Arthur, the man from Multiversal Acquisitions, did not give me an answer. He simply gave me a sly, conspiratorial wink, and then vanished, leaving his shimmering, galactic business card hovering in the air. He was a free agent now, a player on the open market. He would watch, he would wait, and he would see if my "startup" had what it took to challenge the cosmic monopolies.
"So," Lia said, her calm, logical voice cutting through the silence. "Our first order of business is to build a better prison."
"Not a prison," I corrected her, a grand, creative fire lighting up in my soul. "An amusement park. A theme park of infinite, glorious, and potentially lethal possibilities. Our own Tower."
The next millennium was the most fun I'd had in my entire, multi-lifetime existence.
Lia and I became architects of reality. We took our single, sandbox universe and we began to build.
She, with her Warden's soul and her mind of pure, perfect logic, built the foundations. She designed the core physics, the energy systems, the very laws of our new Tower. It was a masterpiece of stable, efficient, and elegant design.
I, the sovereign of chaos, then took her perfect, beautiful blueprint and I scribbled all over it with a giant, cosmic crayon.
The First Floor, I decided, would be a world based on classic pirate adventures. A vast, endless ocean dotted with tropical islands, filled with cursed treasure, ghost ships, and obnoxious, talking parrots that were also master swordsmen.
The Second Floor was a world of high-stakes, cyberpunk noir. A rain-slicked, neon-drenched city of towering skyscrapers and shadowy alleys, where players would have to solve crimes, hack corporate servers, and probably get betrayed by a femme fatale with a laser gun.
The Third Floor was a world designed entirely by Elara, my High Pontiff Echo. It was a realm of pure, saccharine, high-fantasy clichés. There were damsels in distress, noble quests to retrieve shiny amulets, and a Dark Lord who was comically, almost pathetically, evil. It was a perfect parody.
We built a hundred floors, each one a unique, handcrafted genre, a different story waiting to be told. We built a world of slapstick comedy, a world of gothic horror, a world of cosmic soap operas.
My new, unified Omnistructure was not just a tool of power. It was the ultimate game development engine.
And my shameless System, now my personal 'Executive Assistant', was loving it.
[SOVEREIGN'S WHIM: A WORTHY CHALLENGE]
[Description: The final boss for your 'Pirate Floor' is currently a slightly larger-than-average crab. This is narratively unsatisfying.]
[Objective: Create a truly memorable, ridiculously over-the-top final boss. For example, a 'Krakenodragon', a colossal, tentacled dragon that breathes cannonballs and demands all treasure be paid to it in the form of rhyming sea shanties.]
[Reward: A significant boost to the 'Epic Encounters' rating of your new game, +1 Billion Narrative Energy.]
We built our Tower. Our proof of concept. And it was glorious.
But it was empty. A beautiful, perfect amusement park with no one to ride the rides. Which brought me to the second objective of my business plan: the recruitment drive.
I needed employees. Officers for my new, divine corporation. Beings of sufficient power, will, and—most importantly—entertainment value.
"Arthur has given me a list," I said to Lia one day, looking at the shimmering business card he had left behind, which now displayed a list of other "graduates" like myself. "Other sovereigns from other, forgotten games. A warrior-king from a realm of pure battle. A trickster-god from a world of myths. All potential recruits."
"They are sovereigns," Lia cautioned. "Beings of absolute, independent will. They will not be easily convinced to join another's cause."
"Oh, I'm not going to convince them," I said with a grin. "I'm going to make them an offer they can't refuse."
I looked at the first name on the list. A being known only as 'The Forgemaster', a sovereign who had graduated from a game based on pure, endless creation and craftsmanship. The list noted his current location: a small, isolated demi-plane where he spent his eternity forging perfect, useless artifacts that no one would ever see. A master artist with no audience.
"Our first target," I said, "is a lonely, bored old man. And I know exactly what to offer him."
I tore open a portal to the Forgemaster's private reality. I stepped through into a world of impossible, beautiful, and utterly sterile creations. Mountains carved into the shape of sleeping giants, rivers of flowing, liquid metal.
And in the center, an old, bearded man was hammering away at a star, trying to forge it into a perfect sphere.
"You're wasting your talent," I said, my voice echoing in his silent world.
He looked up, his eyes holding the ancient, weary fire of a creator with no purpose. "Who are you?"
"I am a patron of the arts," I replied. "And I have a commission for you. I need you to be the head of my new 'Research and Development' department. I want you to design the weapons, the artifacts, the very loot-tables for a million different worlds. Your work will not just be seen. It will be coveted. Fought for. Entire civilizations will rise and fall for a chance to wield one of your creations."
I offered him not power, not wealth. I offered him a purpose. An audience. The one thing a true artist craves.
He looked at his perfect, useless star. He looked at me, at the infinite, chaotic possibilities I represented.
And he smiled. "When do I start?" he asked.
I had my first officer.
But as I returned to my own reality, my new Chief Technology Officer in tow, a new, unforeseen, and deeply personal twist emerged.
It was a message, not from the Tower, not from a system, but from a place I had long since forgotten.
It was from Aethelgard-2. The very first world I had created. The one I had abandoned to its own devices after I had crowned Lia its Empress Regent.
The message was from the world's new, self-proclaimed 'Hero'. The young boy, Jin, the Tainted Hero I had set up as my personal court jester.
He had not just been playing my humiliating, rigged game. He had been playing it well. Very, very well.
The message was a psychic broadcast, a challenge sent out across the void, from a mortal to a god. And it contained a single, shocking image.
It was an image of him, standing on the steps of my old, obsidian throne, the one I had left behind. And at his feet, in chains, were two figures.
My Echo, Elara. And my Echo, Silvana.
He had done the impossible. He had not just survived the chaos. He had thrived in it. He had united the warring factions of the world, defeated my two divine regents, and conquered my very first creation in my absence.
And the message he sent was not a threat. It was an invoice.
[To the 'Creator God' who abandoned this world,] the message read, the boy's voice now a deep, confident baritone, filled with the power he had won. [Your game is over. This world is now mine. I have claimed your throne, your power, and your servants. And now, I am coming to collect the final piece of your legacy.]
[I know what you are. And I know what she is to you. I am coming for my Queen.]
[I am coming for Lyra.]