If anyone had told me that creating a peaceful fantasy world would eventually involve managing crowd control, technical support, and something resembling distribution logistics, I would have added a disclaimer to the first chapter.
Now, I am standing behind a long wooden table in the town square handing out smartphones.
“We only need one per person,” I said, trying to sound like this was an organized system and not something Lots and I assembled ten minutes ago using borrowed furniture and optimism.
“I already have mine,” someone said, holding up their device. “It updated on its own.”
“That’s normal,” Lots replied from my left, where he was enthusiastically explaining features to a small cluster of newcomers. “If your phone crossed over with you, it integrates automatically. Just check for the Kindred app.”
“It renamed half my folders,” another person complained.
“That’s also normal.”
“It categorized my hobbies.”
“Extremely normal.”
“It told me to go outside.”
Lots nodded solemnly. “As expected of a paradise super app.”
I made a note to figure out who—or what—was deciding these features, then immediately abandoned that thought because another line of people had already formed.
Despite the size of the crowd, the square didn’t feel strained.
Residents moved naturally among the newcomers, offering food, directions, reassurance.
Someone had begun pouring tea. Some had arranged seating.
I gave out a confident smile “Next,” I called.
A woman stepped forward.
She didn’t look stunned or overwhelmed like many of the others. She scanned the table, the phones, the flow of people, as if assessing how this process worked before participating in it.
“Is this check-in?” she asked.
“That’s… a good word for it,” I said. “We’re still defining the procedure.”
She nodded, accepting that answer without hesitation.
I handed her a phone.
“Open it. Kindred should already be installed.”
She powered it on and moved through the setup quickly—not rushing, just efficient. No visible amazement. No lingering on details. Just learning the interface the way someone learns any new tool.
Around us, other arrivals were far louder.
“This matches the descriptions exactly!”
“I knew this plaza would be bigger!”
“Wait, is this the café from the early chapters?!”
The woman beside the table didn’t react to any of that. She finished reading, locked the screen, and slipped the phone into her pocket.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Alright, I’m not sure if this is the appropriate time to ask…” She said softly.
“One question would not make anything go slower, just ask me anything or you could also ask the app.”
“I just wondered if there is a case for the phone— this looks too… I don’t know how I should put this politely. Bland?”
“I don’t remember seeing one — nor a factory making these stuffs — maybe you should ask the app for this”
Lots chimed in “I’ve been meaning to ask that too where are the residents even getting technology from?”
“I think the system just makes it”
We stood there for a moment, watching the square function at a volume I had never anticipated writing.
Then she asked, “Where do people sleep?”
I blinked.
“…Sleep?”
“Yes. Is housing assigned, or do we arrange it ourselves?”
That was not a question anyone else had asked yet.
“Ah,” I said, trying to look intelligent. “We have guest residences prepared. The town expands space as needed.”
“Expands how?”
“I…” I gestured vaguely at reality. “It does that.”
She considered this answer.
“Is there somewhere we report if something doesn’t work the way it should?”
“There is now,” Lots said, appearing instantly as if summoned by the concept of systems. “We’ll call it feedback.”
she nodded, satisfied.
“And what about work? If people are staying long-term, how do they contribute?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
That was also not a question anyone had asked.
Most newcomers were busy rediscovering joy.
This girl was already planning sustainability.
This is when I use the simple tactic of scanning around for clues to answer her question.
I had a glimpse of her company issued lanyard ‘Mira’ she still looks the same as her photo ID.
“Hi, I’m Mira, what's your name?”
“I’m Toku, the guy handing out the phones is Lots” Lots then turned to give Mira a smile
“Virtue points, You earn them by helping others. The system tracks it naturally.”
“What counts as helping?” she asked.
“…Intention matters more than outcome,” I said, quoting something I barely remembered writing.
“That’s good,” she said. “That makes cooperation easier.”
She looked around the square again—not like she was seeing a dream, but like she was seeing a place that would require maintenance, routine, participation.
A place to live.
Not just arrive.
Nearby, someone shouted in delight after finding a familiar landmark. Another group debated whether they should explore first or sit down and breathe.
Mira watched them with a faint expression I couldn’t quite place.
Not envy.
Not confusion.
Just a quiet observation.
“Is there a map?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, relieved to have an easy answer. “Kindred has one.”
“Good,” she replied. “I’d rather learn the layout early.”
Lots leaned toward me after she stepped away.
“No one really introduced themselves here” he whispered.
“And why is that an issue?”
“You’re missing the point, why does she not know you?”
“Maybe she read the novel on a pirated site?”
We watched Mira cross the square, already navigating like someone settling into a new routine rather than stepping into a story.
“She adapts fast,” Lots added.
“Maybe,” I said.
But it didn’t feel like adaptation.
It felt like she had already decided to be here.
I looked out over the growing town square—at the reunions, the relief, the disbelief, the fragile excitement of people standing inside something they once thought was unreachable.
.
And judging by the number of people now asking where to help, where to stay, where to begin—
we were only at the beginning.
