It’s been ten days since I summoned the devil and gained the God’s Blessings system, and I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of my new life.

At first, the constant notifications, divine directives, and infernal nudges were overwhelming. The glowing system interface would appear at random, urging me to complete tasks that ranged from mundane to bizarre. “Donate half your lunch to the homeless man on the corner.” “Paint a vision of your deepest fears.” “Indulge in a day of rest and gluttony.” Each action felt like a balancing act between two cosmic forces vying for my attention—and my soul.

But now, ten days in, I’ve settled into a strange rhythm. The system isn’t just a nuisance anymore; it’s become… part of me.

Sometimes it pushes me to be better:

“Wake up early and meditate for an hour.”

“Help your neighbor fix their broken fence.”

“Write down your goals and commit to them.”

Other times, it tempts me toward indulgence:

“Treat yourself to the most expensive meal you can find.”

“Stay up all night binging your favorite movies.”

“Buy that ridiculous leather jacket you’ve been eyeing—you deserve it.”

I won’t lie; the indulgent tasks are easier. And the devil—who I’ve started calling Solace for convenience—always looks particularly smug when I give in to those moments of self-indulgence.

“See?” Solace said just the other day, lounging on my couch with a glass of wine they didn’t bother to explain the origin of. “You’re finally learning to enjoy yourself. That’s progress.”

“It’s not all about enjoyment,” I replied, organizing the stack of sketches on my desk. “Some of the system’s tasks make me feel… I don’t know. Lighter? Like I’m actually doing something worthwhile.”

Solace raised an eyebrow, swirling their wine. “Ah, the sweet lure of virtue. Let me guess—Hyperion’s doing?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But it doesn’t feel bad. It feels… balanced.”

Solace rolled their eyes but didn’t argue.

The truth is, I’ve started to see a strange harmony in the system’s demands. When I lean too far into one side, the other pulls me back. Days filled with charity and self-improvement leave me feeling drained, and then the system nudges me to indulge—to recharge in a way that feels oddly necessary.

But there’s something else. My art has changed. The paintings I’ve created over the past ten days are unlike anything I’ve ever done before. There’s a depth, a rawness, that I didn’t know I was capable of.

One piece, in particular, stands out: a swirling depiction of light and shadow locked in an eternal dance. It’s chaotic but harmonious, vibrant but haunting. When I showed it to Solace, they stared at it for a long time before murmuring, “Not bad, mortal. Not bad at all.”

For the first time in years, I feel like I’m not just surviving—I’m living. The push and pull of divine and infernal forces have forced me to confront parts of myself I’d long ignored.

But I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. The system’s demands are becoming more complex, the stakes higher. And as I navigate this strange new life, I can’t help but wonder:

What’s the endgame?

Rantaro adjusted the easel in his cramped studio, the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the window. It had been ten days since his pact with Solace and the introduction of the God’s Blessings system, and now, for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just making art—he was making a living from it.

The idea had struck him almost accidentally. One of the system’s tasks had urged him to “Share your gift with others,” which he had interpreted as painting something for someone else. He posted a quick note on an online forum: “Taking art commissions! Custom paintings tailored to your vision.” Within hours, his inbox was flooded with requests.

“I guess people really like the idea of owning something personal,” Rantaro had muttered, scrolling through the messages. Solace, perched lazily on the couch, had smirked.

“Of course, they do,” the devil had replied. “Humans love to see their dreams, their essence, captured in a way they can’t achieve themselves. It’s why artists like you will always have power.”

Rantaro didn’t dwell on the philosophical implications. Instead, he threw himself into the work.

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Commission #1: A painting of a beloved pet, a golden retriever with eyes full of life.

Hyperion’s system had chimed in: “Capture their joy and their spirit. Let your art bring them peace.”

The painting had taken hours, but when he handed it over, the client’s tearful gratitude left a warmth in his chest that lingered for days.

Commission #2: A surrealist piece for a young couple’s first home.

The system nudged him: “Let their love guide your hand.”

The colors he chose seemed to flow from his fingers without thought—soft pastels blending into vibrant streaks of red and gold. The couple’s excitement when they saw it was almost contagious.

Commission #3: A dark, haunting portrait of a man’s inner turmoil.

This time, it was Solace who whispered in his ear: “Dig into their fears, their doubts. Show them what they hide, even from themselves.”

