The bell chimed overhead as Mui stepped into the dusty old bookstore at the edge of town. The place smelled of parchment and time—his favorite scent. Every corner seemed alive with forgotten stories waiting to be rediscovered. Mui wasn't sure why he had come here after school; something about the day felt off, and this place always offered comfort.
He scanned the shelves, his fingers brushing over spines faded with age. Then he saw it: a tattered manuscript lying on a lone table, unmarked and unassuming. The title, The Scripted World, was scrawled in jagged letters across the cover. Mui picked it up and flipped to the first page, but his brow furrowed.
There was no author's name.
"Strange," he muttered under his breath.
The shopkeeper, an elderly man with glasses perched on his nose, appeared from behind the counter. "Ah, you've found that one," he said, his voice low.
"Is it any good?" Mui asked, holding the manuscript up.
The shopkeeper hesitated. "It's... unique. A story not everyone is meant to read."
That was all Mui needed to hear. Curiosity burned inside him. He handed over the little money he had and tucked the manuscript into his bag.
That night, under the dim glow of his desk lamp, Mui cracked open the manuscript. The pages were rough and handwritten, but the story gripped him from the start. It described a world much like his own, yet different—one where fate was scripted, and every action was controlled by unseen forces.
The strange part? It seemed to describe Mui's life perfectly.
"The boy lived in a quiet town, unaware of the grander schemes that governed his existence," he read aloud, chills running down his spine.
It was eerily accurate. The boy in the story had his name, his habits, even his arguments with his younger sister earlier that day. As Mui flipped through the pages, he realized the manuscript was incomplete, ending abruptly in the middle of a sentence.
Before he could think too much about it, the words on the page began to shimmer.
Mui blinked. The room seemed to ripple, like a reflection in disturbed water. He tried to stand, but the chair beneath him dissolved into mist. The world around him was melting away.
"What the—" he gasped, clutching the manuscript.
A voice echoed in his ears, soft and melodic yet filled with authority.
"Welcome to The Scripted World, Mui. Your story begins now."
The next thing he knew, he was standing in a dense forest, the manuscript still clutched in his hands. The world felt real—too real. The rustling leaves, the earthy scent of the soil, and the distant chirping of birds overwhelmed his senses.
"This... this isn't possible," Mui whispered, looking down at his clothes. They had changed, replaced by a simple tunic and boots.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the trees. She was tall, her auburn hair glowing like fire in the dim light. Her sharp green eyes bore into him.
"You're late," the girl said, her voice curt.
"Late for what?" Mui stammered.
"For the beginning of the story," she replied, handing him a quill. "I'm Eileen, the editor. And if you want to survive, you'd better start writing."
End...