Avin soared through the twilight sky. The heavens stretched vast before him, bathed in dark reds and soft purples. The dying mirage of the sun’s light sublimed into night.
Above, the clouds drifted like idle wanderers. Fibers of cotton floating, indifferent to the struggles of those below.
Soon, he descended, landing in a narrow and shadowed alley.
Avin looked around, there were many shops open for business nearby.
A modest food stall caught his attention. There, he ordered a regular burger.
In the real world, the food was created by artifice—rich and complete, and far beyond the taste of nature’s own. But here, in this new body, a simple burger left him in awe.
“They’ve grown so much since my last visit,” he thought. “I wish I could see them grow even more. There was so much tech and mech they might’ve come up with. We could’ve learned so much from them. Uffff…”
But fate was cruel, unforgiving.
A long sigh escaped his lips.
Mourning was useless. Sentimentality, a weakness. He had no power to halt the course of events. And so, he would not waste himself grieving over the doomed.
His purpose remained. He had come here for a reason.
With quiet resolve, he turned from the lights and stepped into a dark alley, unseen by the city. Then, with a mere thought, he vanished—teleporting to a hidden gorge at the base of a towering mountain.
Here, the air was keen. The ground was harsh, unforgiving. A place unshaped by the hands of men.
“I remember the last time I was in the simulation, this place was so, so alive," he thought. "The mountain, the air, and the trees... it was the perfect place for what I needed to do back then, and it still is.”
With a wave of his hand, blue and white light engulfed him. His body shifted, reverting to its true form. The golden staff, Onara, back in his arm.
“Hmmm... so where should I start?” he said with a glint of determination in his golden eyes.
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The fog swayed in like a lazy tide, covering the surroundings with a heavenly smoke. Yet amidst this boundless haze, twin points of golden light pierced with an intensity that rivalled the radiance of two suns. Unwavering.
They burned like the celestial flames that no fog or dust could ever hope to obscure. Draw near, and one would discern with blurred clarity that these twin points emerged from Croxeus’ (Avin’s) own eyes.
The vibrant greens that sang of life and vitality were now, under the oppressive weight of night. The air had grown damp and cool, and the gentle chirping of the cricket had filled the surroundings.
This unusually thick fog was a product of his recent experiments with water magic.
He lowered his staff. “Hmm, it seems I’ve gone too far,” he said.
“Note to myself Sylvia, calibrate water condensation rates next time. What would my old team say if they saw this mess?” He chuckled dryly. But the expected sarcastic remark never came.
Silence.
“Sylvia? Sylvia … Sylvia?”
No response.
Raising a finger to his temple, he activated the interface. A translucent blue panel materialized in front of him.
Sylvia—offline.
“Offline? I haven’t seen that one. Why would they shut her down?”
A hundred possibilities ran through his mind. Sabotage? System failure? External interference?
Whatever the case, this needed to be addressed.
Whatever the case is, I should log out and check it. It’s already been a few hours, I think I’m satisfied now.
His hand moved to the interface, selecting the “Log Out” option.
Nothing.
A message blinked across the screen—Error 4587.
Frowning, he tried again—same error.
What the hell? he thought, confused. Why isn’t it working? What even is Error 4587?
Staring at the stars, he thought over the situation. What could be causing this error? I don’t even remember this code. Could my magic be affecting it? No, that seems unlikely… Then is it a glitch? A bug? Even Sylvia is offline.
Trapped.
That was the reality of it.
He exhaled. Gosh!! I hope someone outside will notice this and fix it…. I can’t even contact the admins.
He knew once inside the simulation there was no way to contact the real world except for logging out. This was to keep the simulation entirely cut off from the real world. The only way to fix any problem was Sylvia, but right now she wasn’t online.
Lost in thought, he was suddenly pulled back to reality.
Skkrrrttt
The silence shattered. It was a wail of tires screeching against the road.
Moments later, the sound of two violent collisions echoed through the valley. A hollow boom, followed by another in quick succession. The kind of impact that left nothing intact.
