The heart monitor's steady beep slowed, each tone stretching longer than the last. Leonard Vanthorpe, the 120th richest man in the world, lay in a bed worth more than most homes, surrounded by empty chairs.
How fitting, he thought. Ninety-two years of empires built, and rivals crushed, yet no one held his hand as death came. His vision blurred—golden ceilings melted into darkness. The beeping flatlined.
Then, silence.
The White Void
Leonard awoke standing in an endless white expanse. No ground, no sky, just… nothing. "Is this hell? Or just my brain's final flicker?"
A voice answered, not from around him but within him: "Neither."
Light coalesced into a figure—neither old nor young, neither man nor woman. God, or close enough.
"Leonard Vanthorpe," the voice resonated, "Wealthiest of the lonely. Conqueror of markets, yet stranger to hearts. Do you know why you're here?"
Leonard smirked. "Judgment day? I didn't peg you as the theatrical type."
The figure smiled. "You wrote a novel once."
A book materialized in Leonard's hands—The Chronicles of the Overlord, a fantasy drivel he'd penned at twenty. Embarrassment flared. "That? It's a pulp power fantasy."
"Yet it sold millions," God said. "Tell me, if you could relive that story—with your current mind—what would you change?"
Leonard's pulse quickened. "Everything. The characters were cardboard. The politics juvenile. The 'hero' just a brute with a sword."
"Then your challenge is this: Reincarnate into that world. Keep your memories, your intellect. I'll grant you the Omniscient System—a tool to see the truth of people. Survive the story you wrote… and rewrite its ending."
Leonard laughed. "You're offering me a game? I never lose."
"This isn't about winning," God said softly. "It's about understanding what you ignored in life."
A flash. The void shattered.