In the bustling metropolis of India, the days blended together for Virat, a quiet teenager who found comfort in the solitude of his small bedroom. The city's chaos lingered beyond his closed door, but Virat's world was silent except for the faint buzz of his old phone and the digital fanfics he devoured hour after hour. Drawn most to tales of magic, politics, and impossible odds, lately he obsessed over a Game of Thrones fanfic, living vicariously through heroes who possessed mysterious systems—those digital companions that dispensed power with the roll of a cosmic dice.
Virat's own life felt powerless. Face-to-face conversations overwhelmed him; friendships were distant dreams. But each fanfic chapter held promise—a system could change everything, if only he were lucky enough to receive one.
Late one humid night, Virat's phone, battered and overcharged, hummed a little too loudly. As he scrolled through the next scene, the device suddenly sparked, a brilliant flash surging through the screen. There was no pain, just white-hot light. In his final moment, a single desperate wish echoed in his mind: "Let me have a system. Let me be like them." And then—nothing.
He awoke suddenly, gasping. The air was crisp, shadows deep, and birds called from the high branches of unfamiliar trees. Virat sat up; his jeans and shirt felt strangely substantial, as if untouched by a journey through fire. The ground beneath him was soft moss, the canopy above thick and foreign. Disoriented, he tried to remember his last moments—the fanfic, the wish, the blast.
It wasn't a dream. After scanning the ancient forest, Virat's attention snapped to a shimmering panel in the air—a translucent, holographic display, just like in those system stories.
[System Online]
[Current Balance: 1 Coin]
[Spin for Random Reward]
He stared. No investigating; the rules were familiar, the premise clear. With shaking hands, Virat selected "Use Coin," his heart pounding like a trapped rabbit.
The light spun and settled. Suddenly at his feet was an object he instantly recognized thanks to countless hours spent online: an M416 assault rifle, its finish immaculate, a suppressor fitted perfectly. Attached to it was a tag—[Unlimited Ammo]. Virat almost laughed with disbelief, then sobered. In a fairytale, this weapon spelled power; in a world of dragons and sorcerers, it could just as easily be useless.
His hands trembled as he slung it over his shoulder, resolving not to fire unless absolutely necessary. The cosmically-bestowed rifle set him apart, but caution was survival.
Thirty minutes on cautious feet brought Virat to a ridge above a dirt track. Voices—foreign yet familiar: English, clipped and northern, not the bustle of Mumbai English. Hidden behind brambles, Virat listened as the travelers spoke of Winterfell, North, and the end of harvest. The realization struck—this was Westeros. The stories that kept him company in his old life seemed suddenly, impossibly real.
Waiting for a lull, Virat emerged, clutching his backpack. The strangers eyed his appearance—jeans, sturdy shirt, quality unknown in these parts. Virat forced out his broken English, spinning a tale: he was a merchant, ambushed by bandits, teammates lost. His accent and awkwardness made the lie believable. He claimed he was from south of Yi Ti, a distant, exotic place in the known world. Satisfied, the group welcomed Virat, leading him toward Winterfell.
In town, his modern attire sparked curiosity. One shrewd merchant offered a golden dragon for the clothing, and two more for the strange "metal" he carried. Virat accepted the coin for his shirt and jeans, trading them for coarse merchant garb. He refused to give away the rifle, spinning yet another story—stubborn, sentimental value.
The dragon coin was enough to rent a decent room near the edge of town. Virat marked the forest's depth and took care: after nights spent hunting in secret, his unusual weapon never drew suspicion. He tracked deep into the woods for prey, fired with the silencer, and used a sharpened knife to remove any evidence of bullet wound , disguising each kill as a trap-catch. The gun has unlimited ammo, but bullets disappear when fired and only return to the magazine after a reload
Days became weeks. Virat returned from each hunt with game, clean and plentiful, selling venison and fowl to the shops. His efficiency was legendary; whispers spread of the merchant whose luck never ran out, whose traps always snared the finest catches. The mystery of his origins deepened with every visit to the market.
Virat built a quiet reputation in Winterfell's shadow, hiding his power behind caution and strategy. Even as he tasted success, he never stopped looking over his shoulder, knowing that in this world of rivalries, dragons, and old gods, one stray system spin could bring him unimaginable fortune—or peril.