Cement dust hovered thick in the air, mingling with heavy machinery exhaust and the dry sweat caking Raga’s temples. The 2:00 PM sun beat down on his bare back like a relentless lash. He had been working at this luxury apartment construction site for twelve straight hours, and the muscles in his shoulders were screaming for relief.

Raga wiped away sweat with a faded, cement-stained sleeve, breathing heavily. Today was judgment day—the day the site supervisor handed out the weekly wages. With that cash, Raga planned to settle two months of overdue rent for his cramped room and buy medicine for a persistent, hacking cough he couldn't shake.

"Hey, Raga! You lazy snail! Can you move those bags any faster?!"

A shrill bark shattered Raga’s focus. He turned to find Grom, the site supervisor, standing atop a pile of red bricks with a flushed, angry face. Grom was a short man with a thick mustache and a comical beer belly, but on this site, he reigned as a petty tyrant.

"Sorry, Mr. Grom. I’m just feeling a little dizzy," Raga replied softly, keeping his voice steady.

Grom spat onto the dirt, eyeing Raga with blatant contempt. "Dizzy? What do you think this is, a resort? If you can’t work, get lost! Don't be a useless parasite here. I don't pay site hands to stare blankly like living corpses!"

Raga swallowed his tongue. He lacked the energy to argue. To him, dignity was a luxury he simply couldn't afford. Right now, he needed the money. He heaved another fifty-kilogram bag of cement onto his shoulder, ignoring the violent spin inside his head.

Three hours later, the evening break arrived. Raga sank against a cold concrete wall, exhausted. He unwrapped his lunch—a stale piece of bread and the cold leftovers of a cheap rice packet. His hands trembled as he unwrapped it. A sharp pang shot through his stomach; he hadn't eaten a proper meal since last night.

Just as he was about to force down his first bite, something caught his eye near the main gate.

There, behind a stack of rusted corrugated iron sheets, sat an elderly woman in threadbare rags. Her thin hair was stark white, her frail body shivering violently. She kept her head low, thin hands clutching her stomach. Not a single worker spared her a glance. They were too absorbed in their cigarettes and smartphones, viewing the old woman as nothing more than an eyesore.

Raga chewed his bread slowly, but each swallow felt like dragging thorns down his throat. He looked at the old woman again. Something in her sunken, resigned eyes made his chest tighten.

Mother.

The memory of his own mother—who had fallen ill and passed away years ago—flashed through his mind. Back then, a younger Raga was utterly powerless, able only to weep while his mother endured hunger. Seeing this woman now made the world feel painfully heavy.

Without overthinking, Raga pushed himself up. His exhausted legs seemed to find a second wind. He walked over to the old woman and knelt down in front of her.

"Ma'am?" Raga called softly.

The woman looked up, her hollow eyes wide with caution.

"Here... Please eat this, ma'am," Raga said, handing over his rice and bread.

The old woman froze. She stared at the food, then looked into Raga’s face with an unreadable expression. "You... you're giving this to me, son? But what about you?"

Raga offered a wry smile, even as his stomach let out a loud, hollow growl. "I'm young, ma'am. I can find food tomorrow. You need this more than I do."

With trembling hands, the woman accepted the food. She began eating ravenously, as though it were the first meal she had laid eyes on in a month. Raga sat beside her, shielding her from the sight of other workers who might drive her off.

Once every crumb was gone, the old woman took a deep breath. The sickly pallor on her face softened slightly. She turned to Raga, extending a rough, ice-cold hand to rest on his left shoulder.

"You are a good young man, son," her voice was faint, yet it echoed with an uncharacteristic clarity in Raga’s ears. "This world may overlook you, but fate keeps a keen eye."

Suddenly, the ambient air went dead static. The hairs on Raga’s arms stood on end. His vision blurred, and the colors around him bled into an invisible black void.

Ding!

A crisp notification chime—resembling a smartphone receiving a fresh message—rang sharply inside his mind. Instantly, a floating, translucent neon-blue screen materialized right before his eyes.

[Sultan System Activated] [User Detected: Raga] [Verified Kindness: +10 Moral Points] [Exclusive Offer: Are you ready to change your life and acquire vast wealth?]

Raga’s eyes went wide. He rubbed his eyes aggressively, assuming heatstroke and hunger had finally made him lose his mind. Yet the screen remained, its text moving with fluid animation.

"What... what is this?" Raga muttered.

"It's your ticket out, idiot," a flat, sarcastic mechanical voice echoed directly in his skull. "Press 'YES' if you want to stop dragging cement and start ruling, or ignore it and keep living on scraps. The choice is yours."

Raga snapped his head around to look for the old woman, but she had vanished into thin air. In her place were only stacks of cement and swirling dust.

His heart hammered against his ribs. Thoughts of money, months of unpaid rent, and Grom’s insults raced through his mind. Raga wasn't a dreamer, but if this system offered a real way out, he had zero reasons to refuse.

With a trembling finger, Raga tapped the brightly glowing [YES] button on the floating interface.

[Contract Accepted] [Initiating Dimensional Transfer... 3... 2... 1...]

The world around Raga exploded into white light. The dirty, dust-choked construction site dissolved, swallowed entirely by a blinding glare that consumed his consciousness whole.