The unknown realm was vast and formless, a space where deities with the weight of countless universes on their shoulders gathered to oversee their domains. Amid the soft glow of infinite stars and swirling clouds of cosmic energy, one figure sat, visibly annoyed. His form was indistinct, shifting between the shapes of a young artist, an aging director, and a creator with hands eternally smudged with paint. He was the God of Art, and he was grumbling.
"Another one," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another mortal cursing me for how the world is. As if I personally scripted their tragedies." His voice reverberated, carrying a mix of frustration and guilt. The source of his irritation was a man named Gray, whose weary complaints echoed through the ether. Gray's disillusionment with Hollywood was a familiar refrain, but this time, the God of Art couldn't shake it off.
Nearby, another figure lounged, exuding an air of relaxed mischief. This was the God of Music, a being who strummed an invisible lyre while chuckling at his counterpart's frustrations. "You know," he said, his voice rich and melodic, "you've been hearing this for ages. Humans have always cursed the gods for their troubles. Why let this one get under your skin?"
The God of Art glared at him. "Because it's not just cursing. He's right. I crafted this domain of creativity, and what has it become? A cesspool of exploitation, vanity, and superficiality. I sent countless souls to Hollywood—some in this universe, others in alternates—hoping they'd see its flaws and make it better. But they all failed. Every single one. They got blinded by the glamour, consumed by their own desires."
The God of Music laughed harder, his cosmic notes resonating like a symphony. "Oh, yes, your reincarnation experiments. Let's talk about those disasters. Didn't you send a whole batch of souls to an alternate Hollywood just last century? What did they do? Turned into maniacs obsessed with fame and indulgence. And don't get me started on the Chinese ones you reincarnated. You had such high hopes for their discipline and artistry, but half of them ended up as perverts and pedophiles!"
The God of Art groaned, leaning back in his ethereal chair. "Don't remind me. I regret every decision I made with those fools. It's like they completely ignored the purpose I sent them for."
"Then why not give this one a chance?" the God of Music suggested, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Gray's different. He's not blind to the darkness. If anything, he sees it too clearly. Maybe that's what Hollywood needs—a man who doesn't just love art but despises what it's become. Send him to an alternate universe. But, of course, with conditions."
The God of Art paused, considering the idea. He glanced at a shimmering orb floating beside him—Gray's life thread. It flickered faintly, a testament to the man's waning vitality. "Not much time left," he murmured, observing the thread's dull glow. "He's got two, maybe three months before that virus takes him. A shame, really. He's got the passion, even if it's buried under all that bitterness."
"Then act now," the God of Music urged, plucking a string of light that sent ripples across the cosmos. "You'll need help, though. Have you spoken to the God of Death and the God of Reincarnation?"
The God of Art smirked, his mood lifting slightly. "Ah, those two. They've been inseparable lately, haven't they? Always up to something."
"Oh, they've taken their games to a new level," the God of Music said with a laugh. "You know how humans on Earth-1351 started calling that trope of reincarnation via accidents 'isekai'? Well, it's not just a trope anymore. The God of Death and the God of Reincarnation are playing an elaborate game of tag. One pretends to be a truck, the other sets up the reincarnations. Mortals even gave them nicknames—'Truck-kun' and 'Isekai Incarnate.' They're obsessed with the whole thing."
The God of Art burst out laughing, the sound reverberating like a chorus of applause. "Truck-kun? Isekai? Oh, that's rich. Leave it to humans to make their misfortunes into memes. Still, if they're so invested in this game, maybe I can get them on board."
He reached out with a brush-like hand, painting a doorway into existence. It shimmered with hues of life and death, creation and rebirth. "Let's see if they're up for a collaboration."
Moments later, the God of Death and the God of Reincarnation appeared, their forms flickering like shadows and light. They were an odd pair—one exuding a quiet, solemn aura, the other radiating chaotic energy. Both wore mischievous grins, as if they'd been caught mid-prank.
"What brings you here, Art?" the God of Death asked, his voice deep and resonant.
The God of Art wasted no time. "I have a proposition. There's a mortal—Gray. He's got a few months left in his current life, but I think he's worth saving. Not just for his sake, but for the sake of Hollywood in another universe. I need your help to reincarnate him, with a condition, of course."
The God of Reincarnation clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Oh, I love conditions! What are you thinking?"
The God of Art hesitated, then said, "He'll keep his memories, but he must prove himself by building a better Hollywood from scratch. If he fails, he doesn't get a second chance. No resets, no do-overs."
The God of Death nodded thoughtfully. "A high-stakes game. I like it. But how will we get him there?"
The God of Reincarnation grinned. "Leave that to me. I'll set the stage. He won't even see it coming. Maybe a runaway truck? That's been a favorite of ours lately."
"Classic," the God of Music said, smirking. "You two are really milking that trope."
The God of Art chuckled, feeling a spark of hope for the first time in centuries. "Fine. Let's do it. But make it quick. His time is running out."
As the gods finalized their plans, Gray remained blissfully unaware, asleep in his chair, dreaming of a world far removed from the darkness he knew. Little did he know, his journey was about to take a turn he could never have imagined.