Elias floated in an endless void, an abyss so profound that it seemed to stretch beyond the concept of distance itself. The darkness was not simply an absence of light—it was hungry, pressing against him, seeping into his very being like ink dissolving in water. There was no horizon, no sky, no ground, only an infinite abyss that gnawed at his consciousness. The vastness of it was suffocating, even though he had no lungs to fill, no body to anchor him.

  He tried to move, to twist or turn, but there was no sense of direction, no resistance, no familiar sensation of muscle or bone. Did he even have a body anymore? Or was he nothing more than a thought adrift in an unfeeling void? A whisper of existence on the brink of oblivion?

  A creeping fear slithered into his mind, coiling tight around his thoughts. Was this what came after death? An eternity of nothingness? The sheer, horrifying possibility sent a ripple of panic through his disembodied consciousness. He longed to scream, to call out, to exist in some way beyond this endless nothingness, but there was no voice, no sound. The silence was suffocating in its absolute finality.He wanted to scream, but there was no sound. The last thing he remembered was the dim glow of streetlights, the cold pavement slick with his blood, the distant meowing of the stray cats he had cared for. Then—nothing.

  Then, suddenly, something shifted.

  A violent pulling sensation suddenly tore through his being. It wasn't painful, but it was disorienting, as if something was trying to drag him somewhere else. At first, he dismissed it as his mind playing tricks on him—perhaps a final hallucination before he faded completely. But then, voices. Dozens, no, hundreds of them, all speaking at once, their words unintelligible, overlapping, whispering, shouting, conversing in languages he had never heard before.Distant, indistinct, and uncountable, they murmured and whispered, overlapping in a chaotic symphony of speech. Some were hushed, others commanding, some in languages he had never heard before, and some in words that flickered at the edge of recognition. They spoke of things beyond comprehension, of laws that governed reality, of fates entwined, of power beyond measure.

  Was he losing his mind?

  The whispers surged and swelled, a deafening cacophony that clawed at his thoughts, unraveling the fragile remnants of his sanity. He wanted to cover his ears, but he had none. He wanted to shut his eyes, but there was nothing to close. He was adrift in a sea of voices, drowning in their endless tide.

  "God, these voices won’t shut up… I don’t even know what they’re talking about. I can’t be crazy. I know it’s in my head, but… I can’t be crazy, right?"

  The moment he thought it, the voices stopped.

  The silence that followed was heavier than before, pressing against him with an almost malicious weight. It was as if something—someone—had heard him.

  And then, a single voice, deep and resonant, broke through the void.

  "You are right, Elias Rord. You are neither insane nor lost to madness. I apologize for our abrupt conversation that disturbed your peace."

  Was this what came after? An eternity of nothingness?

  A deep, resonant voice, filled with authority yet strangely gentle. But before Elias could process its words, a sharp surge of frustration boiled over within him.

  "Peace?!" he shouted into the void, his voice finally finding purchase. "You call this endless abyss peace? I died—I mean, I’m dead! How is any of this peaceful?!"

  A second voice, this one distinctly feminine, cut through the darkness with a sharpness that sent a shiver through him.

  “Silence, mortal! You dare question us?” The voice, sharp as a blade, slashed through the void, laced with something ancient and immeasurable. A weight, immense and suffocating, pressed upon Elias, wrapping around him like unseen chains. “You should tremble in gratitude, for you stand before voices not meant for mortal ears. Lesser beings have perished from far less.” The very space around him seemed to tremble, a whisper of something hungry lurking just beyond the edge of his perception. “We are the ones who wrenched you from the abyss, who gave you form when the void sought to consume you. Remember this, mortal. You exist now by our will alone.”

  A cold chill settled over Elias. There was something in her tone that brooked no argument, something beyond human comprehension. He gulped and muttered, “So… you’re the ones behind that weird pulling sensation earlier? It felt like my body was being unraveled.”

  A pause. Then the first voice returned, measured and controlled.

  “Ahem. Before I was interrupted, allow me to introduce us.”

  The voice carried a presence, an overwhelming force that made Elias instinctively listen. “I am Sieron, the God of Creation. I shaped existence itself, forged reality and its many layers. But my tale is not the one that matters today. No, today is about you.”

