The voice had claimed he could create anything. Anything at all. That idea alone was absurd, utterly unbelievable. How could anyone wield such power?
But curiosity got the better of him. Closing his eyes, he focused on the first thing that came to mind: money. A $1000 bill, to be precise.
He imagined its size, the color, the intricate details of its design, though he knew he couldn't possibly recall everything perfectly. When he opened his eyes, his breath caught.
There it was. Perfect, pristine, and unmistakably real. He had braced himself for a crude imitation, some poorly rendered version with glaring errors.
After all, he was as normal as they came—or at least, he thought he was. But no, this was flawless. Every line, every detail was exactly where it should be.
He rushed to his phone, his hands shaking as he searched for an image of a $1000 bill. It didn't take long to confirm what he was seeing.
Even the finest, most minuscule details—details he'd never noticed before, like those faint, intricate lines running across the note—were there. Perfectly replicated.
"Damn," he muttered, his voice brimming with excitement and disbelief.
If this was real, then… wow. The implications sent his mind spinning. His ability was one of creation—true creation.
There was only one entity he could think of with that kind of power: God. And hadn't God created the universe with nothing but a command?
The thought aligned with an ancient idea he'd once heard: that even God didn't fully know what would emerge from His commands.
The Bible itself said as much. When He declared, "Let there be light," and the sun burst into existence, even He was awestruck by its brilliance.
Could it be the same for him? Could he wield such boundless potential? Could he create an entire universe?
The thought both thrilled and terrified him. His only limitation, as far as he could recall from the strange information he'd received about his ability, was something called xymic energy.
But how was he supposed to measure this energy? Did he have an infinite supply, or could he run out?
"I should be able to see it if I concentrate," he mused.
Closing his eyes, he focused inward. Almost immediately, he felt a strange pull on his subconscious, like an invisible force urging him forward.
It didn't feel dangerous, so he let it guide him. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast, empty expanse—a place of utter darkness, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of light.
His subconscious soared through the void, an unending darkness pressing against his awareness.
The sheer emptiness made his chest tighten with unease—until he reached it. The swirling mass of blue energy glowed softly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Relief washed over him, mingled with awe. Is this… me? he wondered, marveling at its fragile beauty.
The energy pulsed gently, about the size of a medium-sized apartment. Yet, compared to the infinite void surrounding it, it looked insignificant—a mere drop in an endless ocean. He tilted his head, studying it with awe.
Is this my potential? he wondered silently. What could I create if I filled this entire space?
After a moment, he decided it was time to return to reality. Slowly breathing in and out, he grounded himself.
Pinching himself to check if he was dreaming seemed absurd. He wasn't some clueless protagonist in a cheap novel.
Back in the real world, he paced the room, his mind racing. The possibilities were endless, yet daunting.
What should he create? The weight of his newfound power pressed on him—exciting, but terrifying.
Money and cars were obvious choices, yet in the 21st century, untraceable wealth or vehicles would raise more questions than he was ready to answer.
Additionally, bills aren't just created and sent out. they all are marked with a serial number code unique to each individual bill, and no two bill will have the same code, and all serial codes are cataloged.
So, if you use a bill that doesn't have a registered serial code, or one with a duplicate code, it will alert the government.
No, Start small, he thought. Prove to yourself you can handle this.
He needed something practical. Something safe. His eyes roamed the room, lingering on everyday objects.
His gaze swept the room, and he smiled. Household items. No one was going to inspect his sofa or microwave to see if they were government-certified.
Grinning, he grabbed his phone and called a moving company. Within fifteen minutes, a truck arrived.
It took the movers nearly two hours to clear out his apartment—sofa set, dining table, TV, refrigerator, microwave, everything.
Now, standing in the empty space, he let out a triumphant laugh. Then he got to work.
An hour later, he lay sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. But he was smiling.
His once-bare apartment was now filled with everything he had ever wanted: luxurious furniture, cutting-edge appliances, and gadgets he could only have dreamed of owning before.
