Silas Enevertheless Hale, a soon-to-graduate American college student, had lately been haunted by a single, gnawing worry: his student loans. He'd done the math—even if he landed a high-paying job right out of school, he might still be drowning in debt well into his 50s. Gloom settled over him like a heavy blanket. Ugh, he thought bitterly, I wish Dad had just… well, you know, back in the day. Curse the damn U.S. government! If he were president, he'd make college free for every American kid who couldn't afford it—do something real for the country's future.
A sudden wave of dizziness hit him. He'd been pulling all-nighters cramming for finals, desperate to graduate on time. Figuring he just needed a quick rest, he closed his eyes.
Crack!
Searing pain jolted Silas awake. He blinked to focus, only to see a burly man glowering down at him, a whip coiled in his hand. Silas rubbed his eyes, half-convinced he was still dreaming—until the man raised the whip again, ready to strike. He lifted his arm to block, but before the lash could fall, a woman came sprinting over, throwing herself over Silas to shield him. Blood spattered instantly as the whip bit into her back, yet she didn't flinch.
"Please, Master John!" she begged, her voice trembling but urgent. "It's my fault—I didn't watch Silas closely enough. He wasn't slacking on purpose. Spare him this once!"
The man snarled. "You know the rules! Get him to the fields now, and make him work. If the harvest is bad this year, none of you slaves will see another sunrise!"
Silas froze. Slaves? His mind short-circuited. Did I… did I time travel? Where the hell am I? Is this even America anymore? Before he could process it, the woman grabbed his arm and dragged him toward a pile of straw, shoving a pitchfork into his hands.
"Load this straw onto the wagon and haul it to the warehouse," she whispered. "Hurry—don't make him angry again."
Silas nodded numbly, figuring obedience was his best bet for avoiding another whipping. He reached for the pitchfork, but his body—stiff and unaccustomed to labor—couldn't hold it. The tool clattered to the ground. What the hell? he fumed. This thing must weigh 50 kilos!
The woman hurried to help him up, her voice soft with concern. "Brother, you've got to remember your strength. Be careful with the fork, okay? Move fast—if the overseer sees you idle, he'll hit you again." She grabbed a hoe and rushed off to the fields, leaving Silas staring at the straw. Is that straw heavy too? He drove the pitchfork into a bale—and sure enough, it felt like lifting solid steel. But the memory of the whip kept him going; he dug the fork in shallowly, straining to heave the straw onto the wagon.
Two hours later, Silas felt like he'd been run over by a truck. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and he was so exhausted he might as well have… well, let's just say he felt completely drained. Glancing up, he saw the woman approaching from the fields, her face streaked with sweat and dirt. She's been working harder than me this whole time, he realized, a twinge of guilt mixing with his fatigue.
He tried to plant the pitchfork in the ground to lean on—only to hear a sharp "ding!" like two iron bars colliding. The vibration shot up his arm, and the fork clattered down again. The woman hurried over, pulling a small, dark object from her pocket and pressing it into his hand.
"Here, brother—this is the bread I saved from this morning," she said. "Eat it. You look like you're about to collapse."
Silas stared at the thing in his palm. Bread? It looked like a chunk of black rock. The woman didn't notice his confusion; she broke the "rock" in half and forced one piece into his hand before rushing back to the fields. Silas turned it over, feeling its weight and spotting the tiny air pockets inside. Oh, he thought, so it is bread. He took a bite—and nearly broke a tooth. It crunched like chewing on bone, but once he swallowed, a faint surge of energy spread through his body, just enough to keep him going.
By dusk, Silas could barely stand. He followed the woman back to their "house"—a ramshackle hut made of splintered planks. He stumbled to the "bed"—a pile of straw so hard it might as well have been steel—and collapsed onto it, instantly unconscious.
"Silas… Silas…"
A soft voice pulled him from sleep. A warm glow filled the hut, and from the light stepped a figure so beautiful, Silas felt his jaw go slack. Drool pooled at the corner of his mouth.
