The office lights never turned off anymore.
Even at 3:17 a.m., the ceiling panels burned a clean, sterile white over rows of desks, half-empty coffee cups, and people who had learned to sleep sitting up. Someone had built a tiny tent out of cardboard between two monitors. Another had taped a sticky note to their forehead that read: "WAKE ME IF BUILD FAILS."
Kang Seojun didn't laugh.
He didn't even blink much.
His fingers moved like they belonged to a different organism—fast, precise, ruthless. Lines of code stacked on top of each other on his screen until the text looked like a wall.
On the second monitor, an open dashboard showed numbers climbing in real time.
TOTAL DOWNLOADS: 98,214,155
ACTIVE USERS (LIVE): 3,402,118
TRENDING #1: NEBULA RAID ONLINE
CREATOR NAME: SLEEPLESS GENIUS CREATOR
A nickname the internet gave him, and the world refused to let die.
Seojun's eyes drifted across it without pride.
Because the feeling he chased wasn't fame.
It was the moment right before a new world existed.
Behind him, a coworker mumbled in their sleep. Another let out a small snore. On the far end of the office, a manager had collapsed on a couch with a laptop still open on their chest.
Seojun kept typing.
A can of energy drink stood near his keyboard—empty. Next to it: another—empty. Next to that: a third—half full, but warm.
His phone buzzed.
He didn't look.
His wristwatch flashed LOW HEART RATE VARIABILITY for the third day in a row.
He didn't look.
A quiet chime came from his email. The subject line briefly popped up in the corner of his screen.
[URGENT] Seojun, please take a break.
He deleted it without opening.
His code compiled.
A green confirmation flashed.
BUILD SUCCESS.
Seojun exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
Then, automatically, his mind reached for the next problem.
A memory leak in the enemy AI.
A balance pass for the magic class.
A new "world seed" generation algorithm he'd sketched in his head while brushing his teeth—two days ago.
He opened a new file.
Typed the first line.
Then stopped.
Not because he chose to.
Because the world tilted.
The office lights smeared into long white streaks. His vision narrowed as if someone had turned down a dimmer switch inside his skull. A sharp heat climbed up his nose.
A drop of red landed on his hand.
Seojun stared at it for a second, almost curious.
Then another drop.
And another.
His breath came shallow, like the air had become thin.
A laugh tried to leave his throat—small, disbelieving.
"...No way."
His stomach twisted.
His fingers lost timing. The cursor jerked. Letters appeared wrong.
The room swayed again.
He reached for the desk edge—but his arm felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else.
His chair scraped backward.
Someone in the office lifted their head, eyes half-open.
"Seojun…?"
Seojun tried to answer.
All that came out was a dry exhale.
He stood—
and his knees folded.
The last thing he saw was his own code on the screen, bright and clean and unfinished.
Then the office floor rose to meet him.
THUD.
He woke up to the sound of machines.
Beeping. Hissing. A slow mechanical rhythm that didn't match his heart.
The ceiling above him was white again—but not the harsh office white. This was softer. Cleaner. Like a place where people were meant to rest.
A hospital.
Seojun tried to sit up.
His body refused.
His tongue felt thick. His throat burned like sandpaper.
A nurse leaned into his vision. A mask. Tired eyes.
"Kang Seojun-ssi," she said quickly, and her voice had the tone people used when they were trying not to scare you. "Can you hear me?"
Seojun blinked once.
She looked over her shoulder. "Doctor!"
Footsteps.
A man in a coat. A clipboard. The smell of disinfectant.
"Seojun," the doctor said, too calmly, "you collapsed at work. Your blood levels are… dangerously low."
Seojun's eyes drifted to the IV in his arm.
"How long?" he rasped.
The doctor's expression tightened. "How long have you been sleeping less than four hours?"
Seojun didn't answer.
Because the honest answer was: I don't remember the last time I slept without dreaming of code.
The doctor's voice softened, but it only made the words heavier.