  Elias tried to swallow the sheer weight of those words. A god? Not just any god, but the God of Creation? And he was addressing him as if he were someone of importance?

  Another voice, the female one, interjected. “I am Biron, the God of Governing Laws. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mortal.” Her voice, once sharp and commanding, softened slightly, as if tempered by something unseen. A pause lingered, stretching uncomfortably in the silence before she continued, “And… I must apologize for my earlier tone.”

  She hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down upon her, unnatural for a being of such stature. “I spoke harshly, and it was not my intent to diminish your worth.” There was a strange sincerity in her voice now, a shift from divine arrogance to something almost… human. “We are not accustomed to mortals standing before us, nor to the fragility of your existence. I allowed my authority to overshadow my reason.”

  A silence followed, heavy and expectant, as though the void itself awaited his response. Elias felt the enormity of the moment—this was no mere formality. A god was offering him an apology, something so profoundly alien that he struggled to grasp its full meaning.

  Elias blinked—or at least, he thought he did. His mind struggled to reconcile the concept of gods speaking to him with such politeness. Shouldn’t they be more… omnipotent? Commanding? His confusion must have been evident, because Sieron chuckled softly.

  “I see your skepticism, Elias. Yes, we are gods, but we also understand respect. We are not like the savage, banished ones who seek destruction. We are of order.”

  A chorus of amused laughter echoed through the void, sending a tremor down Elias' nonexistent spine.

  More voices followed, introducing themselves, each carrying an overwhelming presence that seemed to press against Elias' very being.

  “I am Joken, God of Music,” one murmured, his voice a haunting melody of sorrow and longing. It was not merely speech, but a song woven with centuries of emotion, notes drifting like echoes of forgotten ballads. Elias felt a strange ache in his heart, as though he had just glimpsed a profound sadness he could never fully understand.

  “Ryek, God of War,” another declared, his tone like the clash of steel upon steel, sharp and unyielding. The sheer force behind his words sent a shockwave through Elias, as if he had been thrust onto a battlefield where countless warriors clashed. Blood, fire, and the weight of countless sacrifices lingered in his voice.

  “Irion, God of Construction,” a steady, grounded voice followed, each syllable like the sound of hammer striking stone. His presence was solid, unshakable, as though he were the very foundation upon which civilizations were built. Elias could almost see towering cities and grand fortresses rising at his command.

  “Delbin, God of Medicine,” came a voice that felt like a soothing balm upon Elias' frayed senses. There was wisdom in his words, the kind earned through centuries of tending to the wounded and the sick. Yet, beneath the gentleness, there was an undeniable authority—the weight of life and death balanced in careful hands.

  More names followed, each voice carrying its own history, its own dominion. Elias felt the sheer magnitude of the beings before him, their power unfathomable. He was in the presence of gods, and they had taken notice of him.

  Each name carried its own presence, its own significance. Elias could barely keep up, his mind swimming with the weight of the moment.

  Finally, he found his voice, though it wavered under the sheer weight of their presence. "Okay… This is… a lot. I mean, truly, I'm honored to meet you all, but—why? Why go through the trouble of speaking to me? I don’t understand. I’m nobody. Just some guy who got hit by a car."

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  He hesitated, glancing between the unseen presences that had introduced themselves. The sheer gravity of their words threatened to crush him. Gods. Actual gods, speaking to him. He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "This feels like some kind of mistake. I wasn’t important. I didn’t change the world. I wasn't a leader, or a warrior, or anything special. I was just… me. So why am I here?"

  Silence stretched, heavy and expectant, as though the void itself contemplated his words. Then, at last, Sieron’s voice returned, deeper now, carrying a whisper of intrigue.

  “A fair question. Your mortal life was unremarkable, yes. But your soul, Elias… that is another matter entirely.”

  Elias stiffened. "My soul?"

  “You possess an incredibly rare trait—an essence buried within your very being. The Essence of Management.”

  The words hung in the air, foreign yet oddly fitting, their meaning coiling around Elias’ mind like a puzzle waiting to be solved. The phrase itself carried weight, as if it were something sacred, something beyond mere talent or learned skill.

