Nathan Steele had always joked about dying at his desk. He'd laugh it off with his coworkers, claiming he was married to his work, even as he drowned himself in coffee and deadlines. But no one expected the joke to become reality—not even Nathan himself.
The first thing he noticed was the silence.
It was a profound, oppressive quiet, the kind that pressed against his ears and crawled under his skin. There was no hum of computers, no distant murmur of voices, no clatter of keyboards. Just... nothing.
Nathan opened his eyes—or at least, he thought he did. There was no light, no darkness, no anything. Just an endless, featureless expanse that stretched in all directions.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice shaky. It didn't echo.
Panic started to set in. Where was he? What happened? The last thing he remembered was coding late into the night, trying to fix a game-breaking bug for his company's latest release. Then, there was the sharp pain in his chest, a dizzying collapse, and now... this.
Before his thoughts spiraled further, a cold, mechanical voice broke the silence:
"Welcome, Nathan Steele. Initiating Tutorial System..."
Nathan froze. "What... what is this? Who's there?"
The voice ignored his questions.
"You are dead."
It hit him like a freight train. Dead. The word lingered, heavy and undeniable.
"Your physical body has ceased functioning due to prolonged sleep deprivation and cardiac arrest."
Nathan's mind reeled. Was this some kind of cruel joke? A hallucination brought on by stress? He clutched at his chest instinctively but felt nothing—no heartbeat, no warmth, no sensation at all.
The voice continued, unbothered by his growing panic.
"Congratulations! You have been selected for divine ascension. You are now a god."
"What?" Nathan's voice cracked. "A god? What are you talking about?"
"You are now the sole deity of a new, unformed world. Your primary objective: create life, cultivate belief, and maintain your existence. Failure to generate sufficient faith will result in immediate termination of your divine essence."
Nathan blinked—or at least, he thought he did. "Wait, back up. Termination? You mean I can die again?"
"Correct. Gods who fail to sustain their worshipers are erased."
This was absurd. He was a game developer, not a god. Yet, as ridiculous as it sounded, the cold, clinical tone of the Tutorial System didn't leave much room for argument.
"Okay," Nathan muttered, forcing himself to think. "If I'm a god, where's my world? What am I supposed to do?"
The space around him shimmered, and a glowing panel appeared, floating in the void. It looked like a user interface from one of his own games, complete with tabs and menus.
"Your world is currently a blank slate. You must construct its foundation. Begin by selecting the basic parameters."
Nathan stared at the interface, a mix of awe and disbelief washing over him. The panel displayed options like "Terrain," "Atmosphere," and "Ecosystem," each with sliders and dropdown menus. It was eerily familiar—like something he might've coded during one of his marathon sessions.
"Is this... some kind of sick joke? Did I die and get trapped in one of my own games?"
"Negative. This is reality."
He sighed, rubbing his temples—or at least, trying to. His hands passed through where his head should've been.
"Fine. Let's say I believe you. What happens if I mess this up?"
"Failure to generate a sustainable ecosystem will result in the extinction of your creations. This may lead to a loss of faith, which, as previously stated, will result in your termination."
"No pressure, huh?"
Nathan turned his attention back to the panel. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the "Terrain" tab. Creating a world from scratch sounded... impossible. But then again, so did being dead and talking to a floating interface.
"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath he didn't need. "Let's do this."
The moment Nathan selected the Terrain tab, the void rippled. Options materialized in front of him: mountains, plains, oceans, deserts. Each came with sliders for scale, density, and complexity.
"Let's start simple," he murmured, dragging the slider for plains to the middle.
The emptiness around him shimmered, and suddenly, he was standing on solid ground. Endless, rolling fields of grass stretched out in all directions, dotted with wildflowers swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
Nathan's jaw dropped. "I did that?"
"Correct. Terrain established. Proceed to Atmosphere configuration."
"Right. Atmosphere."
The next panel was even more complex, with options for oxygen levels, weather patterns, and temperature ranges. Nathan fiddled with the settings, trying to strike a balance. As he adjusted the sliders, clouds formed overhead, the sky shifted from gray to blue, and a gentle wind began to blow.
"This is insane," he muttered, watching his world take shape.
But something felt... off. The plains were beautiful, but they were empty—lifeless.
"What about life?" he asked.
"Life creation is unlocked after ecosystem stabilization. Current stability: 42%."
"Figures. Nothing's ever easy."
Nathan spent what felt like hours tweaking the parameters, experimenting with rivers, forests, and mountain ranges. The process was both exhilarating and exhausting. Every change brought new challenges—too much water flooded the plains, too little turned them into deserts. He felt like he was back in the office, debugging code, only now the stakes were his existence.
Finally, the System chimed again:
"Ecosystem stabilized. Life creation unlocked."
Nathan's heart—or whatever he had now—leapt. A new panel appeared, offering templates for various life forms.
Nathan hesitated. The templates ranged from simple microbes to complex animals. He selected the smallest option, a single-celled organism, and placed it in a shallow pond.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the water shimmered, and tiny, translucent shapes began to swim.
"They're alive," he whispered, marveling at the sight.
"Congratulations. You have created your first life forms. Progression to higher organisms requires evolutionary guidance."
"Evolution? You mean I have to help them evolve?"
"Correct. Evolutionary intervention is necessary to accelerate development. Suggested goal: intelligent life capable of worship."
Nathan groaned. "Of course. It always comes back to worship."
He spent what felt like an eternity guiding the tiny creatures, tweaking their environment, and watching as they adapted and grew. With each step, the world became more vibrant, more alive.
But it wasn't enough. Nathan could feel the weight of his task pressing down on him. This wasn't just about creating a world—it was about ensuring his survival.
As he sat by the edge of the pond, watching his creations, a thought struck him:
"If I'm a god... does that mean I can communicate with them?"
"Communication protocols unlocked. Warning: premature contact may destabilize faith development."
Nathan smirked. "Guess I'll have to get creative."
Just as he began brainstorming ways to guide his creatures without revealing himself, the System chimed again:
"Alert: Presence of another deity detected."
Nathan froze. "Another deity? What does that mean?"
"Your world is not the only one. Prepare for potential contact—or conflict."
The void shimmered, and for the first time, Nathan felt fear. He wasn't alone in this divine game, and he had no idea what—or who—was coming next.