There is a man. He is God. Although all Gods are equal, he stands above all. For he is the sole reason and for him this is story written.
Mortals fear him. The other gods assess him. For he is the sole man to have it all and lose it altogether. And all can talk to him, and his brethren. It is yet to have an exception to this rule of talking to gods.
— Results are in. You are Theoclasic — the doctor said, after entering the room with a clipboard that had an unusually large amount of paper attached to it. He dropped the clipboard on his desk, sat on his revolving chair, rotated to face his computer and started ferociously typing something.
— Theoclasic? Then i must not be able to… — assumed the young man before being interrupted by the doctor.
— Exactly. To think of it, you are one in a billion. The last case of it was back in the middle ages. And it was a witch. Nonetheless, you will not be spoken of as a seriously ill person. You'll just go ahead with your everyday life, and it won't ever matter.
The youth picked the clipboard up. It read Hamori Hareson, diagnosis: Theoclasic.
— Won't matter. Hmph. If the doctor said so, then I really shouldn't take it all seriously.