"The world is cruelly ironic—those with kind hearts are crushed under its weight, while the wicked thrive, basking in rewards they never earned."
Mark exhaled deeply, the sigh escaping his lips carrying the weight of years spent in silent misery. As he dragged himself out of bed, his hunched shoulders and hollow gaze told the story of a man resigned to his fate.
For 26 long years, Mark had lived as a shadow in his own life—a spineless, introverted man, mocked and trampled by the world. Bullied in every phase of his existence, he had learned to bow his head and endure, even if it meant licking the boots of those who stepped on him.
Reading light novels had become his sole refuge, his escape from the grim monotony of reality. Stories of invincible heroes and grand adventures filled the void in his heart, offering a fleeting taste of the life he could never have. What else could someone like him do? The outside world wasn't a place for someone like Mark—it was a battlefield where he was doomed to lose.
To step outside meant humiliation, degradation, and ridicule. Staying indoors, immersing himself in fictional worlds, was the only thing that kept his shattered spirit from crumbling entirely. Yet, even in the safety of his dimly lit room, the echoes of his failures haunted him.
"If only life were like those stories," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, "where the weak can rise and the strong face justice."
Little did he know, fate had a cruel yet extraordinary twist awaiting him—one that would drag him from the depths of his despair and throw him into a world where power was the only law. A world where even the meek could carve their destiny, should they dare to seize it.
As Mark dragged himself out of bed, he muttered in a voice so monotone it could make a brick seem lively, "A failure among failures. No, scratch that—I'm the king of failures. Bow before me, peasants."
His room, if it could even be called that, was the very definition of "introvert's paradise." Bookshelves overflowing with light novels lined the walls, their precarious stacks threatening to bury him alive one day. Posters of his favorite fictional heroes adorned the peeling wallpaper, and a single dim lamp cast a lonely glow over the cluttered desk, where half-empty instant noodle cups sat like trophies of past battles.
Mark lived in a cramped two-room apartment with his father, whose concept of interior design revolved entirely around functionality—or the lack thereof. The living room was basically a kitchen with delusions of grandeur. A creaky wooden table occupied the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs that looked like they were survivors of a garage sale apocalypse.
Stumbling out of his room, Mark rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep. He turned his head toward the fridge, where a bright yellow sticky note clung to the door with all the elegance of a child's art project. He squinted at the scrawled handwriting:
[Sticky Note]
*"Yo, champ!
Off to work early today—don't miss me too much. Lunch is on you, so whip up something edible (try not to burn the place down). Oh, and we're out of bread, so be a hero and get some on your way back. Don't forget this time, or it's toast for breakfast. Literally.
Love,
Your one and only dad, the Breadless Baron."*
Mark stared at the note for a moment, his groggy brain struggling to process the words. Then it hit him like a ton of stale bread.
"Wait, WHAT?! I have to buy the bread myself?! What is this, a side quest?!" he shouted, throwing his arms in the air dramatically. He slumped against the fridge, groaning. "Breadless Baron? More like Merciless Monarch of Dad Jokes!"
He glanced back at the note, shaking his head in disbelief. "How does he expect me to face society? I mean, sure, bread is life, but I'm not emotionally prepared for small talk with the cashier today!"
Mark let out an exaggerated sigh, dragging himself toward the bathroom like a soldier heading to battle. "The things I do for carbs," he muttered under his breath.
________________________________________
As he splashed cold water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dark circles underlined his eyes, his messy hair stuck out in all directions, and his oversized t-shirt read, "Professional Procrastinator."
"Yup," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Truly a hero in the making. Watch out, world—Mark the Bread Hunter is coming."
But deep down, even as he joked, he couldn't help but wonder if today would be any different from the monotonous days he'd grown so accustomed to. Little did he know, a twist of fate was just around the corner—one that would throw him into a world where bread was the least of his worries.
Mark opened his creaky closet, the door groaning in protest like it hadn't been used in years. He grabbed a simple black T-shirt and a pair of faded gray trousers. As he slipped them on, an old, bittersweet memory flickered in his mind like a hazy dream.
His mother—yes, his mother. A shadow in his past, a figure he barely remembered. She had passed away when he was just two years old, taken by an illness so sudden and mysterious it left his father reeling. Mark couldn't even picture her face; the only reminders of her existence were the faint stories his father occasionally shared.
Being raised without a mother's warmth was like growing up in a house without windows—cold, isolating, and always a little too dark. He couldn't help but blame it, at least partially, for the person he had become.
"Why am I like this?" he muttered to himself, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror. "I just want to live like everyone else. I want to make friends. I don't want to die single!"
The last part escaped his lips louder than intended, and the absurdity of his own words hit him. Die single? Really, Mark? You can't even keep eye contact with a street dog. Talking to a girl would practically be a near-death experience.
He let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah, sure, Mark. Let's just start small. Maybe stop freezing like a deer in headlights every time someone says 'hi.' Baby steps."
He glanced down at his T-shirt and trousers, realizing how plain they were. "What am I even worried about? It's not like I'm impressing anyone today... or ever."
Mark sighed deeply, grabbing his phone and wallet. As he prepared to face the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing in his life—something bigger than bread or small talk.
Mark let out a small sigh and pushed open the front gate of his apartment. Instantly, the sun's rays greeted him like an overenthusiastic friend, nearly blinding him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting up at the sky.
