Hours had passed in the carriage, and Zayn had remained perched near the carriage door, ears straining to catch any useful information.

Unfortunately, all he could hear was the mundane chatter of the guards driving the carriage. Their conversation wandered between idle gossip and gripes about their duties, offering no clues about their destination or what might be in store for the captives.

With nothing else to do, Zayn turned his attention inward. He studied the slaves around him, their lifeless forms slumped in the dimly lit carriage. Occasionally, one of them would stir, a faint flicker of movement breaking the monotony, but it was rare.

He couldn't even determine if their silence trained into them or purely from their loss of life. Their expressions never changed—blank stares, hollow eyes, and barely perceptible breaths.

At random intervals, one of the slaves would suddenly snap, breaking into hysterical screams and thrashing wildly. Zayn observed how this was handled each time.

A guard—either the woman from earlier or another man, who he believed to be her partner—would enter with a practiced air, selecting one of the crystals from their chain and activating it.

This allowed Zayn to understand what they all did.

The blue crystal sent bolts of electricity through the afflicted slave, silencing their screams in a violent convulsion. The red crystal ignited them briefly, leaving behind painful burns. The green one caused boils to form rapidly on their skin, hissing and bubbling as they leaked a corrosive substance. The black crystal, by far the most gruesome, either suffocated the victim or crushed their limbs, leaving them incapacitated.

Zayn noted each one, committing the effects to memory. The only crystal he hadn't seen used was the white one. It hung prominently among the others, untouched but seemingly revered—or perhaps feared—by the guards. He noticed how they would eye it cautiously whenever reaching for their crystals, ensuring they never accidentally selected it.

With nothing else to do, Zayn tried to formulate a plan. He knew that solving the issue in the Story was the only way for him to get out. That was how Characters did it and that was what he had to do.

But how could he solve anything when he barely understood where he was or what was happening?

His first thought was to escape, but the idea seemed laughable. These weren't ordinary restraints; the rune markings were deeply embedded into his flesh. He toyed with the morbid idea of tearing them out but quickly dismissed it. Even if he somehow managed to do that, it would only leave him seriously hurt and vulnerable.

The guards were armed, and while their weapons were swords rather than guns, Zayn had no illusions about his chances in a fight against more than ten of them.

Frustration bubbled inside him. There has to be something, he thought. But every scenario he imagined ended with failure. He felt trapped, powerless, and utterly insignificant in the grand design of whatever was happening.

Zayn sat in the dim light of the carriage, lost in his thoughts. He considered his predicament, the lifeless slaves around him, and the grim reality of being at the mercy of the guards.

But his musings were interrupted by a sudden surge of heat in his chest. It started faintly but rapidly grew into an unbearable burning sensation.

Gritting his teeth, Zayn tugged at the ragged shirt he wore to inspect the source of the pain. At first, he saw nothing, but then his skin began to glow red, as though he were being branded. The heat was intense, and he clenched his fists, inwardly cursing the Story for the unending suffering it had brought him since his arrival.

The heat peaked, and then, just as he thought he couldn't endure it any longer, something extraordinary happened. Glowing letters began to form on his chest, floating just above his skin. They were initially in Humanic, the language of the Empire, but other unfamiliar symbols soon joined them. The characters merged into intricate glowing runes, which then transformed into the golden silhouette of a book.

Zayn's eyes widened in disbelief as the golden book seemed to open in midair before him, its pages glowing and alive. Lines of text appeared on the pages, shimmering in the air like holograms. He quickly glanced at the others in the carriage to see if they noticed, but none of the slaves moved, their lifeless stares fixed on nothing. Even the guards outside seemed oblivious.

He turned his attention back to the floating book as the text settled into an array of information:

Character: Zayn

Rank: Mundane

Role: None

Purpose: Mundane

Qualities: [Mistake] [Unfortunate]

Abilities: None

Story Purpose: [Lower Citizen]

The words mesmerized Zayn, glowing with an almost hypnotic intensity. His amazement turned into deep curiosity as he began to study the information closely. He decided to start from the bottom and work his way up.

