Far from the lands of Bangladesh—perhaps in a powerful, influential nation, or maybe a forgotten piece of paradise untouched by conflict—there lay a quiet city. A place where life moved slowly, wrapped in peace and painted in colors of love and simplicity.
In a blooming park, under the soft warmth of an early afternoon sun, two elderly couples sat on a bench. Their hands gently intertwined, their eyes holding decades of shared memories. Laughter filled the air as they spoke—about small things, sweet things, nothing serious—just moments to make the heart smile. They had weathered life together, side by side, and today was just another day to breathe easy and feel grateful.
And then… it came.
[Hello peoples of this world]
The voice echoed through their minds, soft yet powerful. The same voice heard across oceans, mountains, and borders. The divine messenger had returned with the second level of information about the Battle for Growth.
At first, they listened like everyone else—quietly, curiously.
[The winning nation will gain rewards... the losing, consequences...]
The announcements continued. But then—everything changed.
A strange chill coursed through their bodies. It was unlike anything they'd ever felt. Cold... yet burning. Heavy... yet intangible. It was the transmission of the chip's formula—raw, unfiltered knowledge being forced into their minds.
The woman clutched her husband's arm. "Honey… what is this feeling? What's happening to me?"
But when she looked into his eyes—he was no longer looking back. He sat stiff, trembling. And then, without a word, he collapsed to the ground.
Gasps broke out around the park. People rushed over. Panic spread.
The woman knelt beside him, her fingers shaking as she touched his face. "No, no, no—please…" she whispered. But as she stared into his lifeless eyes, the weight of the moment struck her too. Her vision blurred, her body gave in—and she collapsed beside him.
Another love story ended.
Around the park, others struggled too. The formula was too much for some. Elderly people, weak minds, vulnerable hearts—many couldn't handle the download. And this was just the beginning.
On a quiet highway, a cargo truck rumbled forward. The driver—a man in his mid-40s with tired eyes and calloused hands—was humming a soft tune, focused on the road ahead. Everything seemed normal.
Until suddenly… he froze.
[Hello peoples of this world]
The voice echoed in his mind. His eyes widened. His hands gripped the wheel tighter.
More words followed—information about the Battle for Growth, the terrifying possibilities, the consequences of coming last…
And then it came—the formula.
A cold, electrifying sensation shot through his spine. Knowledge, unnatural and overwhelming, surged into his brain. His breathing grew erratic. His vision blurred.
He tried to keep control.
But the weight of the data was too much. His hands slipped. His body spasmed.
And then—he slumped forward.
The truck veered off the road, tires screeching, metal bending, and with a violent crash—it collided into another vehicle.
Explosions of noise.
Flames.
And silence.
Meanwhile, in Bangladesh, the nation held its breath, awaiting a live broadcast from the Prime Minister. Reporters sat ready, cameras rolling.
But just before the announcement could begin—the channel suddenly shifted.
"Breaking News: Tragic accidents reported worldwide in the aftermath of the Battle for Growth's second-level announcement. Mass fainting, deaths, and chaos in public places. Authorities are investigating the cause…"
The screen flashed images from across the globe.
People began to panic.
Another life gone. And many more affected—all because of a message too powerful for some to bear.
Live from Dhaka — National TV Broadcast
The TV showed streets across the country. People stood frozen—not because of what they were hearing on TV, but because of what had just appeared inside their minds. The second-level information from the Divine Messenger was not sound—it was a direct mental transmission. Everyone, no matter where they were, heard it inside their head.
And then, the chaos began.
One by one—people started collapsing.
Elderly people clutched their heads, their hearts. Some just dropped to the ground, lifeless. Middle-aged men and women stumbled, confused, their bodies unable to handle the mental overload of the chip formula that just hit their brains like a storm.
The camera, held by a trembling news crew, tried to keep up—showing medics rushing, people crying, bodies being laid flat in rows.
Then—
A loud crash.
A bus, completely out of control, swerved into the scene—
Slamming straight into the camera crew.
The screen turned black.
[Signal Lost]
A high-pitched buzz. Then silence.
---
Dhaka — Tea Stall near University
A teacup slipped from someone's hand and shattered on the ground. No one moved to pick it up.
Shams and others stood in silence. The TV went black. Someone quickly grabbed the remote, switched to another news channel.
Same chaos.
Different street. Same destruction.
Rain started pouring—heavy, sudden, cruel. As if the sky itself was mourning.
People ran, slipped, screamed. Some tried to carry bodies out of the flooded streets. Some just knelt next to their loved ones, unable to speak.
Then—
A red emergency graphic flashed on screen.
> LIVE DEATH COUNT (Approximate)
Elderly: 94,000
Adults: 76,000
Children: 0
A reporter appeared on-screen, clearly shaken:
"Breaking news. Scientists have confirmed that these sudden deaths are linked to a mental overload caused by the chip formula transmitted directly into people's minds. The human brain—especially older ones—could not handle the sudden flood of advanced data."
She paused.
"But… one thing is clear—not a single child has died."
"Children's brains are still growing, more flexible, more adaptive. As we age, our brain's ability to handle extreme pressure fades. That's why the elderly and adults couldn't take it."
Shams said nothing. Just stared at the TV. The rain. The death count.
The world had changed—and it had just begun.
The destruction didn't stop.
For more than half an hour, chaos reigned.
The death toll in Bangladesh alone crossed 200,000.
In a nation of 18 crore people, it might seem like a small number from a distance.
And compared to 8 billion souls around the globe, it could be ignored by cold statistics.
But these were not just numbers.
They were dreams broken.
Families shattered.
A nation's spirit wounded.
They were Bangladesh's people.
Across the world, the final count rose—
97 million dead.
Ninety-seven million dreams silenced.
People lost their parents.
People lost their lovers.
People lost their best friends.
The world didn't just hear an announcement.
It experienced the beginning of a tragedy.
---
Tea Stall - Near Dhaka University
Shams quietly walked out of the small tea stall.
The rain poured down—merciless, heavy—drenching him instantly.
But he didn't move.
He didn't shield himself.
He just stood there, under the open wounded sky.
He whispered with a heavy, broken voice:
> "I thought this game was a chance to change our future..."
> "But I never imagined… this would be the cost."
> "What is this game trying to show us?"
He looked up at the endless clouds.
> "One thing is clear now…"
> "There's no way back anymore."
The road ahead was set.
---
Suddenly—the TV broadcast flickered.
The Prime Minister appeared[He was a old guy of age like 52 or 53 it's also hard for him to endure the formula], his face heavy with grief.
He tried to speak to the nation.
But most of the people, sitting in tea stalls, in homes, on the streets,
had lost the strength to listen.
Bangladesh was crying
***
Meanwhile, in Miraz's house…