Chapter One: Child of the Curse
(1) Luck… The Word the World Leans On
Luck—a short word in our tongue, yet it is the hook on which people hang their failures: their laziness, their misjudgment, their quick surrender.When someone loses, they say, "Luck wasn't with me."When they stumble, they blame "a cursed day."When they fall behind, they whisper, "That's what luck wanted."
But in the city of Ramshika, luck is not an excuse—it is an art.
An art taught in halls.Tested in arenas.Sharpened until it becomes a blade in its owner's hand.
In Ramshika, a person is not measured by knowledge alone, nor lineage, nor wealth—but by the density of luck flowing through their veins.
Luck is your second name.Your passport to riches and prestige.Your shield when the world attacks you, and your arrow when you attack the world.Those with strong luck draw opportunities the way bees draw to honey.
And those with weak luck…are nothing.
Ramshika itself is guarded by ancient spells—so old that no one can swear to their origin.Its law of entry is as vague as luck itself:
No one enters except by a stroke of luck.
That is why no clear accounts survive—no reliable letters, no honest records—only old women's tales, whispered and forgotten.
Perhaps the reason is simple:the people of Ramshika care for nothing as they care for luck.Some wield it in black magic.Some bend it into science, tampering with the rules of reality.And some spend it on love, opening hearts without keys.
Yet this story does not begin in Ramshika…
It begins far beyond its unseen walls—where a child was born with no luck at all.
(2) The Night of Birth… When Fate Objected
The village was called Al-Sawafi, perched at the edge of the desert—mud-and-wood houses, hands hardened by labor, a sky closer to dust than rain.
On a stormy night, the midwife "Mabrouka" lifted her lamp and shouted,"Water—quickly! Cloth—now!"
Khadijah fought the pain on a worn mat, while Hassan, her husband, stood by the door, crushing his own hands as if he could squeeze fear out of them.
"Hold on," he whispered, trembling. "A blessed boy will come."
"Don't say blessed yet," Khadijah panted. "Just pray he comes out alive."
In that instant—the hearth fire died as if a wind had passed through the heart of the house.Outside, something cracked—then a heavy collapse: the stable roof fell.A muffled lowing followed… then silence.
A neighbor screamed,"The cow! The cow is dead!"
Hassan's face drained. They had only that one.
Inside, the child finally arrived—quiet, strangely quiet for a newborn.Mabrouka held him up, stared for a long breath, then spoke like someone delivering a verdict:
"This child… is misfortune."
Khadijah gasped. "Fear God, Mabrouka! He's only a baby!"
Hassan stepped forward, eyes burning. "Say something good! Name him whatever you like, but don't curse him with his first breath!"
Mabrouka shook her head, lowering her voice."I'm not cursing him, Hassan. I'm describing what I see. He was born with a cold shadow."
Khadijah studied her son's face, then pressed him fiercely to her chest."I'll name him Siraj—a lamp. Perhaps he'll bring us light."
Hassan forced a thin smile."Siraj… yes. Siraj."
But the village did not keep his name.
By the next morning, whispers spread at every doorway:"Khadijah's boy… the child of the curse.""Don't let him into your homes—he brings ruin.""Keep him away from your children—misfortune is contagious."
(3) A Childhood Where Things Break Before Dreams
Siraj grew beneath eyes that avoided his gaze, and fingers that pointed when they thought he couldn't see.
At seven, he tried to help his mother carry a water jar.Khadijah smiled. "Come, my son. Don't listen to them."
Siraj lifted the jar carefully. One step… then another…and suddenly it slipped as if it betrayed him on purpose.It smashed on the ground, water and dust scattering together.
He froze. "Mother… I—"
Khadijah cut him off, pulling his face into her dress."Don't apologize. The jar was weak."
But a neighbor passing by saw it and shook her head."See? I told you, Khadijah. That boy carries evil in his hands."