  Sieron continued, his voice deep and measured, “Your ability to organize, oversee, and direct was evident even in your mortal life, but you were bound by the limits of a mundane world, unable to grasp its true depth. However, what you possessed was not mere competence or understanding—it was something far greater. It is not something that can be taught, nor something that can be easily replicated. It is innate, woven into the very core of your existence.”

  Elias felt his mind struggling to grasp the magnitude of what Sieron was saying. In his past life, he had been good at keeping things in order, at handling responsibilities that others avoided, at making sense of chaos. But was that really something powerful enough to warrant divine attention?

  As if sensing his doubts, Sieron’s tone sharpened with unwavering certainty. “Do not mistake this for a trivial gift, Elias. Among the countless souls that pass through existence, there are warriors, scholars, kings, and legends, but even among them, the Essence of Management is an anomaly. It is a rarity among all sentient beings, a force that can shape entire civilizations, bend the tides of fate, and construct legacies that outlast time itself. And we, the gods, have need of it.”

  There was an undeniable finality in his words, as if this truth had already been decided long before Elias ever set foot in this realm. And we, the gods, have need of it.”

  Elias let the information sink in. Essence of Management? That was a thing? And it was so rare that gods took notice?

  “We wish to test it,” Sieron continued. “You will not be a god, but you will be given a role unlike any other. You will become the manager of a world.”

  Elias' breath hitched. "A world?"

  “A world contained within a Tower,” Sieron explained, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient and unfathomable. “One that will house civilizations, creatures, and mysteries yet untold. It will be your duty to oversee it, to create and further its growth, to shape its destiny.”

  Elias furrowed his brow. “create and further its growth? What does that actually mean?”

  Sieron’s presence seemed to expand, his voice deepening with significance. “It means that you will not simply watch from afar like an idle observer. You will be the foundation upon which entire societies rise. The civilizations within your domain will begin as scattered groups—perhaps nomadic wanderers, perhaps fledgling tribes struggling to understand the world around them like cave men I suppose. They will look to the skies, to the land, to the forces beyond their understanding, searching for guidance, searching for meaning.”

  Elias listened, his mind conjuring images of primitive people huddled around fires, of villages forming, of stone and wood giving way to brick and iron.

  “In time,” Sieron continued, “they will expand. They will learn to cultivate the land, to build, to forge tools and weapons. They will create stories, forge alliances, wage wars, and strive to leave their mark upon the world. Some will seek knowledge, pushing the boundaries of what is possible. Others will pursue power, driven by ambition and greed. And through it all, your presence will shape them.”

  Elias swallowed, suddenly feeling the enormity of what was being given to him. “So… I’ll be their god?”

  Sieron let out a deep chuckle, the sound reverberating through the abyss. “Not a god. Not in the way you imagine. You will not grant miracles at a whim, nor dictate every action they take. But you will be a force that nudges them forward—or holds them back. Your decisions will ripple through time. A single choice could lead to an age of prosperity… or an era of ruin.”

  Elias exhaled slowly. The idea of entire civilizations growing under his management was staggering. He had played strategy games, built empires in virtual worlds, but this—this was real. Living, breathing people who would rise and fall based on his guidance.

  Sieron’s voice grew softer, yet no less powerful. “You will watch them stumble, make mistakes, fail. But you will also witness greatness. You will see them craft wonders, build cities that touch the skies, create art, music, and culture that will echo through the ages. You will witness their triumphs, their sorrows, their endless struggle to carve meaning into the fabric of existence. That, Elias, is what it means to grow a civilization.”Elias' mind reeled. It was almost too much. But then… he thought about it. About the games he played, the simulations he managed, the workload he balanced at his job. The idea of managing a civilization, of watching it grow, evolve, change…

  It was daunting.

  It was exhilarating.

  It was his.

  He took a deep breath—or at least, he imagined he did. The weight of everything pressed down on him. The sheer magnitude of it all. Managing an entire world? Overseeing civilizations as they rose and fell? It was overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating.

  But if he was going to do this, he needed some control. He wasn’t about to walk blindly into godlike responsibility without safeguards.

  "Alright," Elias finally said, straightening. "I accept."

  A murmur rippled through the void, the gods reacting to his decision. He could feel their collective focus shift, their attention sharpening.

  Sieron’s voice rumbled with satisfaction. “Wise. But I sense hesitation in you, Elias. Speak your concerns.”