"You have severe anemia and exhaustion. You're malnourished. Your body has been screaming at you for a long time."
Seojun stared past him, toward the window.
It was daytime outside.
Sunlight spilled over the edge of a building.
A normal day for everyone else.
"What… about my work?" Seojun asked.
The nurse's eyes widened. Like she couldn't believe that was his first question.
The doctor exhaled. "Your work can wait."
Seojun tried to smile.
It came out crooked.
Work can wait.
He wanted to believe it.
But inside his head, something kept scrolling like a list of tasks that could never be finished.
He closed his eyes.
And he saw worlds.
Not his world.
Worlds he hadn't built yet.
Night came.
The beeping continued.
The IV continued.
The universe outside the window continued.
Seojun's heartbeat slowed.
He could feel it, faintly, like a distant metronome losing power.
The nurse checked his vitals twice. Spoke into a phone quietly. Made a face like she was holding back panic.
Seojun watched her.
And for the first time in years, he let his hands rest on the blanket without moving.
His fingers twitched anyway, as if typing invisible keys.
In his mind, he opened a clean blank project file.
He wrote a title at the top.
NEW WORLD.
Then the page stayed empty.
Because his eyes began to feel heavy—heavy in a way sleep never gave him.
This wasn't rest.
This was shutdown.
His breathing became shallow.
He heard voices, far away.
A rush of footsteps.
Someone saying his name louder.
Then softer.
Then not at all.
Seojun's last thought wasn't fear.
It wasn't regret.
It was a quiet, aching frustration—simple and childish and honest.
If only… I had more time to create.
The hospital lights faded.
The beeping became a single tone.
Then even that disappeared.
There was no heaven.
No hell.
No bright tunnel.
Just black.
Endless black.
Seojun floated without weight, without direction, without breath.
At first, he assumed he was dreaming.
He tried to move his hand.
No hand.
He tried to open his eyes.
No eyes.
He tried to inhale.
No lungs.
Panic rose inside him—except he had no chest for it to rise in.
He was… aware.
Only aware.
A mind drifting in a soundless, lightless ocean.
So this is death.
A bitter thought.
Then another.
This is boring.
A third thought followed immediately, almost instinctive.
I could optimize this.
It was ridiculous.
But it was him.
He tried to laugh again.
There was no mouth.
The black didn't respond.
Time passed—or maybe it didn't. Without a body, time felt like a concept someone had removed the ruler from.
Then—
A sound.
A crisp electronic chime, perfectly clear inside the void.
[DING.]
Seojun froze.
Because for the first time since dying, something happened that didn't come from his own thoughts.
A voice followed.
Neutral. Mechanical. Calm.
"SYSTEM ONLINE."
Seojun's mind snapped toward it.
"...What?"
The voice continued, ignoring him.
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED: KANG SEOJUN."
"SPECIES: HUMAN."
"STATUS: DECEASED."
Seojun's thoughts scattered.
Hallucination.
Brain's last firing.
Some kind of coma dream.
He tried to force logic into place.
"System?" he repeated. "This is… this is a joke."
Another chime.
A rectangle of pale blue light unfolded in the darkness like a hologram.
Impossible, because he had no eyes—yet he saw it perfectly.
The panel floated before his awareness.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
You are the first human gifted by the God of the Universe to receive the Power of Creation.
Seojun's mind went blank.
Then filled with disbelief so sharp it almost hurt.
"First human," he repeated slowly. "Gifted… by God of the universe."
A second panel slid open beneath the first.
[REASON]
The God of the Universe enjoyed playing one of the games you created.
Seojun's thoughts stuttered.
"…What?"
The void remained silent.
The System's calm voice returned, as if reading a script.
"REWARD AUTHORIZATION: APPROVED."
"CREATION AUTHORITY: GRANTED."
Seojun's disbelief turned into anger—because absurdity was easier to process when it was insulting.
"That's… not how anything works," he snapped. "I die from anemia and lack of sleep, and then—what—God gives me admin powers because he liked my game?"
The System didn't react.
