It began with a hum.
Not the gentle, soothing kind.
A deep, metallic vibration that felt like someone was tightening a wire through Aryan's skull.
Darkness.
The Aethra headset pressed over his eyes. His body lay still in the Neural Dome pod, but his sense of self floated in a black void. No hands. No feet. Just awareness, suspended in code.
For a second, there was nothing.
Then a sound scratched across the silence.
A low, dry chuckle.
Not loud. Not villainous. Just⊠amused, like someone sitting at the back of his mind had finally found a good joke.
He didn't think.
The sound was not his.
Before Aryan could form a thought, the darkness tore open with text.
---
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ð±ðžðŸðŒðŽðððžð² ðð²ð°ðœðœðžðœð¶âŠ
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðœðŽððð°ð» ð¿ð°ðððŽððœ: ð°ððð°ðœ ðºððŒð°ð
ð³ðŸðŒð°ðžðœ: ð±ðððžðœðŽðð & ðŒð°ðœð°ð¶ðŽðŒðŽðœð (ð¹ððœðžðŸð)
ððŽð¶ðžðŸðœ: ðžðœð³ð·ð°ðð° ðŽð³ðð²ð°ððžðŸðœð°ð» ð¶ððžð³
Scan lines sliced through the void like white lightning.
Then the font changed.
Sharper. Colder.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ð°ð»ðŽðð: ðœðŽððð°ð» ð°ðœðŸðŒð°ð»ð ð³ðŽððŽð²ððŽð³
ð²ð»ð°ðððžðµðžð²ð°ððžðŸðœ: ð³ðð°ð» ðœðŽððð°ð» ððžð¶ðœð°ððððŽ
ððð°ððð: ððœð°ððð·ðŸððžððŽð³
The darkness tightened. The hum turned into pressure, like an invisible fist closing around him.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðŸðœðŽ ð±ðŸð³ð. ðððŸ ðŒðžðœð³ð.
ð¿ððŸððŸð²ðŸð»: ð¿ððð¶ðŽ ðžðœðððð³ðŽð. ððŽððŽð ððŽðððžðŸðœ.
Purge.
Aryan didn't understand the code, but he understood that word.
No.
The thought wasn't calm or clever. It was raw panic.
If this session failed, if his entry was blocked, the scholarship could be withdrawn. The Gate project. The stipend. The roof.
Everything.
His awareness convulsed against the invisible grip.
"Stop," he tried to say.
No sound left him.
The pressure increased.
Somewhere in the dark, the chuckle came againâlazier this time, like the owner of the voice had just leaned back in a chair.
â "So dramatic. You finally open the door, and this is how they welcome us."
The words didn't echo around him.
They echoed inside him.
"Whoâ"
He didn't get to finish.
The red system font flared again, trying to crush both the voice and him at once.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðŽðœðµðŸðð²ðžðœð¶ ððŽððŽðâŠ
The entire void shudderedâ
âand then froze.
New text cut straight through the command like a knife.
This font wasn't red.
It was silver.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðŸð ðŽðððžð³ðŽ ððŽð²ðŽðžð ðŽð³
ððŸððð²ðŽ: ð ðŽð»ðððŸððžð° ððŸðŸð ð°ð²ð²ðŽðð
ð¿ððžðŸððžðð: ððð¿ððŽðŒðŽ
The pressure vanished so suddenly Aryan felt like he'd been dropped.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ð°ðœðŸðŒð°ð»ð ððð°ððð: ððŸð»ðŽðð°ððŽð³
ðµð»ð°ð¶: ðŸð±ððŽðð ðŽ
ððŽðððžðŸðœ: ð°ð¿ð¿ððŸð ðŽð³
The darkness smoothed out again. The hum settled.
The voice inside his skull stretched, like a cat waking up after a very long nap.
â "Interesting. The Ledger sees me and still lets me stay. This world really is bored."
Aryan forced his thoughts into some kind of shape.
"Who are you?" he asked.
There was no mouth. No language. But the question carried anyway, like a ripple through water.
The presence inside him shifted.
Heavy. Sluggish. Not like a sharp second person fighting for spaceâmore like a dense shadow leaning against the wall of his mind, too lazy to stand up.
â "Who am I?" The voice almost yawned. â "I am the headache you kept ignoring. The part of you that doesn't flinch when things break. The cold you hid so you could stay a 'good boy'."
Aryan's thoughts stuttered.
"You're⊠me?"
â "I'm what's left when you get tired of pretending to be human," the voice said. There was no pride in it. No drama. Just statement. â "You can call me Arthur."
The name dropped into the darkness like a small stone.
Aryan grabbed onto it.
"Arthur," he repeated, wary. "I don't need you. Go back."
That finally got a soft, amused reaction.
â "You're walking into a Coal Age, Architect," Arthur said. The way he said "Architect" made Aryan's skin crawl, as if someone had just read out a future title he hadn't earned yet. â "Half a billion students. Same starting line. Same mud. A few with a pocket of Credits, most with nothing. You want to survive that with school project morality?"
