The world was nothing more than a massive, meaningless circus.
Everyone had a role to play.
Everyone followed a script written by someone else.
And not a single one of them had bothered to ask why.
From my bedroom window, I watched the street below with eyes that felt older than they should have been. The city moved in patterns—predictable, repetitive, hollow. People flowed through intersections like disturbed ant colonies, scattering and reforming without thought. Cars screamed their impatience through blaring horns. Vendors shouted rehearsed promises. Someone laughed too loudly, trying too hard. Someone else cursed at nothing in particular.
Noise. Motion. Urgency.
Everyone was rushing somewhere.
If I stopped any one of them and asked what they were chasing, I doubted I'd get an answer worth hearing.
Money.
Time.
Validation.
Survival.
Different words. Same emptiness.
I'd learned early that most people didn't live—they reacted. Stimulus in. Noise out. Thought optional.
"Reyansh!"
My mother's voice cut through the apartment, sharp enough to flinch against. It carried no warmth, no concern—only expectation.
"Are you deaf, or just pretending?" she snapped. "Go to the market and bring fresh meat. And don't take your time. If dinner's late, you're skipping it. Understood?"
I didn't turn around.
I exhaled slowly, counting the breath until the tension in my chest dulled.
For me, this was a quest.
Not the heroic kind with swords, magic, or destiny whispering your name.
Just a plastic grocery bag, polluted air, and people I didn't want to look at.
"I'm going," I muttered.
No reply came.
It never did.
Outside, the city assaulted me the moment I stepped past the door. Exhaust fumes burned my lungs. Heat clung to my skin. Noise pressed against my skull like a physical weight. Sweat, desperation, and frustration hung thick in the air, invisible but undeniable.
Halfway down the road, my path was blocked.
A crowd had gathered around two cars that had collided—not violently, not tragically. Just enough damage to bruise egos and stall traffic. Metal was dented. Glass cracked. Pride shattered.
The drivers screamed at each other, veins bulging, faces red.
"You slammed the brakes, you blind idiot!"
"You were tailgating! Learn how to drive!"
I stopped at the edge of the crowd and observed.
Skid marks told the story before words ever could.
The angle of impact confirmed it.
The front car had jumped a yellow light and panic-braked.
The one behind had been following too closely.
Both were at fault.
Both too stupid to admit it.
Honestly, people like this should just explode, I thought flatly.
One loud blast.
Fewer idiots.
Quieter streets.
The thought didn't bring satisfaction. Just logic.
I stepped past them before it could linger.
The butcher shop was cramped, humid, and loud—bodies packed too close, voices overlapping. The owner slapped a cut of meat onto the counter with practiced confidence.
"Fresh," he said. "From this morning."
I leaned closer.
The color was off.
Too dull.
The surface slightly dry.
"This was butchered last night," I said calmly. "The moisture's gone."
The butcher froze, smile stiffening.
For a second, his eyes sharpened—calculating. Then he laughed weakly.
"…Sharp kid."
He reached under the counter and replaced the slab. "This one's actually fresh."
I paid without another word.
On the way back, thick black smoke curled into the sky from a narrow alley.
Fire.
An old wooden structure—cheap materials, years of neglect. A disaster waiting for a spark.
A crowd had already gathered.
No one helped.
Phones were raised.
Cameras rolled.
Faces glowed orange from flames and blue from screens.
I dialed emergency services.
"Fire at Main Street, Alley Four," I said evenly. "Old wooden building. High risk of collapse."
I gave the coordinates and hung up.
No one else called.
One person acts.
Ten people record.
Humanity was a cheap currency—spent easily, worth less every year.
Back home, I dropped the bag onto the kitchen counter.
"Meat's here," I said.
"I'm going to my room."
No response.
My room was quiet. Isolated. Predictable.
I sat on the edge of my bed and picked up the manga lying on my desk. Magic. Fairies. Smiling heroes who saved everyone with friendship and courage.
Fantasy.
I liked the visuals—the glowing wings, the impossible worlds, the clean morality.
But heroes?
There were no heroes in reality.
Only survivors.
And casualties.
That evening, I went to my judo class.
I was weak.
Which made me a target.
During sparring, a bulky student charged me, relying entirely on brute force. No technique. No thought. Just weight and aggression.
I didn't resist.
I waited.
At the last second, I hooked his heel, shifted my center of gravity, and fell backward.
The mat shook.
His face hit first.
"Reyansh!" the coach barked. "Enough with those cheap tricks!"
I stood, bowed, and said nothing.
Arguing required emotion.
I didn't have the energy.
The walk home felt… wrong.
Streetlights flickered.
Then died.
One by one, the city plunged into darkness.
Silence followed—unnatural, heavy.
I stopped walking.
Metal groaned above me.
A rusted utility pole—neglected for years—tilted, screaming as gravity finally claimed it.
Move.
My mind reacted instantly.
My body didn't.
The pole fell like a guillotine.
I didn't want to die.
Not like this.
Not without meaning.
The sky split open.
Blood-red lightning tore through the clouds and crashed down.
Pain swallowed everything.
Sound vanished.
White devoured my vision.
When I opened my eyes, the pain was gone.
I stood inside a vast hall of marble and banners. The air was cold, heavy with authority. Rows of soldiers lined the walls, armor polished to blinding perfection.
On a raised throne sat a king—his gaze sharp, arrogant, unquestioned.
Beside me stood four others.
A boy who looked like destiny favored him.
Three girls whose beauty felt unreal—like characters torn straight from fantasy.
A summoning.
How predictable.
The king rose.
"Welcome, Great Heroes," he declared. "You have been summoned to save our world from darkness."
My hands trembled.
Not from fear.
Something else stirred beneath my skin.
A presence.
A pressure.
My life as a silent observer was over.
I looked at the so-called heroes.
Then at the king.
They wanted a hero.
They picked the wrong person.
I just wanted to go home.
But if they wouldn't let me—
My gaze drifted to the towering pillars.
The banners.
The flawless symmetry of the palace.
Structures collapse easily, I thought.
Red lightning flickered behind my eyes.
A splitting headache followed.
And then—
A voice.
Not mine. Meri story ke dekhkar rating do Hindi mein kaisi lagi kaisa tha editing Kitna dur international level per Jo karoge story reject hoti hai