"Trash!"
The word thundered across the Celestial Archive, shattering constellations of half-born stories.
Upon a throne carved from ancient manuscripts sat Braggi, God of Storytelling, his silver brows furrowed in rare fury. In his palm floated a glowing projection of a webnovel titled Alpha Zero Reset — rated 8.9 out of 10, beloved by millions of mortals.
He had expected brilliance.
He found mediocrity.
The sentences lacked texture. The wars had no blood, no strategy, no philosophy. The nobles were hollow puppets wearing medieval costumes without the burden of politics, greed, or survival. It was a story wearing the tags of genius, action, and war — yet it understood none of them.
With a flick of his fingers, entire paragraphs dissolved into golden dust.
"Even a mortal child could weave better tension," Braggi muttered.
He was not alone in his disappointment.
From a throne that pulsed like rhythm itself, Salah, God of Dance, scoffed as the air around him twisted into silent choreography.
A melodic sigh echoed as Kanta, Goddess of Song, let the novel's dialogue crumble into dissonant static.
Screens of light shattered behind Buya, God of Watching, who had observed thousands of similar "masterpieces."
Even Tumalna, Goddess of Silence, whose patience rivaled eternity, closed her eyes — and for a brief moment, all sound ceased across the realm.
"This," she whispered, "is noise masquerading as art."
Wind coiled restlessly around Agaraw, God of Movement, who paced between the stars.
"They flood their world with quantity," he said, "but starve it of soul."
Their frustration merged.
And from that collective disdain, something unprecedented was born.
They wove time.
They forged space.
They reconstructed the chaotic blueprint of Alpha Zero Reset — but this time, it would not be shallow fiction.
They named it Earth2.
A world where consequences would bleed.
Meanwhile, on Earth, the mortal author known as SureOne leaned back in his chair, unaware that divinity had taken offense.
Twelve hours of writing had left his eyes dry and aching. Steam curled lazily from his coffee mug. His screen glowed with another draft awaiting upload.
He smiled, satisfied.
Meanwhile, beneath indifferent skies, SureOne leaned back in his cracked office chair during his short coffee break.
The room was barely large enough to stretch his legs. A single electric fan rattled in the corner, pushing warm air around instead of cooling it. The faint smell of instant noodles lingered, mixed with ink, dust, and fatigue.
He unlocked his phone.
Notifications flooded the screen.
Views. Ratings. Comments.
For a brief second, hope flickered in his tired eyes.
Then he opened the reviews.
"Even a three-year-old can write better stuff."
"What kinda sheyt is this?"
"I don't believe the author is an adult."
⭐☆☆☆☆
His jaw tightened.
He scrolled further.
One comment had thousands of likes.
"If reviews could go negative, I'd give this a negative million."
SureOne let out a dry laugh — the kind that hurt more than silence.
Among the ocean of criticism were the artificial praises from paid trolls — hollow five-star reviews he purchased just to prevent his ranking from collapsing completely. They glowed brightly, but even he knew they were lies.
The truth?
He could write better.
He had the talent.
He had the imagination.
But brilliance required time.
Time required peace.
And peace was a luxury he could not afford.
The numbers ran constantly in his mind like a curse.
Ten million dollars in generational debt.
Five thousand dollars monthly living expenses for five people cramped into a two-person room.
Hospital bills stacking endlessly for his parents, whose treatments seemed as long as eternity.
And the loan sharks.
He instinctively touched the faint scar near his temple — a reminder of what happened when payments were late. They didn't shout. They didn't threaten loudly.
They simply smashed his head against walls until he "remembered."
His income?
Fifteen hundred on bad months.
Three thousand on miraculous ones.
Never enough.
Never even close.
Beyond the thin plywood wall, soft laughter echoed.
SureOne's gaze shifted.
On a small foldable table under a flickering bulb sat Nuwa, the first child he found wandering the streets of Malaka years ago — silent, thin, clutching a broken doll.
Beside her was Sarina, whom he had once pulled from a dumpster behind a restaurant, wrapped in stained cloth but still breathing.
They were thirteen and twelve now.
Bright.
Brilliant.
Top of their classes.
Their school certificates were taped proudly against the wall — the only decorations in the room.
Nuwa was explaining a math problem patiently while Sarina nodded with exaggerated seriousness before both burst into giggles.
That sound.
That single sound kept him alive more than coffee ever could.
For a moment, the crushing weight of ten million dollars faded.
For a moment, the insults online became distant noise.
For a moment, he felt rich.
But the hospital called again.
And reality returned.
He was the only one earning now.
His parents lay in sterile white rooms under humming fluorescent lights, fighting illnesses that devoured savings faster than he could type chapters.
The room they lived in could barely hold two people comfortably.
Five slept there.
Mattresses overlapped.
Bags hung from nails.
Privacy did not exist.
