“For each act of defiance, a thousand reckonings shall follow; for each path unchosen, shadows gather in waiting." - The Maker’s Code, Chapter 6, Line 42

The trek back to Lazytown was, if I’m being honest, painfully long.

Long enough, certainly, to replay, in exquisite detail, the moment I’d told The Maker where to shove his reward.

And yet also long enough to start questioning if telling a god to stuff it was ever a smart move, no matter how delicious it had felt at the time.

The path through the haunted woods back to Lazytown was winding and stretched out far beyond anything reasonable. I’d dropped down the well in the middle of my village and then – at best – walked about two hundred feet away from that initial splattering point in the Dungeon.

That I now appeared to be a walk the length of the Bible away from home felt a touch unnecessary. It struck me that maybe, just maybe, the Maker had dragged me through every mud-riddled inch of it just to make a point about “consequences” for disrespect.

Who? The Maker? But they seemed so chilled and relaxed. Can’t imagine them being so fucking petty as this, surely?

As I trudged – and by now, it really was a trudge - the receding promise of Class Evolutions floated around my mind. I pulled up the notifications again – now sadly greyed out - and skimmed through the options I had been given.

Each line was a tempting reminder of what might have been—"Shadow of Fortune," "Drifter," “Fatebender”—all sounded impressive, potentially useful, and, yes, even sexy in the right light.

I was sure I could rock a mysterious ‘Drifter’ vibe . . .

However, at this point, crying over the missed potential was like crying over a dropped slice of pizza after the three-second-rule. I could still eat it, but it was just going to cause me hours on the loo in the long-term.

That metaphor got away from me a little there. I blame the long walk.

Anyhow, it’s not like I was exactly helpless as it was. I’d hardly taken three steps past the Dungeon’s exit door when my good ol’ Freeloader abilities kicked back into action, racking up resources with each step I took back to home.

By the time I reached the first rise overlooking Lazytown, I’d passively accumulated more cloth, iron ore, and gold than I’d know what to do with. Who needed to be able to bend fate when you were already blessed with a broken build?

It struck me – if my limited experiences with the rest of this world’s populations were anything to go on – that every other soul in this world seemed cursed to have to scrape by. Gold seemed epically short – hadn’t the landlord in Eldhaven mentioned he’d have to get permission to access his bank to change my gold piece? – and even the most basic of village upgrades needed loads of effort, and a motivated workforce, to gather the materials.

But me? I was strolling through life like some half-baked Midas. I didn’t need to even touch things, I just existed and the endless freebies kept washing in.

Regardless of any regret I felt for leaving goodies on the table, I definitely thought I’d done the right thing by snubbing The Maker.

Which Celestial wonderings of course, brought me back to the fate of the Great Slacker.

If The Maker was all about the big, dramatic transformations and the fire-and-brimstone sermons on self-improvement, then the Slackster was obviously the polar opposite. No grand quests, no prophecies, no orders. Just a steady stream of stuff, all designed to let me coast with as little effort as possible.

I’d always figured that if anyone could create a world where people were left to their own devices, without divine interference or forced moralising that would be pretty much paradise. The Great Slacker had clearly taken “creation” as a one-time gig, then passed out on the cosmic couch to let his system run on giveaway autopilot.

Until I’d begged him to get fully involved.

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I turned the Slacker’s final words to me over in my mind, replaying our last encounter. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the Slackster’s various gifts to me were actually more than skills, and more about his ethos—a way of living by not really living, by existing in that liminal space where everything simply “was,” without judgment or consequence.

My own abilities—the embodiment of a lazy god’s design—fit the pattern perfectly. They fed off the efforts of everyone around me, a perfect mirror of his approach.

As I walked – Lazy Aura tripping constantly to keep any number of wolves, bears and . . . was that a giant squirrel from snacking on me – I looked at the ash of the ‘Tao of Idleness’ in my inventory.

It was definitely less . . . ashy than it had been before. Don’t get me wrong, it’s certainly not looking remotely ‘booklike’ but it was showing . . . potential. By acting against The Maker’s pattern, it felt like I seemed to have done something to encourage the Slacker back from wherever he had gone. I needed to think about that some more.

