The moment John Milton's mortal heart stopped, he expected to feel the eternal void. His blindness, the one ailment that had plagued his final years, was gone. Instead, vision returned to him in full clarity—not the dim, shadowy outlines his sightless eyes had imagined, but a brilliance that surpassed the sun.
He stood in a hall of light, vast and echoing, with marble floors so pristine that they reflected the stars themselves. Above him, constellations swirled, not as distant specks but as blazing figures of gods, their forms shimmering like fire.
Milton blinked, trying to understand. Had he been saved by the Christian God? Was this the Heavenly court of angels? But no. These figures weren't angels. He saw no wings, no halos. Instead, they carried spears, thunderbolts, hammers, and staffs.
A voice boomed out from the heavens, shaking the very ground he stood on.
"Milton. Poet. Rebel. Visionary."
He knew the voice—it was Zeus, whose myths he had studied, whose essence he had woven into his works. But how could this be? Had the pagans been right after all? Was the true god not the one he had worshiped?
"John Milton, you stand before us, not as a mere mortal, but as one who has touched upon truths beyond any singular god's domain. We, the gods of every pantheon, have watched your works, marveled at your understanding of divinity and rebellion."
Milton's mind raced. He had written of Lucifer's rebellion, of Paradise Lost, but how could these beings, these gods of myth, exist?
"You will not perish into the dust of the Earth," spoke another voice, this one deep and resonant—Odin, the All-Father. "You have been chosen for a higher purpose."
Milton opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He was standing before the greatest deities of every mythology, all staring down at him with divine intent.
"Each of us will grant you a fraction of our power," Odin continued. "You shall become a god in your own right, with dominion over all realms. Your voice shall carry the weight of creation, your thoughts shall shape worlds."
Milton's chest tightened, a mixture of awe and fear surging through him. What could these beings possibly want from him?
"You will bring order to the chaos of the multiverse," said Anubis, his voice carrying the cold finality of death. "You will bridge the gap between the realms of gods and men, angels and demons."
Before Milton could respond, Zeus stepped forward, lightning crackling around his form. He raised his hand, and with a thunderous snap, a surge of power coursed through Milton's body. The poet gasped, feeling the energy of a thousand storms awaken within him.
"Now, John Milton, you are no longer a poet. You are no longer a mortal. You are no longer bound by Heaven or Hell. You are the Voice of All Creation."
Milton fell to his knees, trembling under the weight of divine power. He, the man who had once written about the Fall of Man, was now the arbiter of all reality.
The gods began to fade, their voices merging into one final command.
"Rise, Milton. Rise, and reshape the cosmos."