The result was unsettling yet captivating, a piece that made the client shudder but thank him profusely.

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As the days passed, Rantaro’s reputation grew. People praised his uncanny ability to bring their visions to life, often marveling at how he seemed to know exactly what they wanted, even when they struggled to describe it.

His earnings piled up faster than he’d expected. For the first time in his life, Rantaro wasn’t just surviving—he was thriving. He bought better supplies, upgraded his workspace, and even treated himself to small luxuries he’d long denied.

But beneath the satisfaction, there was an unease he couldn’t shake. Every piece he created seemed to carry a fragment of something more—something beyond himself. The balance between light and darkness in his work mirrored the forces tugging at his soul.

One evening, as he packed up after finishing a particularly intricate piece, he turned to Solace. “Do you think all this… means something? That I’m not just creating art, but…” He hesitated, struggling to put the feeling into words.

“Changing lives?” Solace offered, raising an eyebrow.

Rantaro nodded. “Yeah.”

The devil leaned back, their smirk a little softer this time. “Every stroke you make leaves a mark, Rantaro. On the world, on others, on yourself. Whether that’s good, bad, or something in between, well… that’s for you to decide.”

Rantaro swallowed, the weight of their words settling on his chest. For now, he chose not to think about the larger implications. He’d focus on the next painting, the next client, the next step forward.

Rantaro stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his school uniform with an air of reluctance. The crisp white shirt, the tie that always felt too tight, and the gray blazer all felt like a costume, something that didn’t belong to him anymore. Not after everything that had happened. But here he was, back to the grind, forced into the rhythm of school once again.

He glanced over at Solace, who lounged on the bed with a perplexed expression, their eyes narrowing at the school uniform he wore.

“You’re… seriously going back to school?” Solace asked, their voice a mix of disbelief and mild annoyance. “I thought you were an artist, not some ordinary teenager who has to sit in classrooms and listen to lectures. This is beneath you.”

Rantaro sighed, throwing his tie over his shoulder and grabbing his school bag from the floor. "Yeah, well, reality doesn’t bend to my wishes. I'm still legally a student. I can't exactly skip out on school just because I made a deal with a demon and got a blessing from the gods, right?"

Solace stood up, crossing their arms with a frown. “I don’t understand. You have divine and infernal powers at your fingertips, and you’re still playing by human rules?” They tilted their head, clearly baffled by Rantaro's decision to stick to his school routine. "Isn't there something more exciting you could be doing with all this? You could be making your art a living, growing your influence, shaking up the world in ways you never could before."

Rantaro’s hand paused mid-motion as he slid his school bag over his shoulder. “I mean… yeah, maybe I could do all that,” he said, his voice softer now, “But that’s the thing, Solace. I still want to be me. I want to choose my path, not let some cosmic powers tell me what to do. School might be a pain, but it’s still part of who I am. And I can’t just ditch it.”

Solace seemed to chew on this for a moment before sighing, clearly unconvinced. “You humans and your desire for normalcy. It’s baffling, really. If I had the chance to do whatever I wanted without these absurd constraints, I’d burn it all down just to watch it all unfold differently.”

Rantaro gave a small laugh, though there was a trace of melancholy in it. “Maybe, but that’s not what I want. Not yet, anyway.” He took a deep breath and adjusted his tie one last time. “Besides, I’ve got my art to keep me grounded. I can still work on commissions after school. I just… need to find balance, you know?”

The devil rolled her eyes, her expression one of exasperation but also something oddly approving. “Fine, fine. Go to your little school. Don’t forget that you still owe me, though. The deal’s not just about your art—it’s about your soul, remember?”

Rantaro paused, his hand on the door, a shiver running through him at her words. “I haven’t forgotten.”

With a flick of her fingers, Solace disappeared from the room, as if she’d never been there at all. He exhaled, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him, but he shrugged it off. There was no point in dwelling on it right now. He had a life to live, even if it included sitting through another history class and enduring the awkward conversations with classmates.

As he walked out the door, the school looming just ahead, he couldn't help but feel the strange combination of excitement and dread. His world had changed so much in such a short time, but he couldn’t shake the thought that school, in all its mundane, frustrating glory, was a small piece of the puzzle.

And maybe—just maybe—it would help him figure out what he truly wanted in the end.