"Half a billion�"
The number flickered in his mind, too big to visualize.
â "Five hundred million assets," Arthur corrected lazily. â "Call them what the system calls them. Children are sentimental; ledgers are not."
"I won't use you," Aryan thought, sharper now.
The headache pulsed onceâfamiliar, sharp, right behind his eye.
Arthur sounded almost bored.
â "You will. Not because I'm special. Because you want to win. And I am very good at winning with minimum movement."
The darkness around them began to thin.
Somewhere far away, a new hum built upâdeeper and heavier than before.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðŽðð° ðžðœðžððžð°ð»ðžðð°ððžðŸðœ ððŽðððŽðœð²ðŽ: ððð°ðð
Smog rolled in at the edges of Aryan's awareness.
Not clean digital fog.
Thick, coal-black smoke.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ððŽð»ð²ðŸðŒðŽ ððŸ ð³ð·ð°ðð° ð²ðŸððŽ
ð¶ð»ðŸð±ð°ð» ð¿ð°ðððžð²ðžð¿ð°ðœðð: 500,000,000
ðŽðð°: ð²ðŸð°ð» ð°ð¶ðŽ â ððŽð°ð 0
COAL AGE.
The words didn't just read like flavor text.
They landed like a verdict.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ð³ðŽðµðžðœðžððžðŸðœ:
ðð·ðŽ ð°ð¶ðŽ ðð·ðŽððŽ ð·ððŒð°ðœ ð ð°ð»ððŽ ðžð ðŒðŽð°ððððŽð³ ðžðœ ððŸðŸð, ððžðŒðŽ, ð°ðœð³ ð¿ð°ðžðœ
ðžðœðžððžð°ð» ð²ðŸðœð³ðžððžðŸðœð:
â ðœðŸ ðŽð»ðŽð²ðððžð²ðžðð
â ðœðŸ ð°ðððŸðŒð°ððžðŸðœ
â ðœðŸ ð²ð°ð¿ðžðð°ð» ð±ðŽððŸðœð³ ððŽðŽð³ ð°ð»ð»ðŸð²ð°ððžðŸðœ
ððŽðŽð³ ð»ðžðŒðžð: 100 ð²ððŽð³ðžðð
Aryan caught the important part.
Rich students weren't gods here.
They had moreâbut not infinite. A hundred Credits. Enough to make mistakes. Not enough to buy the world.
It still felt like a mountain compared to zero.
His thoughts steadied a little.
"I still don't need you," he told the presence. "I just have to work harder."
The laugh that answered him was almost gentle.
â "And I just have to wait," Arthur murmured. â "You can climb until your hands bleed. I'll be right here when you realize effort is not a strategy."
The darkness finally cracked.
---
He fell.
Not down.
Forward.
Into mud.
The impact shocked through a body that wasn't exactly his but felt close enoughâknees hitting wet ground, hands slamming into something that smelled like rotten eggs, iron, and burnt stone.
He coughed.
The world slammed into focus.
He wasn't in a neon city.
He was in a wasteland of smoke.
Tall brick chimneys stabbed into a sky the color of old bruises. Black smoke poured from them, thick and constant, turning the air into a choking soup. Rows of crooked brick buildings leaned against each other like exhausted workers. Rusted rail tracks cut through the mud, half-submerged in black water.
In the distance, massive heaps of coal rose like jagged hills. Tiny figures moved over them like antsâstudents, all in rough work clothes, coughing and stumbling as they tried to get their bearings.
This wasn't a game lobby.
This was an open-pit factory.
A text frame blinked into his vision.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðððŽð: ð°ððð°ðœ ðºððŒð°ð
ððŽð¶ðžðŸðœ: ðžðœð³ð·ð°ðð° ððŸðœðŽ â ððŽð²ððŸð 4 (ðµððžðœð¶ðŽ)
ð³ðŸðŒð°ðžðœ: ð±ðððžðœðŽðð & ðŒð°ðœð°ð¶ðŽðŒðŽðœð (ð¹ððœðžðŸð ððð°ðžðœðŽðŽ)
ððð°ðððžðœð¶ ð²ððŽð³ðžðð: 0
Zero.
Of course.
His eyes flicked automatically to the side, where a translucent leaderboard hovered in the smoky air.
Top balances.
ð ððððð ððð â 100 ð²ð
ðððð ðŒðððð â 100 ð²ð
Other names followed, all in the same narrow bandâeighty, ninety, a hundred Credits. Children of families who could buy the maximum seed allocation when DHARA opened its pre-sale.
They weren't at a different starting line.
Just⊠a step ahead.
On the ground around him, some students in the same rough clothes were already whispering.
"Look there, that one has moneyâ"
"Only hundred, stupid. Not lakhs."
"Hundred is still hundredâŠ"
The Coal Age had rules.
It wasn't a fantasy where a prince started with a golden sword and everyone else got sticks. It was a ledger game.
Arthur's voice came back, as lazy as the smoke.
â "See? Balanced. Fair. Vaguely kind. And still designed to crush most of you."