"CORRECTION: NOT ADMIN."
"ROLE: CREATOR."
A new panel opened, larger than the others.
A map.
Not a map of Earth. Not a galaxy.
A web of glowing nodes—countless lights connected by faint lines like a cosmic network diagram.
Each node was labeled.
UNIVERSE 01
UNIVERSE 02
UNIVERSE 03
…
UNIVERSE 10
Seojun's awareness tightened around the label.
UNIVERSE 10 pulsed once, as if recognizing him.
"DESIGNATION CONFIRMED."
"ASSIGNED DOMAIN: UNIVERSE 10."
Seojun felt a chill—an emotional chill, because he had no skin.
"Many more like me…" he whispered.
The System offered no explanation. Only a final panel, stark and uncompromising.
[DIRECTIVE]
From now on, create a planet.
The planet's progression and development will depend on you.
We will be watching.
NON-INTERFERENCE MODE: ACTIVE.
Seojun stared at the words, mind racing.
"Watching?" he echoed. "Who is 'we'?"
No answer.
The map zoomed.
Universe 10 expanded until it filled his awareness—empty space, raw and untouched. No stars. No planets. No life.
A clean, blank canvas.
The kind that made Seojun's old human heart—if he still had one—beat faster.
A new interface unfolded, like a development console.
[PLANET CREATION CONSOLE]
Step 01: Create a star.
Seojun hesitated.
Because this wasn't code.
This wasn't a simulation.
This wasn't pixels and probability.
This was… real.
He remembered the hospital ceiling.
The nurse's eyes.
His last thought.
If only I had more time to create.
Now the universe had handed him time.
And something far worse than time:
Responsibility.
Seojun swallowed instinctively.
He didn't have a throat.
But the fear was still there.
"…Okay," he whispered. "Fine."
His old habits surfaced—the ones that had built worlds on screens.
Break the problem down.
Start small.
A star.
The console displayed options like a character creation menu, except the "character" was a sun.
Star Type: O / B / A / F / G / K / M
Mass: Adjustable
Lifespan: Predicted
Habitable Zone: Calculated
Seojun stared at the choices.
His mind flashed with memories of science documentaries he watched in the background while coding.
He selected G-type.
Like Earth's sun.
Safe.
Stable.
Long lifespan.
The System chimed again.
"CONFIRM STAR CREATION?"
Seojun hesitated one last time.
He expected his disbelief to return.
It didn't.
Because, deep down, the truth was simple:
He had always wanted this.
Not godhood.
Not worship.
Just… creation.
"Confirm," Seojun said.
A button appeared.
A single word.
[CREATE]
Seojun reached for it with an instinct that felt like moving a hand.
The button depressed.
[DING.]
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Light.
A pinprick ignited in the black, so bright it made his mind flinch.
The point expanded, roaring outward in silent fire.
A newborn star flared into existence—white-gold and furious—spinning and stabilizing as gravity took hold like an invisible fist.
Seojun could only stare.
He had written code that made suns look pretty.
He had never made one.
His thoughts shook.
"…I did that."
The System's voice remained calm.
"STAR CREATED."
"DESIGNATION: SOL-10A."
"Step 02: Create a planet."
A new panel slid in front of him.
A template.
Planet Type: Terrestrial / Gas Giant / Ice / Ocean
Orbit: Adjustable
Rotation: Adjustable
Core: Molten / Solid / Hybrid
Atmosphere: None / Thin / Earth-like
Water: None / Partial / Ocean
Seojun's eyes—his mind—locked onto one choice.
Terrestrial.
He set the orbit inside the habitable zone.
He adjusted rotation to create days, not endless heat and cold.
He formed a molten core for magnetism and life protection.
He added oceans.
Then the System paused—just long enough to feel like it was watching his decision.
A final option appeared, highlighted:
MAGIC FRAMEWORK: ENABLE?
[AETHER] — Ley Lines / Aether Wells / Evolution Catalyst
Seojun stared.
