The mountain village lay hidden in the folds of the earth, pressed between barren ridges and a winding dirt road that led, after half a day's walk, to Second Tie City.
Its name was never written on maps.
People who left never came back.
And now, only one young man remained.
His name was Luke—or Lu Kong, as the village elders called him.
He was nineteen years old, and the only able-bodied young male left in the village.
The rest were old men with bent backs, women worn thin by years of labor, and children too young to understand why the village kept growing quieter every year.
The men had gone first.
Some were conscripted.Some chased rumors of work in Second Tie City.Some vanished on the road between.
None returned.
Luke stood at the edge of the terraced fields, hoe resting against his shoulder, watching smoke rise from the distant city beyond the hills.
Second Tie City was close enough to see on clear days—gray walls, iron scaffolding, and factory chimneys that spat black clouds into the sky. Close enough to tempt hope. Far enough to swallow lives whole.
"Lu Kong."
Old Granny He called out from behind him.
"You're daydreaming again."
Luke turned and smiled, the kind of smile that made people think he was doing fine.
"I was just thinking," he said, walking over to help her carry a basket of firewood, "maybe this year's harvest will be better."
Granny He snorted. "That's not thinking. That's wishing."
Wishing.
Luke didn't say anything.
Because he did wish.
He wished the village didn't feel like a waiting room for death.He wished the old men didn't look at him like a last pillar holding up a collapsing roof.He wished that when he walked the mountain paths at night, he didn't hear the wind sound like voices calling names that no one answered anymore.
Most of all—
He wished he could leave, without leaving everyone behind.
That night, Luke lay on the wooden bed in his small house, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would escort supplies to the foot of the mountain.Next month, the village would decide whether to send him to the city.Next year… there might not be a village left.
He closed his eyes.
"I don't want much," he murmured into the darkness, half-mocking himself."Just… a good life. One where no one regrets anything."
The moment the words left his lips—
The world went silent.
No wind.No insects.No breathing.
Luke's heart slammed against his ribs as time itself froze, the candle flame beside his bed suspended mid-flicker.
A pale light unfolded before his eyes, layered like sheets of glass.
[World of Remorse — Initial Contact Established]
Luke tried to move. He couldn't.
Text formed, calm and indifferent.
[Subject Identified: Lu Kong][Status: Unremarkable · Untouched by Narrative][Eligibility: Confirmed]
His throat went dry.
"What… is this?"
The light pulsed once.
"Across countless worlds, lives end in regret."
Images flashed—faces he didn't recognize, deaths that felt painfully real, hands reaching for futures that never came.
"You have made a wish.""Do you wish to grant them?"
Luke's mind reeled.
"I didn't—this isn't—"
The images sharpened.
A bodyguard bleeding out in the rain.A woman kneeling before a throne, condemned for crimes she didn't commit.An old master coughing blood, watching his disciples from afar.
Regret.
So much regret it felt heavy in his chest.
"If I say no?" Luke asked hoarsely.
The light did not threaten him.
It simply answered.
"Then your life will proceed as written."
Luke saw it—himself growing older in the village, shoulders bowed too soon, burying the elders one by one, becoming a story no one ever told.
Ordinary.Quiet.Full of unspoken wishes.
He clenched his fists.
"…If I say yes?"
The interface shifted.
[World of Remorse — Entry Pending][First Wish Awaiting Selection]
"Grant a Good Life."
Luke took a slow breath.
He thought of the village.Of Second Tie City's distant smoke.Of all the things he had never dared to ask for.
"…Then," he said softly, "let me try."
The light surged.
The candle flame shattered into darkness.
And Luke Lu Kong vanished from his bed, carrying with him the very first wish—
Not his own.
But someone else's regret.