  Elias smirked. "Oh, I’ve got a few. And if I’m going to agree to this, I have some conditions."

  A pause. A long one. For the first time, it felt as if Sieron was genuinely considering what Elias was about to say, rather than already knowing the answer.

  Then, after a moment, the god let out a deep chuckle. “Of course you do. Speak.”

  Elias exhaled, gathering his thoughts. "First, I want some kind of control panel."

  Silence. It stretched just a bit too long before Sieron responded.

  “A control panel?”

  "Yeah. If I’m supposed to oversee an entire world, I’m not doing it blindly. I need a way to monitor what’s happening, track progress, maybe even adjust certain things if necessary."

  Another silence. Then murmuring. It wasn’t just Sieron this time—some of the other gods were discussing it among themselves. He caught fragments of words, echoes of uncertainty.

  “Interference… dangerous…”

  “Unprecedented for a mortal…”

  “Would grant him too much power…”

  Finally, Sieron spoke again. “…This is not a small request, Elias. The power to observe is one thing. The power to influence? That is another matter entirely.”

  Elias shrugged. "Then consider it insurance. If you want me to manage this world, I need the proper tools. Even the best rulers in history needed advisors, maps, messengers, and records. You’re asking me to handle something on a scale that no human has ever done before. Without some form of structured oversight, I’m going in blind—and that benefits neither of us."

  Another pause.

  Then, at last, Sieron exhaled. “…Very well. You will have a control panel. But its functions will be limited at first. You will earn greater access as you prove yourself.”

  Elias smiled. "Fair enough."

  He folded his arms. "Second condition: I work at my own pace."

  This time, the hesitation was immediate.

  “That…” Sieron’s voice dipped, laced with an edge of reluctance. “…is not how this usually works.”

  "Yeah, well, I’m not a god," Elias countered. "And I don’t want to be thrown into some endless list of expectations and deadlines. If you want me to do this right, I need time to figure things out. I don’t want to be micromanaged by divine forces breathing down my neck every time something goes wrong."

  More murmuring.

  “Time is… relative within the Tower…” one voice mused.

  “He asks for freedom. Freedom breeds both potential and chaos.”

  “But shackles breed failure. A rushed hand makes clumsy work.”

  Finally, Sieron sighed. “…We will not force you to act at a predetermined pace. However, know this—your choices will have consequences. Time waits for no world, Elias. If you are idle for too long, civilizations may suffer. Progress will not freeze simply because you hesitate.”

  Elias nodded. "I can live with that."

  The tension in the void shifted. The gods seemed… divided. As if some approved of his requests while others found them problematic. He wondered how often they had debates like this—if ever.

  Then, Elias smirked. "Third condition: I want control over my appearance."

  This time, the silence was stifling.

  “…Why?” Sieron asked, his tone carefully neutral.

  Elias raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You’re throwing me into a completely different world, making me interact with all sorts of creatures and civilizations, and you expect me to just go in blind with whatever form you decide to give me?" He scoffed. "I at least want to choose what I look like. If I’m going to be some godlike manager, I should at least have a say in whether I look intimidating, approachable, or something in between."

  The silence deepened. He could feel the divine presences contemplating it, as though this request was far more significant than the others.

  Then, Biron’s voice—sharp, yet curious—cut through the quiet. “And what, exactly, do you intend to look like?”

  Elias hesitated. He hadn’t actually thought that far ahead yet.

  "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I want the option."

  More whispers.

  “If he controls his appearance, he controls perception…”

  “A mortal shaping their own divine form? Preposterous.”

  “And yet… fascinating.”

  Finally, Sieron let out a long, measured breath. “Very well. You shall have control over your appearance. But be warned—how you present yourself will shape how others perceive you. Choose wisely.”

  Elias grinned. "I wouldn’t have it any other way."

  Another ripple passed through the void, the weight of the gods’ collective will settling. Elias could feel the conversation drawing to a close.

  Sieron spoke one final time, his voice carrying a tone of finality. “Then it is time. Step through the door, Elias, and begin your new journey.”

  Before him, a white door materialized. It stood alone in the abyss, glowing faintly. An invitation. A challenge.

  Elias took a deep breath.

  Then, with one last smirk, he stepped forward.

  And vanished from the abyss.