In the ethereal halls where time had no name, seven thrones hovered above a sea of motionless light.
There, the gods gathered — not out of need, but out of habit.
And out of boredom.
"Have you noticed how mortals have become… boring?" said Tronn, the God of War, drumming his fingers on the stone armrest. "They used to fight for honor, glory, blood. Now they die for… taxes."
"Taxes require more strategy than war," Yndra, the Goddess of Knowledge, remarked without lifting her eyes from the floating tome before her. "But I'll admit the spectacle has lost its charm."
"Charm, strategy… all of it is relative."
The voice came from a throne that hadn't been there a second ago.
Space twisted, and in the void appeared a chair made of swirling colored smoke.
Reclining on it as if waking from a dream was the God of Chaos.
He looked like a human child — if humans were made of contradictions: a lazy smile framed by eyes so ancient they looked as though they had seen the first sunrise.
"And what brings the fickle one to us today?" asked Verion, the God of Justice, adjusting a mantle that shone like steel.
"Bored," Kaos, the God of Chaos, answered bluntly. "I've flipped kingdoms, turned seas to deserts, swapped the names of stars… nothing is fun anymore. I was thinking of playing with a mortal."
Aertha, the Goddess of Fate, sighed as she sifted through the golden threads floating before her. "You always say that, and it always ends the same way: a ruined empire, a wiped-out bloodline, and you complaining no one understands humor."
"But this mortal is different," said the God of War with a laugh. "We tried playing with him too."
The God of Chaos raised an eyebrow. "You tried? With a mortal?"
"Yes. A human from a small world without magic. His name is Gideon Valehart."
The Goddess of Knowledge finally lifted her gaze from the tome. "The System chose him three times. Three! The perfect hero: high intelligence, flexible morals, latent courage. He could've been a king, a savior, maybe a new god. And yet…"
She snapped the book shut.
"He refused."
Chaos straightened a little on his smoke throne. "Refused?"
"Refused," the Goddess repeated. "Said he must be hallucinating. That magic was for kids. That he wouldn't quit his job because of a voice in his head."
The God of War clenched his fists, frustration clear in his tone. "I tried myself. It was… aggravating."
A grave and calm voice from beyond added, "Me as well."
The Goddess presiding over the Scales touched the tone of her throne and spoke with the coldness of someone who measures sentences: "Death passed by him. Didn't take him. Which is rare."
The air grew heavy for a moment — then shifted into disbelief.
"He called the calling 'cult propaganda'," concluded the God of Justice. "A public insult to our methods of intervention."
The God of Chaos began to laugh — low at first, then louder, until it echoed like thunder.
"A human who refuses destiny? Who looks a miracle in the eye and says 'I don't have time for this'? Ah… now that's new."
The Goddess of Fate narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare. He's too unstable for you. He doesn't understand his own potential."
"Unstable?"
The God of Chaos stood, his form rippling, gathering fragments of every color — as if the universe itself flickered inside him.
"Instability is my mother tongue, dear. If he denies destiny, then destiny can bend."
"You'll break the balance," warned the God of Justice.
"I'll have fun," Chaos corrected, wearing the smile of someone placing game pieces on a board only he could see.
He snapped his fingers. The throne dissolved — and with it, the space around him.
Before any god could protest, his presence vanished completely, leaving only the echo of a laugh that seemed to have no end.
The Goddess of Knowledge closed her eyes.
"He's going to regret this."
"Which one of them?" asked the God of War, curious.
She sighed.
"Probably both."
...
The mortal world had sound.
A simple, constant sound — the hum of a refrigerator, the ticking of a clock, the distant murmur of cars.
Gideon Valehart liked that.
The noise of daily life.
The kind of sound that said, "nothing is happening, and that's exactly how it should be."
Gideon was in his mid-twenties, with short black hair, thin-framed glasses, and the exact height one would expect from the physical embodiment of "average person": not too tall, not too short. He didn't stand out on the subway; he didn't need to. Everything about him, from his haircut to the way he adjusted his glasses, felt calculated by someone who valued predictability.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains of his spacious apartment, illuminating a meticulously arranged stack of books on the coffee table. Titles like Emerging Markets and Consumer Psychology, The Art of Negotiation, and Introduction to Statistical Analysis.
On the sofa, Gideon read Low-Risk Investments in Volatile Economies.
Not because he needed to — but because, as he liked to think, it was "useful entertainment."
He turned the page, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.
"If I apply the risk forecast model to external markets… I can estimate a 0.3% margin of error. Not bad," he muttered.
The doorbell rang. Once, twice, three times.
Gideon sighed. "Delivery, probably."
When he opened the door, the hallway was empty.
"Great. Ghost delivery. I guess the postal service is testing reality now."
He closed the door and returned to the sofa.
The book was open to a page he didn't remember leaving it on.
"'You live a safe life, but it's boring.'"
"…What?" he murmured, frowning. "Either I'm this bored, or my books are judging me."