She was full-figured yet elegant, her curves radiating the vitality of new life, her posture as straight and graceful as river reeds. She wore a sheer, light blouse embroidered with golden lotus flowers; when the glow touched it, the fabric shimmered like flowing water. Her lower half was draped in layers of indigo and emerald pleated skirts, their hems strung with tiny copper bells and pearls—every step made a sound like water trickling over stones. A thick chain of glowing gold beads wrapped around her neck and waist; silver bracelets etched with wave patterns circled her wrists and ankles, and her fingers sparkled with red coral rings. In one hand, she held an oval brass mirror—its surface as clear as a river's heart, reflecting both her beauty and a warmth that felt like love itself.
Oshun—for it was she—chuckled softly. "Mortals are so easily dazzled. A little divine grace, and you're spellbound." She brushed a hand over Silas's face, and his daze lifted instantly, replaced by wide-eyed awe.
"Forgive my rudeness, Your Grace," he stammered, scrambling to sit up (or as close to sitting up as his aching body allowed).
Oshun smiled, her eyes softening. "You are forgiven, mortal. I know you have questions—ask them."
Silas didn't hesitate. "Who are you? Why am I here? How do I get home?"
"I am Oshun, Goddess of Love and Fertility from the Yoruba pantheon of Africa," she said. "You are here because I have chosen you to be my champion in the Divine Champion Wars. As for going home… well, you could either defeat every other god's champion… or spread my faith to every corner of the world. Those are your two options."
"Fuck," Silas muttered under his breath. Love and Fertility Goddess? Never even heard of her. He'd daydreamed about being picked by Zeus, Thor, or Ra—some big-name god, not some "obscure" one. Great, he thought, I'm definitely gonna die here. Fuck.
Oshun seemed to hear his thoughts. She knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm. "Do not despair. My divine realm may not be as famous, and my faith may be weaker, but I can grant you only three miracles—and I will pour every bit of my power into them. This war is a matter of life or death for my realm; I will not let you fail."
"Miracles?" Silas perked up. "What do you mean?"
"Think of them as divine blessings—special abilities, tailored for you," Oshun explained.
Silas's exhaustion faded, replaced by excitement. "What can you give me?!"
"First: Enhanced physicality. I will boost your durability and regenerative powers—think of Wolverine or Colossus from your world. You'll be nearly bulletproof, and even if you lose a limb, it will grow back."
Silas's eyes widened. Bulletproof? Regeneration? That's insane!
"Second: Affinity for the Law of Life. I will inscribe a fragment of this divine law into your bones. With it, you can learn to wield life energy—heal others, grow plants… even bring the dead back to life, in time."
Bring the dead back? Silas could barely believe it.
"Third: A divine artifact—the Mirror of Dueling Self. Step into it, and you will fight a perfect copy of yourself—every skill, every strength, every weakness. Beat it, and you'll grow stronger. But use it wisely: it can only be activated 30 times, and you must wait 30 days between uses if you rely on its natural energy. If you learn to recharge it yourself later, you could use all 30 charges at once… but each use lasts 24 hours, so pace yourself."
"Holy shit," Silas breathed. "That's… that's amazing!"
Oshun's smile faded slightly. "One more thing. I've studied this world—there are six tiers of power here. My miracles will stop working once you reach Tier 4. The stronger you get, the less of an edge my blessings will give you. Right now, your body is weak—but after I grant the miracles, you'll be just strong enough to enter Tier 1. And…" She held out a crystal ball, its interior swirling with light like a tiny galaxy. "This holds the memories of the boy whose body you now occupy. Think of it as a final gift."
Before Silas could thank her—or process half of what she'd said—Oshun pressed the crystal ball into his hand and vanished.
Then the pain hit.
It was like someone was scraping his bones with a knife, slow and deliberate. Every nerve in his body screamed. Just when he thought he'd black out, a strange force pulled him back to consciousness—keeping him awake to feel every second of agony. It went on forever, or so it seemed—an eternity of suffering. When it finally stopped, Silas had no strength left to even open his eyes. He collapsed back onto the straw, and darkness swallowed him whole