At ten, the village boys played by the canal.Siraj approached slowly and asked, shyly,"Can… can I play with you?"
"Mourad," the oldest, laughed. "Play with us? Even stones run from you!"
Another snorted. "If he joins, the canal will dry up!"
Siraj tried to stand tall. "I won't ruin anything… I'll just stand here."
The moment he stepped closer, one boy tripped into the water, then another fell on top of him, then a third—as if the ground itself panicked at Siraj's presence.
Laughter turned to anger.
Mourad shouted, "I told you to stay away!"
He shoved Siraj hard. Siraj fell into the mud.He rose with a burning face, but he didn't strike back.He only stared—with a question that hurt more than a bruise:
Why me?
That evening, Hassan sat beside him and offered a piece of bread."Siraj… people are ignorant. You are not a curse."
"But everything breaks around me," Siraj whispered.
Hassan sighed. "Maybe you were born to learn patience."
Siraj lifted his head. "Is patience luck?"
Hassan had no answer.
(4) A Small Death… That Killed the Father and Was Born in the Son
One day, Hassan went to the market to sell firewood.Siraj insisted on coming with him.
Khadijah clutched her scarf. "Leave him here, Hassan. The market is crowded."
Hassan's voice was firm but gentle. "They will see he's a man's son, not a shadow to fear."
In the market, Siraj tried to help.He handed a bundle to a man— the rope snapped, and the firewood crashed onto the man's foot.
The man roared, "Are you blind?!"
Hassan rushed in. "Forgive him—my son didn't mean—"
A woman stepped forward, eyes sharp."Your son… he's the one they talk about, isn't he?"
Heads turned.Whispers rose.
"Child of the curse!""Stay away!""He'll ruin the market!"
Hassan pulled Siraj, trying to leave—but a small chaos began:someone stumbled, a basket of dates spilled, another slammed into a tin of oil—and soon everyone was shouting as if misfortune had become visible.
Hassan tried to hurry his son out.He didn't notice a small stone underfoot.
He tripped. Fell hard.His head struck a rock.
When the news reached Khadijah, she screamed until her throat broke.And silence moved into Siraj's mouth.
At the grave, Siraj knelt and whispered,"If I hadn't existed… he wouldn't have died."
Khadijah sobbed, gripping him."Don't say that. Death doesn't ask our permission."
But Siraj didn't believe her.That day, he learned a darker lesson:
Luck can kill. And misfortune can breathe in your name.
(5) Shaykh Imran… And the City No One Sees
Years passed. Siraj turned fifteen.He grew tall, yet his eyes still carried the fracture of a child.
He took odd jobs—gathering wood, hauling water, helping with crops that refused to thrive.Failure always arrived before him.
One quiet night, Siraj sat at the village edge beside a small fire.A traveling storyteller, Imran, had come seeking water and shelter.People gathered for tales, yet they kept their distance from Siraj as always.
Imran looked around and said,"Have you heard of a city built from luck?"
A villager scoffed. "You mean Ramshika? That's a myth."
Imran smiled like someone who knew better."Not a myth… but not for everyone."
Siraj stepped closer without realizing it."How do people enter?" he asked softly.
Imran studied him—truly saw him—for the first time."Only those favored by luck. One stroke is enough."
Mourad—now older, crueler—laughed and pointed at Siraj."Then this one will never enter! If luck were a door, he'd die outside it!"
Some laughed.
Imran did not.
Slowly, he said,"The cruelest misfortune… may be closest to a turning point."
Silence fell.
Siraj swallowed. "What do you mean?"
"I once heard of something called… negative density," Imran replied."Luck that isn't luck—its inverse. When it reaches a certain threshold, it begins opening doors that positive luck cannot."
Khadijah stepped forward, alarmed."Shaykh, don't fill his head with illusions."
Imran's voice softened."I don't fill his head. I only open a window. The air that enters… is not mine to control."
That night, Siraj didn't sleep.