"So, that's how it works," he muttered, half-laughing.
"A warning about the side effects would've been nice," he continued, wiping sweat from his brow.
Through his experiments, he had drawn three conclusions:
First, he bore the weight of everything he created. If he ever tried to create something massive—like, say, a galaxy—it would crush him under its sheer weight.
He'd attempted it once, and the memory of the pain was enough to ensure he never tried it again. If he wanted to become a true creator, he'd need to strengthen his body significantly.
Second, his xymic energy grew with each creation, albeit at a painfully slow rate. The more energy he expended, the more it regenerated, but the growth was so minimal it was almost negligible. Still, it was growth.
Third, energy expenditure depended on complexity, not size. Creating a king-sized bed and mattress had barely dented his reserves.
But when he created a smartwatch, the energy it consumed far surpassed the bed and mattress combined. Complexity, not scale, was the true cost of creation.
With these discoveries in mind, he formed a plan. Step one: sleep. He was utterly exhausted.
Step two: tomorrow, he'd focus on building his physique to levels no ordinary human could achieve. If he was going to wield this power, he wanted to become a real-life Superman.
Step three: experiment with ways to rapidly grow his xymic energy.
Oh, and one last thing: his creations? They were permanent.
The future stretched before him, limitless and exhilarating—but also uncertain.
The weight of what he could do, of what he might become, loomed large in his mind.
Could he wield this power responsibly? Would it change him, corrupt him? Shaking the doubts aside, he took a deep breath.
One step at a time.
Watts was still trying to catch his breath but the sharp buzz of the doorbell shattered the quiet.
He froze.
Watts paused for a moment, he wasn't expecting anyone at home right now, unless it is the never minding Chloe or his annoying sister.
Grimacing, Watts dragged himself to his feet, each step toward the door slow and deliberate. He peered through the peephole.
A delivery guy?
Watts frowned. He was sure he hadn't ordered anything.
Cautiously, he retreated to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned to the door.
He had just recently died and he didn't want to die the second time, because he wasn't sure if his ability would save him again.
Cracking it open just enough to see outside, he kept the blade hidden behind the door.
"How may I help you?" Watts asked, his voice steady but edged with suspicion.
His eyes darted past the delivery guy, scanning for anyone lurking in the shadows.
Nothing.
The man, clearly unsettled by Watts' demeanor, hesitated before speaking. "Uh... you have a delivery. From a Layla Wattson." He gestured toward a box in his hands.
Watts exhaled, relief and annoyance mingling as he shook his head. Of course. Layla. His sister's antics knew no bounds.
Signing for the package with a mumbled thanks, he shut the door, locked it, and carried the box to the kitchen counter.
Opening it, he found a hodgepodge of items: snacks, a handwritten letter, a sleek watch that looked too expensive for its own good, and... a sparkly pink mug.
A sparkly. Pink. Mug.
Watts stared at it, one brow twitching as a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He shook his head and grabbed his phone, dialing Layla on video call. It didn't take long for her to answer.
The screen lit up with the face of a blonde, bright-eyed girl in her late teens. Layla's grin was as innocent as it was mischievous, her energy practically bouncing through the screen.
"A pink mug? Really?" Watts held the offending item up to the camera.
Layla beamed. "It's sparkly too! I thought it'd add some flair to your boring life."
"Unbelievable." Watts shook his head, the exasperation in his voice betrayed by the smile threatening to form. "Just so you know, I'm not using this."
"Oh, don't lie. You know it'll be your favorite mug by next week."
"Why do I even talk to you?" he muttered, flopping onto his bed, the phone propped against a pillow.
"Because you love me!" Layla sang, her grin widening. "Now, do me a favor. Smile for the camera with the mug, or I'll post your middle school braces photo on Insta."
Watts groaned, his face buried in his hands. "Oh, God. You wouldn't."
However, her smirk said otherwise.