The god's light dimmed to a gentle glow, as if the sun had decided to be patient for a moment. Daniel stood—or rather, his awareness stood—on a narrow bridge between two possibilities: oblivion and a chance he did not deserve.
God: "And who believes it? The probability of getting three wishes is as close to surviving a fall from the hundredth floor as reality gets. But rules are rules, and fate respects form."
Daniel blinked inside a body that no longer had the strength to blink. The roulette hovered a few meters away: a great disk inlaid with sigils he could not read and sections that shimmered like heat above asphalt. It seemed ridiculous and sacred at once.
Daniel: "I don't know. I didn't think it would come to this. I… I would like to reincarnate."
God: "First, know this: you cannot be returned to the same point in time. That is forbidden."
Daniel hesitated. He thought of the single gray hospital room, the monitor's last breath, and his family's prayers. He had imagined many endings, but not rules.
Daniel: "Then—if I am to be reborn—should I go into the past to explore the world's roots, or forward to discover the universe's unknowns? What do you recommend, since you are wise beyond measure?"
The god's voice hummed like distant thunder, amused and patient.
God: "Flattery does not change reality, but it suits you. For someone who has spent half their life bedridden, the past will offer more than nostalgia. Reincarnating into the era you know—your region, even the height of the Aztec Triple Alliance—will let you mold what was, rather than fight the immensity of what will be. Time, however, will always find its course."
Daniel: "So you suggest the Aztec empire? The Triple Alliance?"
God: "Yes. Humans care about names and origins. It will be easier for you to influence what is near to your memory. For your first wish, decide who you will be—what role the wheel will hand you. For your second wish…"
Daniel: "You said I lived little. What would my life look like if I had a second wish?"
God: "If you ask for biological energy—what some cultures call qi, mana, totemic force, or vital power—your lifespan and capacities can change drastically. A conservative estimate for someone who properly harnesses that force could be two hundred fifty thousand years."
Daniel snorted, a laugh that came out like a thought.
Daniel: "Two hundred fifty thousand years? Is that even meaningful?"
God: "Meaning is what beings assign. Biological energy, in essence, is a multiplier of potential. The Chinese named it qi, Europeans called it magic, Africans knew it as totem; the indigenous peoples of the Americas spoke of vital energy. All names describe the same phenomenon—an integral force that accelerates biological development and, depending on its use, can rocket a civilization forward."
Daniel: "And in my old world… did such energy exist?"
God: "It did. But sustaining an intelligent, technologically hungry race around a concentrated source is difficult. Those who knew how to monopolize it did so, and many perished controlling what they could not ethically manage."
The god's tone turned softer, as if sharing a confidential observation.
God: "For your second wish, you may choose to access this energy. Your third wish can bind your purpose: to live long enough to finish a dream, to change a people, or—if you are modest—to ask for smaller, human gratifications. The wheel does not lie. It offers, and then it is done."
Daniel thought about the life he had been denied. Death had been a companion for years; immediacy had sharpened his desire. There are so many things that could be done if one had time, he thought.
Daniel: "Then my second wish will be to access biological energy. For the third—" He paused, the weight of choices pressing like hands on his chest. "—I want the time to fulfill a single, lifelong purpose. I want my life to mean something."
God: "Boundaries will exist. Wishes have parameters; they are not blank checks. You will need to experiment to discover limits. But I, as administrator, accept your three requests."
Daniel breathed in whatever breath was left to him. Hope felt like a foreign animal.
Daniel: "Will this change the flow of history?"
God: "Not destroy it. A new branch will be born. Time is abundant; emptiness is infinite. The multiverse behaves like a protocol: origins generate branches, branches return to origins. A parallel timeline will form from your reincarnation. You need not fear paradoxes."
Daniel exhaled. "I was afraid I'd be trapped in an infinite loop."
God: "Easier than you think. Ask any remaining questions before I send you."
Daniel swallowed. He moved through memory—his hospital, his family, the faces he loved. He thought of colonization, of the injustices he'd read about and the bitterness of watching powerless people suffer.
Daniel: "Send me to the Aztec era. I want to resist colonization—or at least prepare a civilization to repel it."
The god's voice went still for a moment, like water holding its breath.
God: "You must understand that the Europeans of that era felt themselves central, but not all were unified in arrogance. If you can awaken mutual understanding between cultures—teach restraint to expansionist minds, and persuade continental powers like the Ming to recognize the breadth of the world—you can reshape geopolitics. You could, for example, create a southern confederation spanning modern Central America down to northern South America—an entity of nearly seven million square kilometers if diplomacy and strategy succeed."
Daniel: "Seven million square kilometers…" he repeated. The number spun like a dizzying map across his mind. "You ask me to support the Inca to prevent civil war, to promote technological and ethical progress, to narrow the gap between noble and commoner. That is… ambitious."
God: "Ambition may save or damn. I give you tools, not guarantees. If you succeed, you might see a civilization admired for its balance between freedom and responsibility."
Daniel: "It sounds like a lifetime's work."
God: "It is. That is why I will grant you an assistant—an artificial intelligence that will act as a bridge between you and me. You will reincarnate with your memories intact. The assistant will be the interface: practical, neutral, informative."
Daniel blinked: memory, continuity, a guide.
Daniel: "Will I be born as an infant? A youth?"
God: "You will have consciousness while in the womb. Your mind will be present during gestation. Nine months are a biological simplification—embryological processes are more complex—but you will experience awareness as your new body forms."
Daniel: "So I'll remember everything from then on?"
God: "Yes. You will be given a life that starts with purpose. But remember: you will have limits. Even with biological energy, power requires choice and discipline."
Daniel nodded, an image of future campaigns and councils forming like smoke.
God: "Prepare yourself. I will make the arrangements."
The god's presence retreated to the periphery. The roulette's surface shimmered again, and a neutral voice, cold and efficient, spoke from nowhere.
Link confirmed — Artificial Assistant — Activated.
A mechanical syllable breathed into Daniel's mind.
Assistant: "Welcome, subject. I am the artificial assistant, a gift from the administrator. I will monitor your environment, provide data, and act as your communication channel. Consider life a series of variables. Query: utter the word life to display your lifespan and remaining time."
Daniel felt both comforted and unsettled. He tried it as if testing a toy.
Daniel: "Life."
Instantly, numbers and projections blossomed in his mind: a probabilistic map of years, contingencies, and a dim future route marked by milestones.
He saw a horizon not as an end, but as a field of work. The wheel had spoken. The game had begun.