["Hello, people of this world."]
It began.
All across the globe, people started to hear the voice in their minds.
Miraz, unable to hear it directly like others, was glued to his TV. A news reporter was repeating the very words being broadcast into the minds of billions. Miraz leaned in, eyes wide, trying to keep up with what was being said.
Meanwhile, inside Shams's apartment…
["I am the Divine Messenger… the appointed manager of the Battle for Growth."]
Shams sat up straight. His heart thudded in his chest.
"So… it's finally begun," he whispered. "But who is this Divine Messenger?"
["As many of you already know,"]
["Battle for Growth is a fate-changing game."]
["It will be held in November."]
["It is a competition between nations."]
["But your nation has a choice: whether to participate… or not."]
["The winning nation will receive unimaginable rewards."]
["But the nation that comes last—or close to last—will face consequences."]
Across Bangladesh—and the rest of the world—people sat in stunned silence, fully focused on the voice echoing inside their minds. The gravity of the message was undeniable.
Miraz watched the TV as the reporter's voice mirrored the mysterious speaker word for word.
["It will be a random game."]
["It could be something as simple as…"]
["Cricket."]
["Football."]
["Baseball or hockey."]
["Or it could be a life-changing trial…"]
["A battle between life and death."]
["A shooting challenge."]
["A fierce MMA fight."]
["A war of technology."]
["A showdown with guns and weapons."]
Shams clenched his fists.
"Life and death?" he muttered. He hadn't expected this. He knew the game was serious, but he never imagined it could go this far.
Still… if this is what it took to change his country's future… he'd face it.
Miraz leaned back, eyes still locked onto the screen. "Now it's getting interesting…"
Then the voice returned—louder, clearer, more urgent.
["To participate in the Battle for Growth, your country must create a Chip."]
["The formula to make the chip… is being sent directly to your minds."]
["It is now your responsibility to create one."]
["Whether you choose to participate or not—this decision lies with your nation."]
A pause.
["But if you are a weak country…"]
["I suggest… you back out now."]
And then, as if from another dimension, an eerie, alien voice echoed:
[&##&_@&#&*!#@]
No one could understand it—but it sent a chill down the spine of everyone who heard it.
Something massive was coming. And the world… had just been put on notice.
Then suddenly, Shams felt it.
An odd sensation crept through his mind—a strange pressure, almost like a whisper pressed against his brain. His eyes widened slightly.
"The chip…" he muttered.
The formula… it wasn't just information. It was raw knowledge. A blueprint beyond modern comprehension. And every person on Earth—rich or poor, young or old—had just received it.
But not every mind was built to handle such weight.
Around the world, chaos stirred. Panic gripped people as the reality of the situation sank in.
Life and death games…
Punishment for failure…
Consequences for the weakest nations…
There was a fuss erupting across cities and villages, newsrooms and governments, living rooms and classrooms. The world was shaking—and not from war or nature—but from a single message.
Somewhere, far away, in a quiet Bangladeshi village…
An old farmer stood in his muddy field, still holding a shovel. His body stiffened. The tool slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground.
His eyes glazed over.
The formula… it flooded his mind. Numbers. Diagrams. Energy terms he'd never even heard of. His breathing slowed. His knees buckled. He collapsed face-first into the mud.
And he didn't move again.
Perhaps… he had simply fallen asleep.
Or perhaps… it was a sleep that would never end.
A rest, eternal.
---
Back in the city, Shams stood by the window. He gazed out at the sky.
Dark clouds had begun gathering above Dhaka.
Heavy. Unnatural. Almost as if the sky itself had sensed the shift in the world.
The wind was still, but the tension was loud.
Shams narrowed his eyes.
"It's starting…" he whispered. "Let's see how the government of Bangladesh reacts."
Without saying a word more, he grabbed his shawl and stepped outside.
The air felt different. Charged. Alive.
He made his way down the street and into a nearby tea stall. The radio was on. The TV was flickering.
People were already crowding around, whispering, arguing, afraid, curious.
Shams ordered a cup of tea and sat quietly, listening.
Waiting.
The entire nation was holding its breath.
And the next move… would decide everything.
Inside Miraz's small, dimly lit room, the television buzzed with reports about the mysterious announcement. The entire nation seemed to be holding its breath. Miraz leaned back on his worn-out plastic chair, his eyes fixed on the screen but his thoughts drifting elsewhere.
He muttered to himself, almost annoyed, "What was Shams talking about that day? Chosen ones? Only they could hear the voice?"
He scoffed softly. "Seems like the whole damn world heard it. Guess he was just trying to be nice or make me feel Good as i didn't hear...…"
He scratched his head, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Doesn't matter, really. That chip thing… it's not for people like me. That's the government's problem. Let the big guys deal with it."
He reached for the remote to lower the volume—but before he could press a button, the sudden shrill sound of his old button phone rang out across the room.
Trriiiing... Trriiiing...
He froze for a second, caught off guard by the unexpected call.
Miraz turned his head slowly toward the phone lying on the table.
He stood up, walked over, and stared at it for a moment, watching the screen flash with a number he didn't recognize.
It was Just a simple phone call… and yet, somewhere deep inside, he had a strange feeling.
Something told him—quietly, like a whisper—that after this call, things might never be the same again.
Still, with a shrug, he picked it up and pressed the button.
"Hello?"