"How long has it been...?" he muttered, staring at the endless blue expanse. "Since I last came outside?" A weak, awkward smile crept onto his face. 'It feels like I'm a vampire stepping into the light for the first time...'
He let out a nervous laugh, scratching his head, and descended the narrow pathway leading to the stairs. The neighborhood around him bustled with life—kids playing soccer, a street vendor yelling about fresh vegetables, and dogs barking in the distance.
As Mark walked down the stairs, he couldn't help but think about his plan for the day. 'Alright, Mark. You've got one job—buy bread. Easy, right? No room for screw-ups. Just walk in, pick up the bread, pay the cashier, and leave. Simple. No eye contact. No unnecessary conversation.'
But deep down, his nervousness began to creep in. 'What if the cashier is talkative? What if they ask me something? What if I stutter?' His mind spiraled as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the very idea of human interaction gnawing at his confidence.
Walking into the supermarket, Mark immediately felt out of place. The air conditioning hit him like a blast of winter, and the orderly rows of shelves felt like a labyrinth designed to confuse introverts.
He grabbed a basket and shuffled awkwardly to the bread aisle, his head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Then, he saw them—a couple standing by the pastries, laughing and playfully arguing over which cake to buy. Mark paused, staring at them like they were some rare, mythical creatures.
'What is love?' he thought, his mind wandering to the romance novel he had devoured last night. 'Is it like they describe in novels? An unyielding flame that burns through all obstacles? Or... is it just a fleeting moment, like the final chapter of a bittersweet story?'
He sighed deeply, clutching the handle of his basket. "Guess I'll never know. I can't even talk to a cashier, let alone hold hands with someone..."
Finally, with bread in hand, Mark approached the counter. His heart pounded like a war drum as he placed the bread down and looked up.
"Is that all for you today?" the cashier asked, her tone polite but indifferent.
Mark froze. 'Okay, Mark. This is your moment. Say something. Anything!'
"Buh-buh-buh... bread," he stammered, his face turning redder than a ripe tomato.
The cashier blinked, clearly unimpressed. "That'll be $1.50."
Mark fumbled with his wallet, dropping it twice before managing to hand over the money. He grabbed the bag with a shaky hand and practically sprinted out of the store.
Outside, Mark leaned against a lamppost, clutching the bread bag like it was his lifeline. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to calm down.
"Why am I like this?" he muttered, staring at his reflection in a nearby shop window. His disheveled hair and nervous expression stared back at him. "Why can't I just... be normal?"
Then, almost instinctively, he clenched his fist.
"No," he said, his voice firmer. "I don't need to be normal. I need to be me. The world doesn't care about who's normal or not—it only bows to those who carve their name into it. One day... one day, I'll be someone the world can't ignore."
As he turned to head home, the bread still in hand, Mark couldn't shake the feeling that his mundane world was on the brink of change.
As Mark turned to head home, clutching the bread in his trembling hands, his eyes caught sight of a little girl, no older than seven, standing in the middle of the road. She seemed unaware of the truck hurtling toward her at an alarming speed. The driver, distracted and oblivious, showed no signs of stopping.
Mark's heart froze.
Before he could consciously process what he was doing, his legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the girl with an urgency that overrode his fear. "Why... why can't I stop? I don't want to die now!"
His mind screamed, yet his body ignored him. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn back, to flee, but his instincts—or something beyond him—propelled him forward.
In a single desperate motion, he lunged toward the girl, shoving her out of harm's way.
The next moment, he stood alone in the truck's path.
As Mark turned to head home, clutching the bread in his trembling hands, his eyes caught sight of a little girl, no older than seven, standing in the middle of the road. She seemed unaware of the truck hurtling toward her at an alarming speed. The driver, distracted and oblivious, showed no signs of stopping.
Mark's heart froze.
Before he could consciously process what he was doing, his legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the girl with an urgency that overrode his fear. "Why... why can't I stop? I don't want to die now!"
His mind screamed, yet his body ignored him. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn back, to flee, but his instincts—or something beyond him—propelled him forward.
In a single desperate motion, he lunged toward the girl, shoving her out of harm's way.
The next moment, he stood alone in the truck's path.
As Mark turned to head home, clutching the bread in his trembling hands, his eyes caught sight of a little girl, no older than seven, standing in the middle of the road. She seemed unaware of the truck hurtling toward her at an alarming speed. The driver, distracted and oblivious, showed no signs of stopping.
Mark's heart froze.
Before he could consciously process what he was doing, his legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the girl with an urgency that overrode his fear. "Why... why can't I stop? I don't want to die now!"
His mind screamed, yet his body ignored him. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn back, to flee, but his instincts—or something beyond him—propelled him forward.
In a single desperate motion, he lunged toward the girl, shoving her out of harm's way.
The next moment, he stood alone in the truck's path.
Without warning, the suffocating darkness around him transformed into a radiant light. Tiny, shimmering particles filled the air, glowing with a warmth that seeped into Mark's very soul.
Each particle that brushed against him carried a soothing energy, as if wiping away the weight of his regrets, his failures, and his fears.
"What is this place?" he asked, his voice trembling with awe. He reached out a hand, letting the luminous particles dance across his fingertips.
For the first time in years, he felt... alive.
The voice returned, softer now, almost like a caress.
"Your journey begins here, Mark. Live without regret. Forge your path... and become what this world needs."
Mark's heart raced as he struggled to understand. The warmth of the light enveloped him, pulling him further into its embrace.
And then, with a flash brighter than the sun, everything went white.
Mark's story was about to begin.