Chapter 1: The Sound of an Empty Stomach
Shahed lived in a room so small that if he sneezed, the neighbors would say "Bless you" from three houses away. His stomach was currently playing a concert of growls, a symphony of hunger that was both tragic and funny.
"Quiet down in there!" Shahed whispered to his belly. "I'm trying to think of a million-dollar idea, and you're distracting me with your demands for a ten-taka samosa!"
He was a boy from a tiny village in Bangladesh, now lost in the giant, concrete jungle of the city. He had come with big dreams and a small bag. Now, the bag was empty, and the dreams felt like heavy stones. He spent his days doing odd jobs—carrying bricks, cleaning tables, and even once trying to sell "magic pens" that were just regular pens he had polished with his shirt.
But today was different. He had exactly zero takas in his pocket. He walked toward the main road, hoping to find some work. Suddenly, he saw a crowd gathered around a massive billboard. It said: "Write Your Story, Change Your Life. Earn in Dollars!"
Shahed laughed bitterly. "Write? I can barely afford a pencil, let alone a computer."
As he turned to leave, he saw a discarded, half-broken smartphone lying in the trash bin. It was cracked, dirty, and looked dead. But when he picked it up, the screen flickered to life. A strange notification appeared:
[Welcome, User Shahed. The 'Billionaire Author System' is now binding to your soul.]
Shahed froze. Was he hallucinating from hunger? He rubbed his eyes, but the message remained.
[Mission 1: Publish your first chapter. Reward: A hot meal and $10.]
His heart skipped a beat. $10? That was almost 1,200 BDT! Enough for a week's food! With trembling hands, Shahed sat on the pavement and began to type his very first word. He didn't know it yet, but this broken phone was about to turn the poor village boy into a global legend.
"Hello readers! This is my first story. I hope you enjoy Shahed's journey from poverty to success. Please support me with your comments!"
The hunger was no longer a sharp pain; it had become a dull, rhythmic thrumming in Shahed's chest. It was a symphony of starvation. He sat on the edge of a creaky wooden bed in a room so small that calling it a "room" felt like a legal crime. If he stretched his arms, he could touch both walls. If he sneezed, the neighbor in the next shanty would shout, "Bless you!" without even raising their voice.
"Quiet," Shahed whispered, pressing his palm against his stomach. "I know you want a ten-taka samosa, but right now, we are dreaming of millions. Don't let a small fried snack ruin my big vision."
He tried to laugh, but his throat was too dry. He was a boy from a tiny, emerald-green village in Bangladesh, where the air smelled of wet earth and jasmine. He had come to the city with a bag full of dreams and a heart full of hope. Now, the bag was torn, and the hope was flickering like a candle in a storm.
He had spent the last six months doing every job imaginable. He had carried heavy bricks under the scorching sun until his skin peeled like an onion. He had scrubbed greasy tables in cheap restaurants where the smell of biryani felt like a cruel torture. He had even tried to sell "magic pens"—cheap ballpoints he polished with his ragged shirt—to wealthy students, only to be chased away by security guards.
As the sun began to set, casting long, golden shadows over the concrete jungle, Shahed decided to take a walk. He couldn't stay in that suffocating room anymore. He walked past the glitzy shopping malls where people spent more on a single coffee than he earned in a month. The contrast made his heart ache with a sorrow so deep it felt like a physical weight.
"Why them and not me?" he muttered, looking at his reflection in a glass window. His eyes were sunken, and his face was thin, but there was still a spark of fire in his gaze.
He wandered into a dark alley, a shortcut to the cheaper part of the city. There, amidst the piles of discarded cardboard and broken glass, he saw it. A faint, blue glow was coming from a trash bin.
Curiosity overcame his exhaustion. He reached into the bin and pulled out a smartphone. The screen was shattered in a spiderweb pattern, and the casing was covered in mud. It looked like a piece of junk.
"Maybe I can sell the parts for a few takas," he thought. But as his finger touched the power button, a jolt of electricity shot through his arm.
The screen didn't just turn on; it exploded with a blinding light. Floating in the air before his eyes were glowing golden letters.
[System Initialization... 10%... 50%... 100%]
[User Identified: Shahed]
[Soul Binding: Complete]
Shahed fell back, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm finally losing it. The hunger has turned my brain into mush," he whispered.
But the screen stayed. A cold, mechanical, yet strangely comforting voice echoed in his mind.
[Welcome, Host. You have been selected for the 'Billionaire Author System'. In this world, words are the only currency that matters. Your pain is your ink. Your struggle is your plot.]
[Current Mission: Write and publish your first 1,000 words.]
[Reward: $10 (1,200 BDT) and a 'God-Level Beginner's Meal' package.]
$10? 1,200 takas? To Shahed, that sounded like a king's ransom. He looked at the broken phone. It wasn't a piece of trash; it was a golden ticket.
With trembling fingers and tears blurry in his eyes, he sat down right there on the dirty pavement. He didn't care about the smell or the darkness. He opened the 'Notes' app on the system phone.
He began to write. He wrote about the boy who wanted to buy his mother a saree but couldn't afford a thread. He wrote about the symphony of hunger in his belly. He wrote with a passion that burned hotter than the city heat.
Every word he typed felt like a heavy stone being lifted from his soul. He wasn't just writing a story; he was writing his way out of the darkness.