Dreams had to fit into corners.
SureOne stared back at his phone screen.
Another notification appeared:
"Upload Schedule Missed. Ranking Dropped."
He closed his eyes.
In another realm, gods condemned him as a destroyer of art.
On Earth, he was simply a man drowning — writing not for glory, not for passion, but for survival.
And survival does not wait for perfection.
Another day passed.
The sky outside their cramped window was the dull gray of unpaid bills and unfinished dreams.
Christopher — known to the online world as SureOne — was halfway through reheating yesterday's coffee when his phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
No profile picture.
No country code.
Just a message.
"Do you want to live a better life?
Answer me with a yes or no."
He stared at it.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Yes…
The word felt small compared to the weight behind it.
"Who wouldn't?" he muttered under his breath. "If I could choose, would I live like this?"
Inside his mind, darker thoughts whispered — quiet, dangerous thoughts he had buried countless nights before. Ways to end everything. Ways to escape without ten million dollars chained to his name.
But then laughter echoed from behind him.
Nuwa arguing passionately about science homework.
Sarina insisting she'd become a doctor someday so she could "heal grandma and grandpa for free."
His chest tightened.
No.
He couldn't leave.
Even if he wanted to disappear, he would endure.
For them.
They did not know they had been abandoned.
They did not know he had found one on a street corner and the other in a dumpster behind a restaurant.
To them, he was simply Father.
And their "mother"?
Abroad. Working hard.
A lie he repeated so their world would not crack too soon.
Christopher pressed send.
Yes.
High above mortal comprehension, in the realm where time bent like silk in water, a god smiled.
It was Papanan, God of Transportation, whose domain was thresholds — doors, portals, crossings between what is and what could be.
The notification shimmered in his palm like captured lightning.
"Consent received."
Below him, the world froze.
Raindrops halted midair.
Electric fans stopped mid-spin.
Heartbeats paused between beats.
Time inhaled.
Space folded.
Christopher felt his stomach drop — not like falling, but like reality had slipped from under him. The walls of his room stretched into impossible angles. Light tore apart into fragments.
Then —
Darkness.
Not ordinary darkness.
A swallowing, infinite vacuum — like being dragged through the throat of a black hole.
He tried to scream.
No sound came.
And then—
Silence.
He woke with a sharp inhale.
But the air was different.
Cool.
Fragrant.
Carrying hints of sandalwood and something floral.
He lay on silk.
Above him stretched a ceiling painted with celestial dragons coiling among golden clouds. Their jeweled eyes seemed almost alive in the soft morning light that filtered through layers of embroidered curtains.
He sat up abruptly.
The bed beneath him was enormous — carved from dark mahogany, its pillars etched with intricate phoenix motifs. Curtains of crimson and gold draped around it like royal fire.
The room itself was vast.
Polished jade tiles reflected the glow of hanging lanterns shaped like lotus blossoms. Walls of lacquered wood were inlaid with gold filigree forming ancient imperial patterns. Tall windows framed a balcony beyond which distant palace rooftops curved like waves of red and gold.
A ceremonial sword rested on a stand near the wall.
Scrolls lay arranged neatly across a large scholar's desk carved from a single slab of blackwood.
Everything screamed power.
Authority.
Privilege.
Christopher stumbled out of bed.
His feet touched a thick embroidered carpet — softer than anything he had ever stepped on.
He rushed toward a bronze standing mirror framed in gold.
And froze.
The man staring back was not him.
Gone were the faint scars from loan shark beatings.
Gone was the exhaustion etched into hollow cheeks.
In their place stood a young man with refined features, sharp brows, and clear porcelain skin. His hair — once plain black — now shimmered in a dark, almost golden hue beneath the lantern light.
He lifted a trembling hand and touched his face.
Smooth.
Unscarred.
Handsome.
He looked down.
He was dressed in layered robes of white and imperial gold, embroidered with dragons stitched in threads so fine they seemed alive.
His breathing quickened.
"What…?"
Before panic could fully bloom—
The doors slid open with a soft wooden glide.
A man in refined eunuch attire entered, robes of muted blue trailing neatly behind him. His posture was perfectly disciplined; his eyes lowered in absolute deference.
He knelt.
"Your Highness," the man said smoothly, voice respectful yet steady. "You are awake."
He remained bowed, waiting.
The weight of the words struck like thunder.
Your Highness.
Christopher turned slowly back to the mirror.
Not Christopher.
Not SureOne.
Somewhere in the recesses of unfamiliar memory, a name surfaced.
Christopher Oliver II.
Crown Prince.
He swallowed.
The gods had not merely transported him.
They had placed him at the center of the very kind of noble world he once failed to write properly.
And somewhere beyond mortal sight, divine eyes watched — waiting to see whether this author could survive inside the chaos he once reduced to shallow fiction.