"…Of course the world has magic," he murmured, remembering the System's earlier implication, the way the interface treated it like a standard feature.
His programmer brain tried to label it.
Resource system. Energy network. Ruleset.
He toggled it on.
A small warning appeared.
[NOTICE]
Magic accelerates adaptation and conflict potential.
NON-INTERFERENCE MODE remains active.
Seojun's awareness tightened.
"So if it goes wrong," he whispered, "I can't patch it."
Silence.
He looked at the planet parameters one last time.
A simple, terrifying truth settled in him.
This wasn't a game.
But it was still a world.
And worlds needed rules.
Seojun pressed [CREATE].
The void answered with motion.
Dust gathered from nothing.
Rocks fused, pulled tight by gravity, forming a sphere that glowed red-hot like a living ember. Oceans appeared as vapor first, then rain, then endless blue as the planet cooled.
A lattice of faint light spread beneath the crust—thin lines, branching, connecting.
Ley lines.
Aether wells.
A magic circulatory system laid into the bones of the world.
The planet stabilized.
Blue. Green. White clouds.
Astraea—unnamed, but already alive with possibility.
The System offered a naming field.
PLANET NAME: [________]
Seojun didn't hesitate.
Because the name had been in his mind since the first time he created a world seed in a game.
"Astraea," he said.
The letters filled themselves in.
A final panel appeared, clean and bright—like a title screen.
UNIVERSE 10 — PLANET 0001: ASTRAEA
And beneath it, in smaller text that felt colder than any void:
OBSERVER MODE: ACTIVE
WE WILL BE WATCHING
Seojun stared at his planet—his first real creation—turning silently around its newborn star.
He should've felt triumph.
Instead, he felt som The office lights never turned off anymore.
Even at 3:17 a.m., the ceiling panels burned a clean, sterile white over rows of desks, half-empty coffee cups, and people who had learned to sleep sitting up. Someone had built a tiny tent out of cardboard between two monitors. Another had taped a sticky note to their forehead that read: "WAKE ME IF BUILD FAILS."
Kang Seojun didn't laugh.
He didn't even blink much.
His fingers moved like they belonged to a different organism—fast, precise, ruthless. Lines of code stacked on top of each other on his screen until the text looked like a wall.
On the second monitor, an open dashboard showed numbers climbing in real time.
TOTAL DOWNLOADS: 98,214,155
ACTIVE USERS (LIVE): 3,402,118
TRENDING #1: NEBULA RAID ONLINE
CREATOR NAME: SLEEPLESS GENIUS CREATOR
A nickname the internet gave him, and the world refused to let die.
Seojun's eyes drifted across it without pride.
Because the feeling he chased wasn't fame.
It was the moment right before a new world existed.
Behind him, a coworker mumbled in their sleep. Another let out a small snore. On the far end of the office, a manager had collapsed on a couch with a laptop still open on their chest.
Seojun kept typing.
A can of energy drink stood near his keyboard—empty. Next to it: another—empty. Next to that: a third—half full, but warm.
His phone buzzed.
He didn't look.
His wristwatch flashed LOW HEART RATE VARIABILITY for the third day in a row.
He didn't look.
A quiet chime came from his email. The subject line briefly popped up in the corner of his screen.
[URGENT] Seojun, please take a break.
He deleted it without opening.
His code compiled.
A green confirmation flashed.
BUILD SUCCESS.
Seojun exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
Then, automatically, his mind reached for the next problem.
A memory leak in the enemy AI.
A balance pass for the magic class.
A new "world seed" generation algorithm he'd sketched in his head while brushing his teeth—two days ago.
He opened a new file.
Typed the first line.
Then stopped.
Not because he chose to.
Because the world tilted.
The office lights smeared into long white streaks. His vision narrowed as if someone had turned down a dimmer switch inside his skull. A sharp heat climbed up his nose.
A drop of red landed on his hand.
Seojun stared at it for a second, almost curious.
Then another drop.
And another.
His breath came shallow, like the air had become thin.