He flipped the page. The sentence wasn't there.
"Okay. Either I misread, or the coffee is messing with me."
The wall clock stopped. The second hand trembled in place.
A pen on the table began to roll, tracing perfect circles.
"If this is an earthquake, it's the politest one I've ever seen," he said, standing slowly.
He walked to the window — the city outside was normal.
He returned, picked up the pen, and wrote on a notepad: "Check building structural vibration. Possible foundation issue."
When he went to sit back down, the armchair beside him was already occupied.
A child sat there — legs crossed, mischievous smile, eyes reflecting galaxies. He wore a too-short tunic and a necklace of golden bells. He didn't look human, yet carried the same casual presence as someone walking into a waiting room.
"Hi," the boy said. "You're Gideon Valehart, right?"
Gideon looked at him, paused a moment, and replied with the same tone he used with insurance salesmen: "Unlocked door. Of course. A basic security mistake."
"Oh, I didn't use the door," the boy said cheerfully. "I came in."
"You broke into my house," Gideon noted, not raising his voice much — as if commenting someone forgot to replace the coffee.
"Broke in, transcended in, whatever," the boy shrugged. "The important thing is you now have an incredible opportunity!"
"'Opportunity' is the favorite euphemism of anyone trying to sell you something terrible," Gideon said. "Pyramid scheme? Cult? Underground book club?"
The boy laughed. "You're funny. I'm the God of Chaos."
"Of course you are," Gideon muttered, opening a new mental tab: or I'm way too tired.
"You don't believe me?" the boy asked, genuinely surprised.
"Look at me. It's a Sunday afternoon, my glasses are crooked, and I'm surrounded by reports. Tell me the probability that I'm going to believe a glowing child on my sofa offering destiny."
The boy frowned, amused. "So you're saying you've been invited before?"
"I get plenty of things without wanting them: spam, bills, wrong numbers. Divine invitations weren't common, but apparently this month is lively," Gideon replied with a smile that wasn't happiness — just resignation. "If I had to bet… I'd say this is very high-quality schizophrenia."
The boy — now properly introduced — grinned. "I'm Kaos."
"Kaos, right. Very… straightforward name," Gideon said. "On the record: if this is a hallucination, it's the most expensive one I've ever had. If it's real, at least provide a contract with clear clauses."
Kaos snapped his fingers. The apartment shattered like glass. The walls fell in luminous fragments; the floor turned to mist; for a moment, Gideon floated over a void of stars.
When everything returned, the coffee steamed again on the table, the clock ticked, the pen lay still.
Gideon inhaled deeply. "Convincing illusion. Good editing."
"Illusion!?" Kaos' eyes widened. "You just saw the universe bend! This is real!"
"Everything is real enough when it has consequences," Gideon said. "Now tell me: why me? And don't give me a speech about 'destiny' without stating the cost."
Kaos looked oddly embarrassed for a second — a strange thing for a god — then spoke with renewed excitement: "Because you're interesting. The System tried three times… and other gods meddled too. War tried, Death tried, even Justice tried. You refused them all."
Gideon raised a brow. "Wonderful. A contest of divine interference. Should I feel honored?"
"War tried to recruit you for battle," Kaos added. "Death brought news and left; Justice tried to convince you with decrees and promises of karma. You answered with sarcasm and 'cult propaganda' — it was great."
Gideon let out a short laugh. "If three different deities wrote a clinical case about me, I'm glad to be in their notes. Still, I'm not interested in becoming a museum piece."
"You could be a hero! A king! Save worlds!" Kaos exclaimed, jumping in the air with childlike enthusiasm.
Gideon shrugged, walking to the kitchen with slow steps. "Or become an easy target. Heroes are excellent marketing for funeral homes. And kings? Someone has to like taxes."
Kaos looked offended. "You're so dry! Where's the spirit? The fire? The—"
"I'm tired and have books open on my lap," Gideon cut in, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "I also don't like uncompensated risk. My risk aversion index is extremely high right now."
Kaos seemed taken aback — a god clearly bumping into human limits. Then he laughed, loud and genuine. "You're fantastic!"
"Thanks. That wasn't the goal, but thanks." Gideon took a sip. "If you're going to kidnap me, at least warn me if you're charging by the hour."
Kaos grinned. "It's decided. You're going to the new world, whether you like it or not. I need to see what you do when you have no choice."
Gideon looked at him calmly. "If this is an interdimensional kidnapping, I recommend reviewing your logistics. Poorly planned heists tend to be inefficient."
"It's an experiment!" Kaos insisted, almost like an excuse.
"Even better," Gideon murmured, with sarcasm that barely hid a spark of curiosity. "Let's observe the sample."
Kaos snapped his fingers. The floor gave way in silence. The water in the bottle floated, froze midair, and with a breath, Gideon vanished.
The apartment was empty again.
The clock resumed ticking.
The pen stayed where it was.
Kaos spun in the air, laughing to himself. "Let's see how long it takes before he breaks," he whispered.