Chapter 9: Firelight Across the Worlds
The world of dreams was unusually quiet that night.
Abid slept curled on his side, hand still smudged with graphite, a half-drunk cup of ginger tea resting beside his floor cushion. Outside, Dhaka's usual city hum seemed far away, muffled by the gentle spell the system had wrapped around his apartment after the submission was sent.
In the other world, time moved differently. While only hours passed in his world, the Door of Three Candles had already been opened.
And stories were being judged.
---
When Abid woke, sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft threads, and his limbs ached like he'd spent the night sculpting stone instead of drawing with pencil and pen.
The system shimmered to life with a gentle chime.
> **Status: Judgment at the Door Complete**
> Results:
> – *Journey of the Wanderer – Chapter 5*: Accepted
> – *The Pebble and the Stream*: Accepted
> – *Cloud-Lanterns Over Arvellis*: *Cherished and Crowned*
Abid blinked, rereading the third line.
"Cherished… and crowned?"
A small icon pulsed beside the words. He tapped it.
A glowing envelope unfolded across the screen. Within, a delicate note appeared, handwritten in the same flowing script as the fantasy readers.
> "By vote of the 23 Gathered Scribes, your final tale was not merely accepted—it was embraced. A child from the northern skylands asked for it to be read aloud five times. It made the fire dance. Welcome to the Living Shelf."
>
> — Archivist Milren, Keeper of the Candle Hall
Abid read it again and again.
Somewhere in another world, children had heard his story under candlelight.
And they had asked for more.
He sank back, not with pride—but something far older, softer.
Fulfillment.
He was no longer just sending lines into the void.
Now, he was heard.
---
Later that day, the system issued a new reward notification.
> **System Upgrade Unlocked: Artisan Tier 2**
> – Reader Base Expanded to 25,000 Potential Readers
> – Enhanced Drawing Interface Available
> – "Artisan's Ink" (x3 vials) delivered to Inventory
> – Feature Unlocked: "Imprint Studio" (Bind your emotions to a story)
The Artisan's Ink arrived in the form of glowing, floating vials within his interface inventory. Each one shimmered with swirling color—one deep blue like twilight, one gold like morning, and one soft lavender like spring rain.
He selected the new feature—*Imprint Studio*—and a small tutorial message popped up.
> "Imprint your current emotions into a page. Readers will sense the underlying feeling—joy, sorrow, longing, or calm. Use sparingly, as it weaves truth into your lines."
That last part made him pause.
Truth into the lines.
That idea both inspired and frightened him.
He set the vials aside for now. Some truths, he thought, needed more time to be drawn.
---
That evening, Abid decided to go for a walk.
The day's warmth was fading into that short, beautiful hour in Dhaka when the sky turned peach, and the birds began to nest in the trees above the streets. He tucked his sketchbook under his arm and stepped out.
As he wandered the quieter back lanes near the park, he passed small tea stalls, corner bookstores, a family selling lentils from giant sacks. Everything familiar.
But tonight, it all seemed different.
Not less real—but… connected.
He paused at a tiny tea stall run by an older woman with silver hair and steady hands.
She poured him a clay cup of milk tea, not recognizing him as anyone special.
He liked that.
Abid sat on a wooden bench nearby and opened his sketchbook.
A child ran past chasing a plastic wheel.
A man practiced tabla in the distance.
He began to sketch—not manga pages, just faces, motion, rhythm.
His hand moved without thinking.
The rhythm of drawing felt new again—like rediscovering an old friendship.
And in his chest, there was something he hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
---
That night, he returned home to a new system prompt.
> **Incoming Message: From Archivist Milren**
> Urgent: An Official Request from the Candle Hall
Abid blinked.
He tapped to open it.
Milren's image flickered into view—a bearded man with a long scar beneath his eye and a robe covered in little ink symbols. He bowed deeply.
"Master Artisan Abid," he began, "your stories have sparked questions we could not have imagined. Several cities now request scrolls of your works to archive and distribute."
Milren looked momentarily embarrassed.
"We understand these tales belong to your creative soul. But we hope to formally request a licensed copy of the three submitted works… and perhaps… future stories as well."
He added with a small smile, "Of course, compensation shall be arranged."
A system box popped up beside the message.
> **Contract Offer: Flamebound Publisher's Seal**
> Details:
> – Stories to be published in the major libraries of three regions
> – Royalties paid in World Gold and Story Marks
> – Optional: Author's Note may be added to each chapter
>
> Accept?
Abid hesitated.
Then, he smiled.
He clicked *Accept*.
---
The next week was a slow, glowing chapter in his life.
Sales from the Candle Hall publication began to roll in—measured not just in gold but in new messages. Entire schools in the fantasy world requested reading licenses. Librarians sent warm greetings. One child, in trembling handwriting, had sent a small poem about the Wanderer.
Abid read it aloud one evening.
His voice cracked halfway through.
He whispered to the empty room, "Thank you."
---
A few days later, he stood in his small kitchen, staring at the worn wooden cupboard with a bowl of warm khichuri in hand. The ceiling fan buzzed overhead. Outside, a cat meowed, followed by the clink of plates from the neighbor's window.
He was still in Dhaka.
Still the man with the silent phone.
Still walking past old bookstores and tiny mosques tucked into corners of alleys.
But something had changed.
He no longer drew just to forget.
He drew to remember.
To connect.
To share.
The system blinked once with a new message from the fantasy world.
> "We await your next story, Artisan. The Candlelight Festival approaches. And readers are hoping for something warm."
Abid smiled quietly.
He reached for his pen