When he focused on the Story Purpose, an additional description appeared beneath it:

[Lower Citizen]:

"You are a lower citizen of the kingdom. You serve no purpose, existing merely to inflate the population statistics of the empire. Even livestock are more valuable than you. Your only meaningful contribution would be to die, allowing your body to fertilize the soil."

The words were venomous, their hatred palpable. Zayn felt as though the Story itself despised him, mocking his existence with cruel indifference. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching as he absorbed the insult. This was no ordinary display of information; it was deeply personal and laced with malice.

It confirmed what he had already suspected: his role in the Story was to be insignificant, disposable. The revelation was as painful as it was enlightening.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Is this how the Story works for everyone?" he thought bitterly. He considered the Characters and their successes in completing Stories. Did they also see such a system? Was theirs kinder, more supportive? He doubted anyone would succeed with a system that seemed so bent on tearing them down.

Pushing aside his frustration, Zayn focused on the Qualities section. Two words hovered there:

Mistake:

"Your very existence is a flaw against the world. Correct this error by removing yourself from it."

Unfortunate:

"You are marked by misfortune. The world frowns upon you, ensuring that no good fortune comes your way."

The sheer hostility of these descriptions was almost impressive in its consistency. Zayn couldn't help but feel like the Story was mocking him, daring him to give up.

"Yeah, well, screw you too," he thought bitterly. "If you want me dead so badly, just do it yourself."

But even as the words formed in his mind, he quickly backtracked. If he truly was as unlucky as the system suggested, antagonizing the Story might only make things worse. He decided to tread carefully.

Wills and Dreams offered no descriptions, as they were blank, but that absence only served to emphasize how unremarkable he was in this world.

Lastly, Zayn glanced at Rank and Purpose, which labeled him as "Mundane." He recognized the term from how Characters often referred to non-characters with thinly veiled disdain.

'If this system is part of the Story, then it has to have a purpose, right? Even if it hates me, it must expect me to do something.' he wondered.

Still, the venomous tone of the descriptions made him uneasy. Was the Story actively rooting for him to fail, or was it testing him? Either way, he knew one thing: he couldn't afford to give in. This might be his only way to survive, escape, or even rise above the miserable circumstances he found himself in.

As Zayn pondered, the golden book faded, its glow retreating into his chest until it vanished entirely. The heat was gone, leaving only a faint warmth where the book had been.

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The world was quiet again, save for the occasional creak of the carriage wheels. Deep in his thoughts, Zayn realized one thing clearly:

"If this is what the Story wants me to believe, then I'll prove it wrong."

Zayn sat in the dim confines of the carriage, his fingers brushing absently over his chest where the golden book had seared itself into existence moments earlier. Annoyance bubbled within him.

He had already died once in the real world; doing it again here wouldn't make much of a difference. But as quickly as the thought came, he regretted it.

With a grimace, he muttered to himself, "Not with my luck. That'll probably be exactly what happens."

The information he'd read from the golden system still gnawed at him. The description of the Mistake quality, calling him a literal flaw in the world, unsettled him. His life had been a long, grueling string of bad experiences, but being labeled a defect? That felt like the Story was twisting the knife. Still, he couldn't argue with the facts.

The world had treated him like a mistake his entire life, and now even this cursed system seemed to agree.

His brooding was interrupted as the carriage door creaked open. Zayn's attention snapped to the front, where the female and male guards entered together. Behind them floated an imposing monolith, its surface smooth and black like obsidian, but glowing with vibrant purple runes etched deeply into its sides. The runes pulsated rhythmically, casting faint flickers of violet light that illuminated the dim interior.

Zayn's mind raced as he stared at it. What the hell is that thing? He wondered, but he kept his expression blank. He didn't need the guards turning their attention to him.

The female guard's voice broke the tension as she barked a command. "Stand up!"

The slaves around him moved sluggishly but obeyed without hesitation, their motions robotic and devoid of energy. Zayn, not wanting to draw attention to himself, mimicked their movements, keeping his head down and his stride weak.

