village still slept.
But the trees didn't.
Something moved there.
Watching.
Waiting.
He stepped back, slowly. Closed the door.
And whispered to the dark:
"I see. This is not just a village."
He paused.
"This is a setting."
And if this world had a plot…
Then the first chapter had only just begun.