They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die.
Mine didn't.
I didn't even get that courtesy.
One second I was walking home. The next, a bolt of strange purple lightning split the sky and struck me before I could blink. There wasn't even a cloud overhead. No thunder. No warning.
And just like that, I was gone.
I hovered above the scene, weightless, staring down at my own body sprawled on the pavement while strangers gathered in a widening circle. Someone screamed. Someone called for an ambulance.
It felt… anticlimactic.
After everything I had survived, this was how I died? Not in battle. Not bleeding out in some back alley. Not at the hands of an enemy.
Lightning.
I might have laughed if I still had lungs.
I endured years of childhood abuse. Torture disguised as "training" to mold me into an assassin. Countless missions that left me half-dead and soaked in blood—mine and others'. I had survived things that should have killed me a hundred times over.
And yet I died on an ordinary day, under a clear sky.
I was, admittedly, a little pissed.
Still, I didn't have regrets. Not really.
Maybe a little sadness.
I would never see the children again.
To conceal my identity—and because I genuinely loved children—I became a kindergarten teacher. My students became something dangerously close to family. I poured everything into teaching them about the world, hoping to give them the tools I never had.
They were so bright. So innocent.
I prayed they would never have to see the darkness I had. Even though I knew that was a foolish wish.
Children grow up. They learn the truth eventually—that the world is hypocrisy wrapped in pretty lies.
Sometimes I wanted to gather them all up and hide them somewhere safe. Keep them untouched by cruelty.
But I didn't.
And every year, when they moved on, my heart broke quietly as I said goodbye—knowing I would likely never see them again.
I had thought about having children of my own.
But an accident in my teens left me infertile.
Adoption was possible. I considered it more than once. But what right did I have to drag a child into a life steeped in blood? My enemies would have used them against me. Or worse—if I died, they would be left alone because of my choices.
So I remained alone.
With one last look at my body, I let myself fade, fully expecting to descend into hell for the sins staining my soul.
********************************************
Instead, I opened my eyes to white.
Endless white.
A vast room with no visible walls, no ceiling—just an overwhelming emptiness. In front of me stood a man who radiated something vast and immeasurable.
"I am the God of Creation," he said calmly.
I stared at him.
He informed me—without a hint of embarrassment—that my death had been a mistake. The lightning? A careless accident caused by a young god practicing.
I waited for anger.
It didn't come.
Maybe something was muting my emotions. Or maybe, after everything, I simply didn't care enough to rage at a cosmic clerical error.
He explained that I couldn't be returned to my original world. Doing so would disrupt its balance. However, as compensation, he would reincarnate me into another world.
I could keep my memories. My skills. My strength.
And he would grant me three reasonable wishes.
Three wishes from a god.
It sounded generous.
But I had lived too long as an assassin to believe in generosity without cost. Every deal has a price. Every favor creates a debt.
"I won't owe you anything?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "This is restitution."
I considered my options carefully.
If I had another life… I wanted it to be peaceful.
My first wish was simple.
"I want to be reincarnated into a world where being gay is fully accepted."
Even though gay marriage had been legalized in China, society remained far from kind. I was tired of hiding. Tired of caution. Tired of measuring my words and my gaze.
If I was going to live again, I refused to do so in fear of who I loved.
The god nodded without hesitation.
Encouraged, I continued.
"For my second wish, I want a portable space dimension. Time inside should stand still—nothing rots or decays. It should be stocked with food, weapons, clothing appropriate for the new world, and basic necessities. And… a well of spiritual water capable of healing injuries, detoxifying poisons, and strengthening the body."
I fully expected him to refuse or bargain.
Instead, he said, "Granted."
I blinked.
Apparently, gods were generous when they were guilty.
"For my last wish," I said after a moment, "I want comprehensive common knowledge of the world I would be reborn into—its languages, customs, geography, currency, power structures."
He raised a brow slightly.
"It may seem small," I added, "some might even consider it a waste, but ignorance is deadly. I didn't want to stumble through my new life like a fool, nor be cheated because I didn't know the value of things. Most importantly, I didn't want to stand out."
I wanted to live quietly.
Peacefully.
After a brief pause, he nodded.
"Very well."
There was no contract. No ominous warning.
Just a faint smile.
"Good luck."
He snapped his fingers.
The white space shattered.
And my soul was pulled into a swirling portal, dragged toward whatever life awaited me next.