A laugh tried to leave his throat—small, disbelieving.
"...No way."
His stomach twisted.
His fingers lost timing. The cursor jerked. Letters appeared wrong.
The room swayed again.
He reached for the desk edge—but his arm felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else.
His chair scraped backward.
Someone in the office lifted their head, eyes half-open.
"Seojun…?"
Seojun tried to answer.
All that came out was a dry exhale.
He stood—
and his knees folded.
The last thing he saw was his own code on the screen, bright and clean and unfinished.
Then the office floor rose to meet him.
THUD.
He woke up to the sound of machines.
Beeping. Hissing. A slow mechanical rhythm that didn't match his heart.
The ceiling above him was white again—but not the harsh office white. This was softer. Cleaner. Like a place where people were meant to rest.
A hospital.
Seojun tried to sit up.
His body refused.
His tongue felt thick. His throat burned like sandpaper.
A nurse leaned into his vision. A mask. Tired eyes.
"Kang Seojun-ssi," she said quickly, and her voice had the tone people used when they were trying not to scare you. "Can you hear me?"
Seojun blinked once.
She looked over her shoulder. "Doctor!"
Footsteps.
A man in a coat. A clipboard. The smell of disinfectant.
"Seojun," the doctor said, too calmly, "you collapsed at work. Your blood levels are… dangerously low."
Seojun's eyes drifted to the IV in his arm.
"How long?" he rasped.
The doctor's expression tightened. "How long have you been sleeping less than four hours?"
Seojun didn't answer.
Because the honest answer was: I don't remember the last time I slept without dreaming of code.
The doctor's voice softened, but it only made the words heavier.
"You have severe anemia and exhaustion. You're malnourished. Your body has been screaming at you for a long time."
Seojun stared past him, toward the window.
It was daytime outside.
Sunlight spilled over the edge of a building.
A normal day for everyone else.
"What… about my work?" Seojun asked.
The nurse's eyes widened. Like she couldn't believe that was his first question.
The doctor exhaled. "Your work can wait."
Seojun tried to smile.
It came out crooked.
Work can wait.
He wanted to believe it.
But inside his head, something kept scrolling like a list of tasks that could never be finished.
He closed his eyes.
And he saw worlds.
Not his world.
Worlds he hadn't built yet.
Night came.
The beeping continued.
The IV continued.
The universe outside the window continued.
Seojun's heartbeat slowed.
He could feel it, faintly, like a distant metronome losing power.
The nurse checked his vitals twice. Spoke into a phone quietly. Made a face like she was holding back panic.
Seojun watched her.
And for the first time in years, he let his hands rest on the blanket without moving.
His fingers twitched anyway, as if typing invisible keys.
In his mind, he opened a clean blank project file.
He wrote a title at the top.
NEW WORLD.
Then the page stayed empty.
Because his eyes began to feel heavy—heavy in a way sleep never gave him.
This wasn't rest.
This was shutdown.
His breathing became shallow.
He heard voices, far away.
A rush of footsteps.
Someone saying his name louder.
Then softer.
Then not at all.
Seojun's last thought wasn't fear.
It wasn't regret.
It was a quiet, aching frustration—simple and childish and honest.
If only… I had more time to create.
The hospital lights faded.
The beeping became a single tone.
Then even that disappeared.
There was no heaven.
No hell.
No bright tunnel.
Just black.
Endless black.
Seojun floated without weight, without direction, without breath.
At first, he assumed he was dreaming.
He tried to move his hand.
No hand.
He tried to open his eyes.
No eyes.
He tried to inhale.
No lungs.
Panic rose inside him—except he had no chest for it to rise in.
He was… aware.
Only aware.
A mind drifting in a soundless, lightless ocean.
So this is death.
A bitter thought.
Then another.
This is boring.
A third thought followed immediately, almost instinctive.
I could optimize this.
It was ridiculous.
But it was him.
He tried to laugh again.
There was no mouth.
The black didn't respond.
Time passed—or maybe it didn't. Without a body, time felt like a concept someone had removed the ruler from.
