A narrow, winding cobblestone path stretched ahead, worn and uneven, as if it hadn't felt the tread of many feet in years. The surrounding landscape lay abandoned, bathed in the moon's silvery glow. An eerie silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl.
Two men trudged along the desolate road, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. The first was tall and striking, with a square jaw, broad chest, and fine clothes that clung to his lean frame. His sharp eyes flitted restlessly, scanning the shadows as if seeking something just out of sight. The second man was shorter and more solidly built, his loose, unremarkable clothing concealing most of his features—but not the keen intensity in his eyes.
The shorter man let out a yawn and asked, "Mr. Grey, do you have any idea why the boss sent us to a deserted place like this?"
Mr. Grey shot him an annoyed look. "Don't ask something you already know."
The short man straightened, trying to defend himself. "I'm just saying, why would the boss be interested in the story of some guy living in a haunted place like this? Wouldn't it make more sense to call him to the office instead of sending us all the way out here?"
"Maybe the boss likes ghost stories," Mr. Grey replied with a slight smile. "Maybe he's sending us to meet one."
"That's not funny, Mr. Grey. Especially not in a place like this."
Their conversation dwindled as they reached their destination.
Before them stood a library.
It loomed like a forgotten relic of another age. Its stone walls were weathered and cracked, with ivy creeping up the sides like nature's slow reclaiming hand. The roof sagged in places, and several windows were broken or clouded with grime, allowing only faint glimpses of darkness within. The wooden double doors, though still intact, were warped and splintered, their once-grand carvings barely discernible under layers of dirt and decay.
The grounds were overgrown with wild grass and tangled weeds, swaying in the cold breeze. Twisted trees loomed nearby, their bare branches clawing at the air, casting long, skeletal shadows under the moonlight. It didn't just look abandoned—it felt watched, as if the building itself was aware of their presence.
A worn-out sign hung above the entrance, reading: Public Library. But neither "public" nor "library" felt like fitting descriptions for this place.
"Looks like we've reached our destination, John," Mr. Grey said, adjusting his shiny black hair with a quick sweep of his fingers.
"I think we really are going to meet a ghost," John muttered, his voice trembling.
Mr. Grey gave the surroundings another careful look. "Let's go in, then. Standing around won't help."
John hesitated. "Can't we just go back? It doesn't look like anyone's even here."
"We have to knock at least," Mr. Grey replied, irritation creeping into his voice. "If no one's inside, then we'll do things your way."
They approached the door. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, breaking the eerie silence. As Mr. Grey's well-manicured fingers touched the wood, the door creaked—a deep, rhythmic sound that echoed like a slow drumbeat through the night.
John, silently praying that no one would answer, felt his heart sink when a faded voice called from inside.
"Who's there?"
"We're from Clover Publications. Mr. Yang sent us to collect your story," Mr. Grey said calmly.
After a pause, the door creaked open to reveal a man in his late thirties. The moonlight highlighted his strong build and striking face. But his violet rooster-print pajamas gave him an oddly eccentric appearance. His long black hair, tied neatly into a ponytail, shimmered faintly under the pale light.
"Mr. Yang told me you'd be coming. Please, come in," the man said.
They stepped inside—and were surprised.
The interior was nothing like the crumbling exterior. The scent of old paper hung gently in the air, but everything was remarkably well-kept. Tall wooden shelves stretched into the dim interior, filled with books arranged with meticulous care. A soft amber glow from antique lamps illuminated polished wooden floors and dust-free furniture. Despite the building's worn facade, the inside felt oddly inviting—a forgotten world preserved in time.
The man led them to a large wooden table at the center of the room, where three sturdy chairs waited. Clearly, he had been expecting them.
Once seated, the man gave them a thoughtful look. "So, how is Mr. Yang doing?"
"He's fine. You should be more concerned about our condition," John snapped.
Mr. Grey shot him a warning glance. John often spoke without thinking, but this time he was being downright rude.
"Please forgive my junior's rudeness," Mr. Grey said smoothly. "He's simply tired from our long journey."
"I can see that," the man said with a slight smile. "Getting here isn't exactly pleasant."
"It's really unpleasant," John grumbled. "Even the map doesn't know this place exists. The roads are terrible. No vehicles come this far. We had to walk seven miles on foot. If it weren't for Mr. Grey, I would've turned back hours ago. Honestly, why would anyone live in a place like this?"
The man's smile faded slightly. "I just prefer to be alone."
Mr. Grey sensed the need to change the subject.
"So, let's get to business. I'm Ethan Grey, and this is Steve John. We're from Clover Publications. You may know that our company was the leading publisher in the country for over a decade. But two years ago, we hit a serious downfall. Since then, we've been struggling to recover."
He paused briefly.
"Our CEO, Mr. Yang, believes your story might be the key to our comeback. That's why we've come all the way here—seven miles on foot, through this ruin of a place—to collect it."
"Mr. Yang always flatters me," the man said with a casual shrug. "It is a unique story, I'll admit. But I don't know if it can bring Clover Publications back to the top."
He gestured toward the staircase. "It's getting late. Mr. Yang mentioned you'd be staying for a few days, so I've prepared a room for you both on the second floor. I hope you'll find it comfortable."
John perked up at the mention of a bed, eager to rest. Mr. Grey remained composed.
"What should we call you?" Mr. Grey asked.
The man gave him a long look. "I don't think I want to share my real name just yet. But you can call me Shade."
Grey and John exchanged puzzled glances.
"Well, Mr. Shade," Grey said, "thank you for your hospitality. But I must admit, I'm very eager to hear your story. I'd like to know whether all the trouble we went through to get here is truly worth it."
John groaned. "Can't we talk about it tomorrow? I'm completely wiped out."
Shade gave a soft smile. "Then let's try to honor both your wishes. I won't begin the full story tonight, as Mr. John requested. But to satisfy Mr. Grey's curiosity, I'll give you a brief synopsis. Does that sound fair?"
Both men nodded.
Shade leaned forward, his voice low and steady, as if reciting something half-remembered and half-lived.
"Life and death. Power and growth.
The watcher of fate—the ones we call God—don't care about the end result of any of that. God doesn't cheer for heroes or mourn the fallen. They simply watch, judge, and wait. And sometimes, they choose."
He paused, as if weighing his words.
"This is the story of a boy who had nothing. No family. No name worth remembering. He worked as a porter in a dusty railway station, sleeping in corners, invisible to the world. He couldn't even taste the food he ate—if you could call it food. At one point, he sold one of his kidneys just to survive another year. His only wish was simple: to live a little better before dying a little quieter.
But life doesn't give you what you want.
It gives you what you deserve.
And sometimes, what you deserve is far worse than what you could ever imagine.
Some sins can't be atoned for. But that doesn't mean they go unpunished.
Some debts aren't paid in coin—but in blood, in memory, and in silence.
One night, in that forgotten corner of the world, something found him. Or perhaps, he found it.
It was not a blessing.
It was not a curse.
It was... a beginning.
From that moment on, he was no longer just a boy trying to survive—he became something the world couldn't ignore, even if it wanted to."