Aryan pushed himself up, boots sinking into the black slush. The air burned his throat. He wiped his hands on his coarse shirt and looked down at his avatar properly for the first time.
Rough grey workwear. Heavy boots. No fancy gear. No glowing weapons.
Just a canvas satchel at his side.
He opened it.
Inside: a rusted metal chisel, a short ledger notebook with blank pages, and a small stamp with his name on it.
ARYAN KUMAR
ASSET CLASS: JUNIOR
No money.
Just tools to write.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ðœðŸððŽ: ð°ð ð° ð±ðððžðœðŽðð ð³ðŸðŒð°ðžðœ ððð°ðžðœðŽðŽ, ððŸðð ð¿ððžðŒð°ðð ððŽð°ð¿ðŸðœ ðžð ð²ðŸðœððð°ð²ð, ðœðŸð ðµðžðð.
ð²ð°ðððžðŸðœ: ð²ðŸðœððð°ð²ðð ð²ð°ðœ ð³ð°ðŒð°ð¶ðŽ ðð·ðŽ ððžð¶ðœðŽð.
A scream cut through the smog.
Not digital. Human.
Aryan turned.
Not far from him, another group of students were still spawning in.
Some staggered. Some fell. One boy, disoriented, slipped in the mud and went face-first into a shallow ditch filled with oily water. He emerged coughing, eyes red, avatar already stained black.
A golden notification hovered above that boy's head for a moment.
ððŽðŽð³ ð±ð°ð»ð°ðœð²ðŽ: 100 ð²ð
He wasn't dressed differently.
No crown.
No halo.
But a single number made every head near him snap in his direction.
Like blood in water.
The boy saw his own balance, grinned, and opened his menu quickly, already looking for something to buy.
Arthur hummed.
â "He'll waste half of it on shiny tools in the first hour," he said lazily. â "Then someone smarter will sell him the rope to hang himself."
"I'm not him," Aryan thought back sharply.
â "I know," Arthur said. â "You're more dangerous. You won't waste anything. You'll bleed for every Credit. People like that are the ones the system loves most. They generate the best data."
The wind shifted.
Somewhere far away, a massive bell tolled onceâdeep, metallic, echoing through the sector.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ð²ðŸð°ð» ð°ð¶ðŽ ð¶ð»ðŸð±ð°ð» ðœðŸððžð²ðŽ
ð°ð»ð» ð¿ð°ðððžð²ðžð¿ð°ðœðð:
ðð·ðžð ðŽðð° ððŽððð ððŸðð ð°ð±ðžð»ðžðð ððŸ ð±ððžð»ð³ ð ð°ð»ððŽ ðµððŸðŒ ðœðŸðð·ðžðœð¶.
ðœðŸ ðŸðœðŽ ðŽðð²ð°ð¿ðŽð ðŒðð³.
ðŸðœð»ð ððŸðŒðŽ ð»ðŽð°ððœ ððŸ ðŸððœ ðžð.
Half a billion students.
Same era.
Same mud.
Some with 100 Credits.
Some with none.
All of them about to claw, bargain, cheat, invent, and break themselves to climb out of this soot.
Aryan stood there, breathing hard, letting the smoke sting his eyes.
The Gate, the vendors, the leaking roofâeverything that had felt big yesterday suddenly felt small against this world.
But not unconnected.
Mud was mud.
Rules were rules.
"If I can understand the rules," he thought slowly, "I can survive."
Arthur's presence shifted again, heavier, like it had just settled comfortably into a permanent seat in the back row of Aryan's mind.
â "Good. Start there," he said. â "Understand. Watch. Don't run yet. When you see a pattern worth cutting⊠I'll be here."
A new line of text appeared, almost as an afterthought.
[ð²ð·ðžððð° ðððððŽðŒ]
ððŽð²ðŸðœð³ð°ðð ðœðŽððð°ð» ððžð¶ðœð°ððððŽ:
ð°ð»ðžð°ð ððŽð¶ðžðððŽððŽð³ â ð°ððð·ðð
ð°ð²ð²ðŽðð ð»ðŽð ðŽð»: ðð·ð°ð³ðŸð ðŸð±ððŽðð ðŽð
Aryan stared at that.
"They⊠registered you?"
â "The Ledger likes interesting errors," Arthur replied. â "And I am very interesting."
Aryan tightened his grip on the small stamp in his hand.
The Coal Age had begun.
He had no Credits. No weapons.
Just a notebook, a name sealâŠ
âŠand something in his head that laughed in the dark when the system said the word purge.
He took his first step through the mud.
Not toward the leaderboard.
Not toward the distant chimneys.
Toward a small, half-collapsed structure on the horizonâbrick walls, a dead chimney, no smoke. A ruin.
It looked like something the world had already decided was useless.
Those were the only things that ever gave him a chance.
As he walked, the industrial wind howled past his ears.
It didn't sound like welcome.
It sounded like a question.
And somewhere deep inside him, quieter than the smoke, Arthur answered it first.
â "Let's see what you do, Architect."