For a heartbeat, Avin paused, what is that sound?
Earlier, while trying out magic, he had heard honks and noises from the highway above. Realising this, he carried out his experiments carefully.
But now…
Could it be…? he considered tensely. That the thick mist that I created in my experiment—was the reason for this crash.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He looked around warily, trying to see how far and beyond the fog had spread. The sea of mist had already devoured the landscape like a silent tsunami.
A wave of guilt surged through him.
It was apparent, he was responsible for this accident.
Had this been any other researcher, they would’ve fled the scene and ignored it. A mere statistical casualty. An unpredictable outcome of experimentation. To them, it was irrelevant if a few APCs died as a result of their actions.
Why should it matter?
The APCs were not real.
They were just lines of code masquerading as sentience. When the researchers accelerated time within the simulation, a single hour in the real world could equal generations of APC lifespans. Civilizations rose and crumbled within mere days. The deaths of thousands, tens of thousands—it was all routine, nothing more than discarded data.
Just as humans crushed ants beneath their feet without a second thought, so too did the researchers erase entire histories with the click of a button.
What difference would a few more make?
Yet Avin was different.
He was self-conscious. He could not bring himself to think of APCs as just lines of codes. He saw them for what they were, humanity’s own reflections.
In the real world, most of the people were atheists. The prevailing wisdom was cold.
Humanity was nothing but the universe observing itself. Consciousness was an accident, the inevitable byproduct of entropy and chance.
The Creator theory was dead.
The cosmos was an accident.
Life had no value beyond what it arbitrarily assigned itself.
Yet Avin had never been satisfied with such answers.
What if there was a Creator? And if such a being existed, how would it see its own creations?
Would it look down on them with indifference? Would it discard them when they ceased to be useful? Would it erase them without hesitation, as humans were going to erase the APCs?
He refused to be that kind of creator.
That was why he treated the APCs not as disposable, but as people. Because if there was a higher being, if humans too were inside simulations, then he wished to be treated the same way.
But now—because of his actions—innocent lives may pay the price for his desires.
This is my fault, a guilty thought.
The realization ignited a tumult of inner conflict. What should I do? he questioned. To interfere was to risk destabilizing the simulation.
But to do nothing?
To stand idle while lives he endangered were lost.
That was unacceptable.
His mind sharpened. A solution emerged.
I can use [Total Illusion] to become invisible and act indirectly.
Though this plan had few flaws, as long as the APCs knew nothing about the nature of the simulation, everything was fine.
Again, he closed his eyes and thought of the incantation/ code, [Total Illusion]. The spell took hold instantly. His form blurred, rippling like water before vanishing entirely.
Now, he was a ghost. He could easily slip in and act accordingly without getting noticed.
Using [Fly] he soared high in the sky to search for the signs of the crash….
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In the black canvas of the night, the moon gleamed like the polished back of a silver spoon, while the stars twinkled like the scattered grains of salt. The uneven grass on the ground was moist with dew which felt cold and wet but there was a quiet comfort in its touch.
On the ground lay two unconscious bodies. The first was a man with scruffy brown hairs and a business suit, except his left sleeve had been ripped entirely off below the elbow, leaving a freshly baked arm.
Beside him was another man, dressed in an all black combat suit and a black mask covering his face. The mask was black but covered with golden lines patterns.
Avin sat above them. His magic had almost cured them.
Uffffff… They all look okay, I guess. I arrived in time—if I hadn''t, some of these guys wouldn''t have made it. Though people would find it unusual that nothing happened to them even after such a violent crash, miracles are par for the course, right? Now, just gotta get them back to their car…
Before he could finish, a stuttering voice cut through his thoughts. “Are you… are you God?”
Avin turned.
A strikingly handsome man on his knees, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and awe locked onto him.
He panicked. Oh no. How much did he see? Is he going to think I’m just some eccentric cosplayer? Do people even cosplay in this world?
