Sometimes the world seems dark. Boring, tiresome, not worth the effort. At least, that was the way a being once known as the human “Grant” thought. With no ambition, the inherited rich had few choices, unwilling to climb any ‘corporate ladder’ or deal with tiresome politics. He’d been diagnosed with depression, but never let himself feel suicidal. Every day he’d struggle to even get out of bed, only feeling alive when he was knee-deep in fiction and fantasy. Forging was an extension of that hobby.

          “You’ll never make anything out of yourself, hitting metal all day! Get a job!” came his father’s voice, the day of the incident. The small, fat man  adjusted his glasses and scowled for the umpteenth time at Grant. Greasy stands of grey hair sparsely covered the father’s skull, and his piercing blue eyes once again reminded Grant that no pride would ever come from the sour old bastard, Grant was the mistake who killed his wife after all.

          With a sigh, Grant plunged his semi-finished blade in icy cool water. It would be brittle, he didn’t get to fully finalize the process. A glance was all he gave his father before walking outside his off-shoot forge. The mansion was large, not that he ever bothered to figure out how large, and his forge was an offshoot behind the building, hidden from his father’s golf and pool by a large copse of trees.

          Some babbling followed Grant out, but the man didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t find the motivation inside himself to do so. Instead, he continued to ignore his father and went towards a cellar door hidden on the side of the house. His father refused to have him in the house, after one too many skipped dinner parties. Insead, he was relegated to a basement separate from the rest of the home, still providing what he needed to keep him distracted. Good internet, a ton of video games, and an ample supply of books. Worlds of fiction and fantasy excited him, they were what inspired him to take up forging.

          Honestly though, being self taught he was shoddy at best. No, what Grant excelled at wasn’t forging it was world-building. Online his username was, always, no matter what, some variation of ‘TheUltimateDungeonMaster,” or “TheCreationGod.” Cheesy, yes, but well deserved, or so he had been told. He had a website set up even, where he would create extremely detailed worlds full of lore and adventure for a fee. Not that he needed the fee, but he wouldn’t survive being swamped with requests as tended to happen to free services.

          Today, he was creating a Dungeons and Dragons based world for an online client, going by the username ‘RebirthofTheThousandHeavens”. It was a ridiculously long name, but based on the fact that he wanted the DnD world to be modified to suit Wuxia/Xiaxania or whatever that Chinese cultivation crap was, it did make a little sense.  After checking to ensure the door was locked, his pillow-fortress was comfortable, and his laptop was charged, Grant began.

          Some later, he woke up. No loud snore or sound woke him, just a groggy and sudden ‘awakeness’. Grant had a groggy recollection of finishing the job and sending it for review, falling asleep while waiting for a response. Glancing at his computer, there still wasn’t one. However, he did feel rather hot so he got up to go adjust the air conditioning.

          To do so he’d have to go through the main house, but it was too stifling to go back to sleep in the heat and so he decided to risk the journey. “Damn it…” muttered the quiet man to himself.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

          The problem occured when he tried to unlock the cellar door. When he touched the handle, he pulled back from the intense heat. “F...ou...shit.” Grant was smart. There were very few situations when a door would be so hot. Considering the circumstances, it was likely a fire.

          The main problem with there being a fire, is that Grant’s only way out of the cellar was the door… which was made out of metal and hot enough to burn him with a small touch. There was no other way out, the walls solid cement with wood panelling and the roof above constructed out of wood, though not being an architect he couldn't tell you how.

          “...I’m going to die.” “

          Sure, there was shock. Fear. Even some sadness. However, all he could imagine was the pain of burning to death. “Maybe… it’s not a fire? Father wouldn’t… that careless…” He grabbed his pant leg and bit his lips. He saw the wood above begin to blacken, and started banging as hard as possible on the cellar door. Each time, he’d come back with a hand burnt more but he refused to stop. Even as a burning building collapsed on top of him, he banged and kicked the door, trying to open it. Pity he forgot about the lock.

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          As the judge finished reciting a tale of Grant’s final day, the soul had come to terms with it’s situation. The blob of milky-whiteness couldn’t really see or feel anything, but it could think. And it knew whatever this ‘judge’ being’s goal was, the being itself was both incredibly uncaring with regards to detail, and very uninterested in being in the… void space area with him.

          “Now, you have neither sinned nor… benefited society in any way whatsoever. So, you get the lottery. Lucky you.” Came the bored, almost monotone voice again. It seemed like a woman… but judging people based solely on voice was a horrible way to live a life.

          The possible-woman reached over and plucked the pathetic soul from the voidhood and plopped it somewhere else in the voidhood. At least, the one-who-was-once Grant felt him… itself move, and normal people move things by picking them up. Then again, whatever being this was probably didn’t abide to normal person logic.

          “I’m spinning now. Don’t go insane.”

          ‘Going insane is a possibility now…’ thought the soul. ‘How unpleasant.’ And then it was spinning, with some force keeping it anchored to a certain spot and a different force pulling it and squishing it and molesting its very being, all while it felt like it was being torn apart from the very core.

          This torture went on for what seemed like an eternity, and very well might have been one, before it suddenly stopped and the soul felt a ‘power’ slowly seeping into whatever the substance that made up its body was.

          “Oh, you’re done.” Came that dreaded voice. “You aren’t broken at least… Let’s see here…” Then there was a gasp and silence. “C...Congratulations your holiness! You have been given the race of… God. E...Enjoy your reincarnation!” Hurriedly, worriedly, and frantically the maybe-woman grabbed the soul and plopped it into something. “Go, go, goddammit go! I’m gonna get such a promotion for this! A God!” She seemed to have done something, as suddenly the new god-soul was plunged into an icy blackness, entirely unlike that of the previous empty void. Ominously, however, the last words the new god heard before being plunged into… wherever it was were “Shit! The memories!”