Then—
A sound.
A crisp electronic chime, perfectly clear inside the void.
[DING.]
Seojun froze.
Because for the first time since dying, something happened that didn't come from his own thoughts.
A voice followed.
Neutral. Mechanical. Calm.
"SYSTEM ONLINE."
Seojun's mind snapped toward it.
"...What?"
The voice continued, ignoring him.
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED: KANG SEOJUN."
"SPECIES: HUMAN."
"STATUS: DECEASED."
Seojun's thoughts scattered.
Hallucination.
Brain's last firing.
Some kind of coma dream.
He tried to force logic into place.
"System?" he repeated. "This is… this is a joke."
Another chime.
A rectangle of pale blue light unfolded in the darkness like a hologram.
Impossible, because he had no eyes—yet he saw it perfectly.
The panel floated before his awareness.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
You are the first human gifted by the God of the Universe to receive the Power of Creation.
Seojun's mind went blank.
Then filled with disbelief so sharp it almost hurt.
"First human," he repeated slowly. "Gifted… by God of the universe."
A second panel slid open beneath the first.
[REASON]
The God of the Universe enjoyed playing one of the games you created.
Seojun's thoughts stuttered.
"…What?"
The void remained silent.
The System's calm voice returned, as if reading a script.
"REWARD AUTHORIZATION: APPROVED."
"CREATION AUTHORITY: GRANTED."
Seojun's disbelief turned into anger—because absurdity was easier to process when it was insulting.
"That's… not how anything works," he snapped. "I die from anemia and lack of sleep, and then—what—God gives me admin powers because he liked my game?"
The System didn't react.
"CORRECTION: NOT ADMIN."
"ROLE: CREATOR."
A new panel opened, larger than the others.
A map.
Not a map of Earth. Not a galaxy.
A web of glowing nodes—countless lights connected by faint lines like a cosmic network diagram.
Each node was labeled.
UNIVERSE 01
UNIVERSE 02
UNIVERSE 03
…
UNIVERSE 10
Seojun's awareness tightened around the label.
UNIVERSE 10 pulsed once, as if recognizing him.
"DESIGNATION CONFIRMED."
"ASSIGNED DOMAIN: UNIVERSE 10."
Seojun felt a chill—an emotional chill, because he had no skin.
"Many more like me…" he whispered.
The System offered no explanation. Only a final panel, stark and uncompromising.
[DIRECTIVE]
From now on, create a planet.
The planet's progression and development will depend on you.
We will be watching.
NON-INTERFERENCE MODE: ACTIVE.
Seojun stared at the words, mind racing.
"Watching?" he echoed. "Who is 'we'?"
No answer.
The map zoomed.
Universe 10 expanded until it filled his awareness—empty space, raw and untouched. No stars. No planets. No life.
A clean, blank canvas.
The kind that made Seojun's old human heart—if he still had one—beat faster.
A new interface unfolded, like a development console.
[PLANET CREATION CONSOLE]
Step 01: Create a star.
Seojun hesitated.
Because this wasn't code.
This wasn't a simulation.
This wasn't pixels and probability.
This was… real.
He remembered the hospital ceiling.
The nurse's eyes.
His last thought.
If only I had more time to create.
Now the universe had handed him time.
And something far worse than time:
Responsibility.
Seojun swallowed instinctively.
He didn't have a throat.
But the fear was still there.
"…Okay," he whispered. "Fine."
His old habits surfaced—the ones that had built worlds on screens.
Break the problem down.
Start small.
A star.
The console displayed options like a character creation menu, except the "character" was a sun.
Star Type: O / B / A / F / G / K / M
Mass: Adjustable
Lifespan: Predicted
Habitable Zone: Calculated
Seojun stared at the choices.
His mind flashed with memories of science documentaries he watched in the background while coding.
He selected G-type.
Like Earth's sun.
Safe.
Stable.
Long lifespan.
The System chimed again.
"CONFIRM STAR CREATION?"