(6) The Cave… Where Darkness Speaks
At dawn, Siraj walked away from the village, toward mountains said to house jinn in their ravines.
He needed to know:Was he meaningless misfortune… or a key to something he couldn't name?
Mourad and a few young men spotted him and followed—first to mock, then to harm.
"Where are you going, child of the curse?" Mourad shouted. "Off to ruin the mountains too?"
Siraj didn't answer. He walked faster. They ran.
They cornered him near a rocky bend.
One demanded, "Give us what you've got."
"Nothing," Siraj said, steady.
Mourad slapped him. "Even nothing becomes disaster in your hands!"
Siraj raised an arm—not to strike back, but to shield his face.At the same moment, something cracked beneath one of them.The ground—strangely loose—gave way. One fell, then another, then a third, tumbling a few meters down.
No one died.But fear hit them like a hammer.
"That's him!" Mourad shouted. "His misfortune!"
Siraj seized the moment and ran with all the air in his lungs.He ran until his chest burned—until he found a cave mouth like a wound in the mountain.
He slipped inside.
The air grew colder. The darkness thicker.He sat, panting, hearing his own breath echo as if someone watched him.
"Is… anyone there?" he whispered.
The echo answered—then a voice that was not an echo:
"There is always someone… when you reach the end."
Siraj jumped to his feet. "Who are you?!"
The voice replied calmly,"I am what remains when the world's excuses collapse."
Heat bloomed in Siraj's chest—not sickness, not fever—but like a door opening under his skin.
He lifted his shirt.A black mark had formed—thin as a crack, as if a thread of night had been sewn into his flesh.
"What is this?" he breathed.
"When misfortune reaches its peak… luck is born anew."
The air trembled.
Light did not enter from outside.It rose from the void itself.
The darkness split like paper torn in half.
A gate.
Beyond it—colors Siraj had never seen in the desert.A violet sky. A shimmer like living metal.Distant buildings glinting.
Siraj whispered, "Ramshika…"
"One step," the voice said, "and you'll learn whether you're a curse… or a key."
(7) The Impossible Stroke of Luck
Siraj hesitated.His whole life had trained him to retreat, to expect the worst, to distrust any door that opened for him alone.
Yet something inside him whispered:If you return… you will return the way you left. Child of the curse.
He closed his eyes.He stepped forward.
The instant his foot touched the threshold—the black mark on his chest exploded into a dark radiance, as if the night itself had become a beam.
Siraj vanished from the cave.
And somewhere far away, beyond human roads…
Bells rang in Ramshika—bells said to have been silent for a hundred years.
(8) The Watchtower… When the City Shuddered
Ramshika's Watchtower was its highest point, where observers studied crystal plates that measured the density of luck in the air.
A student lifted his head, pale with terror."Master… the gauge has dropped below zero!"
Shaykh Nitham, the chief observer, rose—his eyebrows white from years of reading numbers."No. That's an error."
"It isn't!" the student cried, pointing. "It's falling—falling—!"
Nitham leaned in… and his face froze.
He whispered, "The density… is negative."
A woman in a gray cloak entered, bearing the seal of the guards."What's happening? The bells rang!"
Nitham spoke in a voice none of them had ever heard from him:"What we kept out of our minds… has returned."
"Who?" the guard demanded.
"The Inverter," Nitham said, eyes locked on the crystal.
He turned sharply. "Inform the Council of Luck. Seal the academy gates. No one approaches the emergence point."
The student trembled. "Did… someone enter Ramshika?"
"Yes," Nitham replied. "But not just anyone."
In a shadowed corner of the city, Siraj crashed onto cold stone, gasping.Ramshika, without even seeing him, began to move—like a beast waking to an ancient scent.
He lifted his head and saw a stone sign nearby:
"Academy of Luck Refinement"
For the first time in years, a word shaped itself in his mouth—something like hope:
"I… made it."
And somewhere unseen, a faint voice echoed:
"Now… the reckoning begins."