And if turning away from The Maker was what had coaxed the Slackster back into the game, well, then I’d gladly continue defying the divine.

After what felt like an eternity, Lazytown’s newly thrown-up buildings finally came into view, framed by the hazy afternoon light. My feet dragged through Scar’s improvised defences, dodging the occasional tripwire and well-hidden pit trap. When I arrived at the village square, the sight of a familiar gathering huddled around the well stopped me in my tracks.

Lia and Scar were leaning over the edge, peering down with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for highly unfortunate family gatherings or judgmental hairdressers. A couple of Scar’s men stood nearby, scratching their heads as they tried to make sense of whatever fate they imagined had befallen me.

“James!” Scar’s voice boomed as he balanced on the lip, one foot dangling dangerously over the edge. “If you’re still down there, can you give us some sort of sign? You know something other than a rather ominous silence?”

“He’s alive,”Lia said, though I detected a note of concern in her voice. That was nice. It wasn’t affection, but I could work with worry. “We’d have gotten a notification if the village’s owner had met some dramatic end. Right?”

Scar shook his head. “The Rogue is fine. He’s probably down there right now, finding a way to tax his own disappearance.”

That was my cue. They hadn’t noticed me yet, so I took the opportunity to creep closer, walking with the quietest steps I could manage. It turns out all those extra points I’d dumped in Agility and Dexterity were good for something. Gravel barely whispered underfoot, and I stopped just behind them, watching as Lia continued to mither.

“Maybe,” she said, “but I’d feel a lot better if I knew he was okay. The last thing we need right now is—”

“—to be abandoned by the love of your life?” I interjected, right in her ear.

Lia shrieked, spinning so quickly she nearly sent herself over the well. Her face was a mixture of relief and irritation, somewhere between seeing a ghost and wishing it would stay that way. Or, and as she flushed red this seemed most likely, whether it was time to make it so herself. Scar jumped too, clutching his chest like a man twice his age.

“James!” he barked, attempting to cover his initial shock with a gruff laugh. “Maker’s teeth, man, we thought you were dead down there!”

“Dead?” I raised an eyebrow. “Please. A bit of dark, a dash of stone, an enraged god, and a legendary dungeon? Not nearly enough to put a dent in my day.”

Their collective relief quickly morphed into something more familiar—exasperation with a side of mild concern. I could see the questions forming in their minds, but, fortunately, they seemed to think better of asking.

“That all sounds like something I don’t really want to hear much about,” Lia said, her face carefully composed. “Next time you decide to go spelunking, maybe give us a little warning!”

I gave her a playful nudge, grinning. She stared at my hand like she was going to snap it off. Yeah. I still had work to do on the wooing front. “Admit it. Your heart skipped a beat when you thought I’d abandoned you. You were worried, weren’t you?”

She scowled, stepping back as the other villagers, sensing the show was over, wandered off. Apparently, near-death escapades with gods and dungeons weren’t enough to earn more than a few minutes of Lazytown’s attention.

Typical.

Not quite the grand reception I’d pictured after my encounter with the divine, but I made a mental note to embellish the tale for future storytelling. I was pretty sure “spat in the eye of a god and lived to tell the tale” had a certain ring to it. I wonder whether Dema would be more admiring . . .

“Hey, this is Lazytown!” I called after the receding crowd, spreading my arms wide. “If you don’t expect a little thrill now and then, you’re probably living in the wrong place!”

Scar turned back, halfway down the path, and raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Just . . . try not to vanish so dramatically next time, would you?”

I grinned, watching as they all made their way back to their routines, some of them muttering about “idiots” and “showoffs.” I’d take that as a form of love.

“Guys,” I shouted after them, “my theatrics are at least half the reason this place is still standing!”

And as the last of the crowd drifted away, I was left alone beside the Well, the quiet settling around me like an old, comfortable coat.

I leaned over the lip and called down, “How do you like me now, mate?”

The Maker didn’t answer.