Seojun hesitated one last time.
He expected his disbelief to return.
It didn't.
Because, deep down, the truth was simple:
He had always wanted this.
Not godhood.
Not worship.
Just… creation.
"Confirm," Seojun said.
A button appeared.
A single word.
[CREATE]
Seojun reached for it with an instinct that felt like moving a hand.
The button depressed.
[DING.]
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Light.
A pinprick ignited in the black, so bright it made his mind flinch.
The point expanded, roaring outward in silent fire.
A newborn star flared into existence—white-gold and furious—spinning and stabilizing as gravity took hold like an invisible fist.
Seojun could only stare.
He had written code that made suns look pretty.
He had never made one.
His thoughts shook.
"…I did that."
The System's voice remained calm.
"STAR CREATED."
"DESIGNATION: SOL-10A."
"Step 02: Create a planet."
A new panel slid in front of him.
A template.
Planet Type: Terrestrial / Gas Giant / Ice / Ocean
Orbit: Adjustable
Rotation: Adjustable
Core: Molten / Solid / Hybrid
Atmosphere: None / Thin / Earth-like
Water: None / Partial / Ocean
Seojun's eyes—his mind—locked onto one choice.
Terrestrial.
He set the orbit inside the habitable zone.
He adjusted rotation to create days, not endless heat and cold.
He formed a molten core for magnetism and life protection.
He added oceans.
Then the System paused—just long enough to feel like it was watching his decision.
A final option appeared, highlighted:
MAGIC FRAMEWORK: ENABLE?
[AETHER] — Ley Lines / Aether Wells / Evolution Catalyst
Seojun stared.
"…Of course the world has magic," he murmured, remembering the System's earlier implication, the way the interface treated it like a standard feature.
His programmer brain tried to label it.
Resource system. Energy network. Ruleset.
He toggled it on.
A small warning appeared.
[NOTICE]
Magic accelerates adaptation and conflict potential.
NON-INTERFERENCE MODE remains active.
Seojun's awareness tightened.
"So if it goes wrong," he whispered, "I can't patch it."
Silence.
He looked at the planet parameters one last time.
A simple, terrifying truth settled in him.
This wasn't a game.
But it was still a world.
And worlds needed rules.
Seojun pressed [CREATE].
The void answered with motion.
Dust gathered from nothing.
Rocks fused, pulled tight by gravity, forming a sphere that glowed red-hot like a living ember. Oceans appeared as vapor first, then rain, then endless blue as the planet cooled.
A lattice of faint light spread beneath the crust—thin lines, branching, connecting.
Ley lines.
Aether wells.
A magic circulatory system laid into the bones of the world.
The planet stabilized.
Blue. Green. White clouds.
Astraea—unnamed, but already alive with possibility.
The System offered a naming field.
PLANET NAME: [________]
Seojun didn't hesitate.
Because the name had been in his mind since the first time he created a world seed in a game.
"Astraea," he said.
The letters filled themselves in.
A final panel appeared, clean and bright—like a title screen.
UNIVERSE 10 — PLANET 0001: ASTRAEA
And beneath it, in smaller text that felt colder than any void:
OBSERVER MODE: ACTIVE
WE WILL BE WATCHING
Seojun stared at his planet—his first real creation—turning silently around its newborn star.
He should've felt triumph.
Instead, he felt som ething heavier.
A creator's fear.
Because the moment you press Create…
…you lose control forever.
The System chimed once more.
[NEXT STEP AVAILABLE]
Populate the planet with life.
Seojun's awareness hovered over Astraea like a shadow.
"…Alright," he whispered.
And in the endless dark, the first human creator prepared to give his world its first breath.ething heavier.
A creator's fear.
Because the moment you press Create…
…you lose control forever.
The System chimed once more.
[NEXT STEP AVAILABLE]
Populate the planet with life.
Seojun's awareness hovered over Astraea like a shadow.
"…Alright," he whispered.
And in the endless dark, the first human creator prepared to give his world its first breath.