Noen Sema stared blankly at the ceiling of his cramped, cheap rented room. The midday heat was unbearable, and he couldn’t even afford a fan.  

Failure knocked on his notifications every day. Success never came.  

His phone buzzed beside him, waiting for his attention.  

“Another rejection, huh?” he muttered, glancing at the screen.  

It was an email, he hadn’t passed the interview.  

At twenty-five, he no longer knew what else to do. Only the rope in his closet had watched him lie on the bed that day, a rope he didn’t use after much hesitation.  

His arms still bore the scars he always hid beneath long sleeves. He never rolled up his shirt. Not anymore.  

Exhausted by it all, sleep was his only comfort—the cheapest form of escape he could afford.  

“No meals today. I’ll fill myself with water instead,” he whispered.  

But even that took too much energy.  

“Maybe I’ll just sleep first.”  

And then, his eyes closed.  

---

Even in sleep, he cursed life.  

Life had never been fair to those without talent.  

“Hard work leads to success?”  

How many people work hard and succeed?  

If you search for them, maybe you’ll find plenty.  

But what about those who work hard and still fail?  

Far more.  

They remain invisible, because no one cares.  

Their stories sink into the slum areas of overcrowded cities.  

Noen’s childhood was filled with stories. That’s why he deeply valued the life stories of others.  

Every night as a child, he used to watch the stars.  

He always felt sad when one dimmed.  

A fading star meant a fading story.  

And when a star vanished, so did the stories of its planets.  

But that habit was no longer possible in the city.  

He was too sad to even lose his own miserable story.  

That’s why he didn’t use the rope.  

He didn’t even know how he would pay his rent anymore. Each day brought him closer to the deadline.  

Hunger knocked on his stomach so loudly it echoed through the room.  

But weakness dulled his awareness of it.  

And so, after a few minutes of cursing life, he truly fell asleep.

---

A bright white light woke him.  

The feel of grass against his skin startled him.  

A cool breeze brushed his face, making him open his eyes.  

He sat up in shock.  

He was on a hill, beneath a shady tree, in broad daylight.  

A raven perched on a branch above him.  

Below the hill lay a small village.  

The farmland and pastures were larger than the homes themselves.  

“Where am I?” Noen asked, rubbing his head.  

“You’re in another world,” said the raven from the tree.  

Noen turned toward the voice, confused. He only saw the raven.  

“Is someone hiding up there?”  

The tree was leafy, but its branches were clearly visible from below.  

“I’m the one who speaking.”  

“The raven speaks?!”  

“Yes. Your lack of wisdom has disturbed the wisdom of the god Thoth. He sent me to deal with you.”  

The raven flew down and landed before Noen.  

“Is it because of my suicidal thoughts?” Noen wondered.  

“Your entire life narrative is deeply unwise. Your story has almost fallen into Echo. Many others are like you, yet I don’t understand why Thoth wants to save you.”  

“What do you mean? Save me from what? I don’t understand.”  

“This is what I hate every time Thoth sends me. Every human has a life narrative, a story power. If no one cares about you, your narrative becomes Echo. Echo is the story of someone forgotten by others. But you even want to forget your own story, even though you’re sad and keep remembering it.”  

“What happens if my life story becomes Echo?”  

“Nothing happens. You’re forgotten by the world. No one cares. The worlds keep turning as if you never existed.”  

“You said worlds? So multiverse theory is real?”  

“Humans from your world are too primitive for this. But yes, it’s true. This is different world from yours, more primitive in technology, but more advanced in thought.”  

“Wait, how can advanced thought not align with technology?”  

“Millions of years ago, their ancestors had advanced tech on another planet. But they created planet-destroying weapons and burned their home. When they migrated here, they discovered magic through story power. They realized technology was dangerous and abandoned it. Though they’re still scientifically advanced, they refuse to use it for convenience. Even silly debates like flat Earth don’t exist here.”  

“I still don’t get it. Why did you bring me here?”  

“Live here. Create a story people will remember. The stronger your story, the stronger you become. Give me your hand.”  

Noen offered his left hand.  

The raven placed its wing on it.  

A small light shimmered briefly.  

A ring appeared on his index finger.  

“What is this?”  

“It’s a seal. You can turn your fingers into power. That’s why it must be sealed. Each finger can hold a story. To use it as power, you must collect stories."

“So what’s the power in my index finger?”  

“Regeneration. You once failed to end your life, right? That story gave you regeneration. Of course, your regeneration is only at the Narrative tier.”  

“There are other tiers?”  

“Yes. Echo is the forgotten tier.  

Then Narrative—the basic story tier.  

Then Plot Fragment—when your narrative starts to be known.  

Then Fable—when your story is told in homes.  

Then Legend—when the whole nation admires your tale.  

And the highest: Chronik. Not just the whole nation, but all of humanity across time remembers your story.”  

“So I grow stronger by telling my story?”  

“Telling doesn’t just mean speaking. You can tell stories through action.”  

“Does everyone have this power?”  

“Of course. But not many awaken it. Because story power can’t be sought with selfish intent. For example, if you tried to end your life just to gain power, it wouldn’t work.”  

Noen looked at his finger for a moment.  

“Alright. I’ll try again my second chance.”  

He said, walking toward the village.