Once they were all standing, the guards gave another order. "Step forward, one by one," the male guard said impatiently.

Zayn watched as the first slave, an elderly woman sitting across from him, shuffled toward the monolith. Her movements were agonizingly slow, and Zayn could see the frustration building on the male guard's face. He didn't have to wait long to see it boil over; the man grabbed the old woman by her hair and shoved her forward roughly.

The act elicited no reaction from Zayn. He had no sympathy to spare—his own survival depended on remaining unnoticed. They're slave drivers. Of course, they're going to be cruel. What did you expect, a helping hand? He thought, his mind cold and detached.

The old woman finally reached the monolith, and Zayn watched closely as it began to glow. A faint stream of purple energy flowed from the monolith and into her, snaking its way across her body. The dull rune tattoos on her neck, wrists, and ankles suddenly flared to life, glowing brightly with the same purple hue. Zayn tensed, expecting something horrific to happen, but after a few tense moments, nothing did.

The guards, unconcerned, called for the next person.

"Move it," the female guard snapped, and Zayn realized it was his turn.

Keeping his head low, Zayn walked forward with calculated slowness—just enough to appear as lifeless as the others, but not so slow as to provoke the guards. He reached the monolith, and just like before, the glowing runes activated. Purple energy coursed through his tattoos, filling his body with a faint warmth that quickly dissipated. He stood there stiffly, waiting for something painful or deadly to happen, but nothing did.

He exhaled silently and moved to the side, joining the old woman.

One by one, the rest of the slaves underwent the same process. Zayn watched carefully, trying to decipher what the monolith was doing. Was it marking them? Enhancing the runes? Or perhaps it was tracking them somehow? Whatever it was, it unnerved him.

When the last slave had been processed, the guards swung the carriage door open once more and barked another order. "Out. Now."

The slaves obeyed, their movements sluggish as they filed out of the carriage. Zayn followed, making sure to blend in.

Once outside, the first thing he noticed was the landscape. They were at the edge of a dense forest, the towering trees stretching endlessly into the horizon. But it was what lay ahead that made his stomach drop. Rising in the distance was a massive, half-destroyed mountain.

The sight was unmistakable. It was the mountain from his vision—the one struck by the crimson meteor. Its upper half was obliterated, leaving a jagged, unnatural crater at its peak.

This is where it happened, he realized, his heart pounding. The meteor crash I saw in that vision.

Before he could process the significance, he felt movement behind him. A man in the line suddenly stirred, his previously dulled eyes snapping open with clarity. The man looked around wildly before bolting toward the forest, running with a speed that seemed impossible for someone in his state.

Zayn's eyes widened in surprise. He's actually trying to escape?

The man's timing was perfect—there were no guards stationed on that side of the line. For a brief moment, Zayn thought the man might actually make it and wondered if he should have also taken the chance.

But the guards didn't even flinch. They watched him run with bored indifference as if they'd seen this a hundred times before.

Zayn's gut churned. Something was wrong.

His suspicions were confirmed when the monolith near the carriage suddenly flared to life, its purple runes glowing blindingly bright. A strong silent pulse came from it, and Zayn watched in horror as the fleeing man's body began to slow and be ripped apart.

It started with his skin. Thin ribbons of flesh were torn from his body, flying back toward the monolith as if magnetized. The man's screams were deafening, his voice breaking as layer after layer of his body was stripped away.

Next came the muscle. Strands of tissue unraveled from his bones, whipping through the air in bloody streaks. His organs followed, ripped from his chest cavity in a grotesque display of precision.

Finally, his skeleton collapsed to the ground, clean and bare, before turning to dust under the weight of an unseen force.

It all happened in seconds, but the image burned itself into Zayn's mind.

The line of slaves remained motionless, their expressions unchanged as if they hadn't just witnessed a man being torn apart.

The guards exchanged a glance, their expressions indifferent.

"Keep moving," the female guard barked, her tone as cold as ever.

Zayn swallowed hard and followed the line forward, the image of the man's horrific death burned into his mind. If he needed any reminder of the power these people held, this was it.