EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT – 11:00 PM
The highway is dim, almost deserted. Faint streetlights flicker over empty roads. RAHUL (17), wearing a school bag, walks home from a friend's house, looking at his phone occasionally.
He steps onto the road, checking both sides—
SCREECH—
A car barrels toward him at full speed.*
THUD!
The impact throws Rahul onto the asphalt. The car slows for a split second—then speeds off, disappearing into the night.
Rahul lies on the cold road. Blood trickles from his head. His leg is twisted unnaturally. He tries to move, but can't.
RAHUL (V.O.)
W-What... just happened?
He tilts his head slightly, watching the car vanish into the darkness.
They... they didn't even stop.
He tries to speak—tries to curse the driver—but only a faint gurgle escapes.
His vision blurs, but he hears voices approaching.
Footsteps gather around. Rahul's barely open eyes see the glow of phones. People stand around him, filming. Livestreams. Vlogs.
RAHUL lies crumpled on the asphalt, motionless but still conscious. Blood seeps from a wound on his forehead. The distant sounds of traffic are replaced by approaching voices.
Feet gather around him. Blurred faces hover. But no one kneels. No one touches him.
Instead—
CROWD VOICES (O.S.)
—Oh damn!
—Yo, record this!
—This is going viral.
YOUNG MAN (O.S.)
Guys, this is Sector 22 highway—crazy accident just happened!
RAHUL (V.O.)
What... the hell...?
He watches as no one helps. No one touches him. Just recording.
You're all... just watching me die?
His anger boils. Tears well in his eyes. His mouth twitches with effort.
CLOSE-UP: SMARTPHONES
Lit screens go live. One by one, people begin recording. Streaming. Posting.
TEEN GIRL (O.S.)
(cheerfully, into her phone)
Guys! Crazy accident just happened. Literally in front of me!
YOUNG MAN (O.S.)
Yo, this kid's not moving... Someone tag the news channels.
ANOTHER VOICE
Smile, bro—we're going viral.
Rahul's half-lidded eyes twitch. He tries to lift a hand—but it barely moves.
His lips part, a dry breath escaping.
RAHUL (V.O.)
(weak, bitter)
You... damn vultures...
He can't speak aloud. But inside, his anger boils.
You're not helping. You're filming me like I'm some street drama...
WOMAN (VLOGGER)
Day 32 of street vlogging and this happens. Unreal!
OLDER MAN (to camera)
Our country has no safety, just look at this boy—this is the state of the nation!
RAHUL hears it all. His head turns weakly, barely able to lift off the pavement. His lips tremble.
RAHUL (V.O.)
Is he... making a vlog?
His body shakes with rage, even as his strength fades.
RAHUL (V.O.)
You all...
Curse every one of you...
Him, her, all of them...
A single tear rolls down his cheek. The screen fades slightly. His vision begins to blur.
Finally, someone breaks the pattern—a middle-aged man, shaking, dials a number.
MAN (O.S.)
(into phone)
Yes—accident victim. Send an ambulance, now!
There's a boy here—alive, but barely!
Rahul tries to smile faintly, but his lips barely move.
RAHUL (V.O.)
At least... someone...
His body goes colder. His mind drifts. Thoughts become foggy, jumbled.
This life… so empty…
Never did anything great. Never got to live freely.
My family... I hope they'll be okay...
He stares up at the stars. They start to blur. Then—one last thought hits him.
If only... like those novels I read from 8th to 12th grade...
If I could just be reborn...
Get a second chance...
His breathing slows. One final tear slips down his cheek.
Rahul hears it, barely. His thoughts soften.
Maybe... in another life...
I'd be the one standing...
------------------
INT. ORPHANAGE GARDEN – DAY
The sun hung gently overhead, casting warm light over the modest garden of a medium-sized orphanage. Laughter and playful shouts echoed as children ran and played across the grass, chasing each other with wooden toys and imaginary swords.
But not every child joined the chaos.
At the far corner of the garden, seated quietly beneath a crooked tree, was a boy. His name, though unknown to many yet, was now something new. His body was that of a six-year-old child, but his expression—sharp, thoughtful, and strangely calm—betrayed a mind far beyond those years.
His eyes didn't reflect the carefree joy of youth. No, they held the weight of disbelief slowly turning into wonder. It was the kind of look only someone who had just witnessed the impossible becoming real could wear.
For a moment, his lips twitched with confusion, as if trying to make sense of his existence. Then—slowly—that confusion gave way to something else.
Excitement. Awe.
A barely contained smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret with the wind.
"I really... transmigrated."
He paused, as if even saying it made it feel more real.
"I really transmigrated... just like in those novels."
His eyes lit up, glimmering with both joy and purpose. The garden was still full of running children, unaware of the strange soul that now lived among them.
But something had changed.
And so, in the corner of a peaceful orphanage garden, began the quiet first moment of a new life—one filled with unknown potential, secrets of another world, and a boy who now remembered everything.
.....
Boy's (Point of View)
"I… I really transmigrated!" he shouted, joy bubbling over in his voice. His eyes were wide, gleaming with excitement as he spun around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. "I really transmigrated… just like in those web novels!"
He could barely contain his happiness. But then, as the initial shock began to settle, he paused, closing his eyes.
"Alright, calm down. Let me sort through this body's memories."
Bits and pieces of unfamiliar experiences rushed into his mind, and he began to understand his situation. He saw flashes of the past—memories of a quiet orphanage, of children awakening their martial souls at the age of six. The name Martial Soul Temple popped up. And then it hit him.
"Douluo Dalu?" His voice trembled slightly. "This is… the Douluo Continent?"
His eyes widened again as realization struck. He had read this novel series four or five times—he knew this world.
"I'm in Douluo…"
He went silent, his mind spinning. Then, in a mix of nervous whispers and hopeful cries, he called out, "Goldfinger? Are you there? Cheat? Please come out… don't scare me. Please… just a little cheat?"
But nothing happened. No system voice. No sudden power-up screen. No mysterious item appearing in his hand.
"…So I didn't get one," he muttered bitterly. "Guess I wasn't hit by Truck-kun, after all…"
Still, he didn't let the disappointment weigh him down for long. "No system, huh? Fine. I've read enough fanfics to know how to survive here. I'll make a plan—step by step."
His thoughts drifted to someone he had read about in fan stories, someone who suffered. He felt a pang of guilt. "If I had power… I'd really help her," he whispered sincerely.
Pulling himself out of the haze of memory and resolve, he recalled something crucial—the memory said children awakened their martial souls at six. That meant…
"I'll awaken my martial soul in a month…"
He clenched his fists, excitement returning. "Please… let it be something good."
But then a shadow passed over his face. He remembered how much this world valued bloodlines—how much one's martial soul was tied to their parents.
"…I don't even know my bloodline," he murmured. "I don't know who my parents were… what kind of martial souls they had."
The uncertainty ate at him, but he held on to hope. "Please… just let it be something decent. I don't need to be OP. Just… give me a chance."