His mind raced frantically. What now? Should I just disappear with a total illusion? No—he’s already seen me. Maybe I could try a brainwashing spell…
Nah, that might mess with the APC mechanics and make everything worse. I can’t experiment with consciousness when things are already…
Avin was out of options. For now, the best he could do was play along and hope someone in the real-world spots the glitch and pulls him back.
With forced calm, Avin locked eyes with Ard and said, “What led you to such an assumption?”
Like a lullaby sung by the stars, his voice danced through the air. It didn’t just touch the ears but the soul of the listener as well.
The man’s eyes sparkled with reverence. “You regenerated that person’s entire arm. You are probably the one that saved me too… and this… This presence… it is beyond any mortal comprehension. Every facet of your existence proclaims divinity. There’s no doubt—you are a god.”
He saw everything. How am I supposed to get out of this mess? He considered his options.
For now, he decided to keep track of the man. Narrowing his eyes, he concentrated, and the man’s Subject ID appeared in his vision. Avin saved it to access later, hoping it might come in handy when he finally escaped this predicament.
As he looked towards Ard who was desperately waiting for an answer he said, “I am not a god. Just one of the creators of this universe. Calling me a god would be foolish.”
The man’s curiosity flared. “Others? Then you are not the sole authority of creation?”
Avin nodded. “Yes, there are others.”
Ard fell into confusion, puzzled he asked, “If… if it’s not too much to ask… tell me, just how many of such beings exist?”
Avin hesitated. I can’t just reveal there’s an entire research department behind this. He seems clever—he might piece together too much. After a moment’s thought, he replied with a careful answer. “There are 11. That is the truth of this reality.” (Referencing the backstory of Croxeus’ world where there were 11 Gods).
The man took this in, awe etched across his face. “Are there others beyond your eleven? A God? Or is this number absolute?”
Of course, there are higher-ups… managers and their managers. But I can’t exactly say that here, Avin thought. The man clearly believed he was divine. Any further contradictions would only complicate matters.
After a moment’s pause. Avin settled on a response. “If such a being exists, I have yet to witness it.”
A silent reverence softened his expression. “Then… you truly are a god?”
Avin shook his head gently. “No, I haven’t done anything to deserve that title. I’m merely a creator.” Avoiding further questions, he activated the interface again. Keeping it open as he waited.
Hoping someone outside would notice the glitch and pull him out soon. All he wanted now was to escape this situation before it got even more complicated.
The man in front stood frozen. Awe gripped him. Before him stood a god—undeniable, immeasurable—yet one who rejected the title with indifference.
Was this the true nature of divinity? Not the arrogance of the self-proclaimed, not the wrath of the petulant idols of old, but a power so vast it had no need for recognition.
True divinity did not demand worship. It simply was.
He wished to speak. To ask the questions in his mind. Yet he hesitated.
Did he even possess the right? In the presence of such an existence, was he anything more than dust? How does a man conduct himself before a god?
Then, clarity struck him like divine revelation. This was a god—no, The God. Not the fickle, jealous phantoms of mythology, not the petty tyrants clothed in celestial clothing, but a being far above all.
Unshaken by insults. Unburdened by ego.
Greater than any force in the universe—yet humbler than the lowest of men. Hadn’t his actions already proven it?
Gathering all his courage he asked, “if… I may ask, what should I call you? I hardly know how to address a god.”
“Croxeus Ezthen” Avin replied, deciding to keep his chosen name the same as the avatar he was in.
“Is that… your name?” Ard asked, a bit hesitant.
“Yes.”
“But how can I call you just by name? Surely, I should use some honorific.”
“Just Croxeus is fine.”
“Alright… Lord Croxeus.” Ard nodded, feeling that it was the only respectful choice. “I couldn’t think of anything more fitting.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ard continued, “May I ask… just one more thing, my Lord?”
“Yes, you may.”
“Why were we created? Forgive my curiosity, but… what’s the purpose behind our existence?”