Light wakes me.
Not sunlight. Not fire. Just… existence pretending to be clean.
I stand on a floor that looks like glass and feels like judgment. No body. No shadow. Just the idea of both. The air hums like it's holding its breath, waiting for me to realize how small I am.
I look around. The place stretches without end, like a bureaucracy with no closing hours. Pillars rise into nothing. Walls blink in and out, unable to decide if they're real.
A voice breaks the silence.
"Welcome, mortal."
I turn. Nine thrones hang in the air. Not resting - floating, balanced on authority alone. The beings on them are… symmetrical. Too symmetrical. Each looks sculpted from a different material - gold, smoke, storm, logic.
They watch me the way judges watch a defendant who doesn't matter but might be entertaining.
"State your name," says one. The voice sounds like glass cracking.
"I don't remember," I answer. "I think that's your department."
They don't laugh. Figures.
Another one leans forward. His body is made of light bent into rules. "You stand before the Celestial Court. Your life has been reviewed. Your achievements measured. Your eternity assigned."
He says it like a cashier reading a receipt.
"Go on," I say.
"You lived quietly," he continues. "No great influence. No titles. No inventions. No followers."
"True," I say.
"Your goodness was… small," adds another. "Private. Unrecorded."
"Also true."
The one of smoke tilts his head. "Then you understand why you have been assigned the lowest of the heavens. A gentle afterlife. Warm fields. Pleasant company. No legacy."
I nod once. "Sounds peaceful."
They seem disappointed that I don't beg. The quiet stretches until it starts to feel like a test.
Then I say, "Just one question."
"Ask."
"Why measure value in achievements?"
The golden one answers. "Because achievement is divine proof. Power that reshapes the world. Heaven is earned by the exceptional."
"So if you're kind but not famous," I say, "you're worthless?"
"If you change nothing," he replies, "you were nothing."
I breathe - a reflex my body remembers even if it doesn't exist. "That's a convenient equation."
The storm one grins. "You disagree?"
"I do," I say. "Because it's wrong. You're measuring results, not effort. Circumstance decides who gets to be visible. Some of us built the floor others walked on."
The smoke figure laughs. "He thinks his quiet compassion equals conquest."
"No," I say. "I think you're mistaking noise for meaning."
That gets their attention.
The air thickens. The hall adjusts its posture.
"Explain," says the one made of stone.
I shrug. "People like me keep the world from falling apart. You just don't notice us. We teach, repair, mediate, patch the cracks no one celebrates. Without that, your great achievers would have nothing to stand on."
The storm laughs again. "And what did your repairs build?"
"Stability," I say. "A world that didn't collapse under its own ego."
"Still small," the golden one says. "Still unworthy of heaven."
"Then your heaven is a club for narcissists," I say. Calm. Measured. "If your divine metric ignores quiet good, it's not perfection. It's vanity."
That does it. The light in the room ripples. A few of them look amused; the rest look offended.
The golden one stands. His voice echoes like metal struck too hard.
"You accuse the divine of vanity?"
"I accuse anyone who mistakes applause for virtue," I say. "Even gods."
The room vibrates. The floor trembles. The storm one leans forward, curious. "What do you propose, mortal?"
"Let me prove it," I say.
"Prove?"
"That small good can rival grand power. That what you call weakness is the spine of every world."
The storm one's grin widens. "He wants a test."
The stone one rumbles. "And if he fails?"
The smoke woman answers before I can. "Then he falls. Below all heavens. Into the place we sealed for the unredeemable."
"Hell," I say.
"Your word," she replies. "We prefer 'termination'."
"Efficient," I say.
They talk among themselves - or rather, think among themselves. Words become light. Light becomes weight.
The golden one raises his hand. "Nine lives," he says finally. "Nine worlds. Nine trials. Each chosen by one of us. Achieve every goal, and you may stand again before this court. Fail even once, and your existence ends. Permanently."
"Define goal," I say.
"You will be reborn," he says, "with your memories intact. Each world will give you a task. Complete it by any means necessary."
"Any means?" I ask.
The storm one smiles. "We don't reward purity. We reward success."
Good. That's their flaw.
"Then I accept," I say. "On one condition."
The court stills.
"When it's over," I say, "you don't get to change the rules. If I win all nine, you admit the system's broken."
"Arrogant," says the smoke woman.
"Confident." I correct.
The golden one laughs once. "Very well. Your first trial will amuse us."
He gestures. A map appears - a world of mountains and castles, oceans and war. Kingdoms glowing like embers. Then caves. Darkness. Teeth. Small green figures running through mud. Goblins.
"You will be born among them," he says. "Rats of this world. Weak. Disposable. Your task: become the ruler of the greatest kingdom."
I study the map. "So from vermin to crown."
"Exactly."
"Define 'greatest'."
"Largest. Strongest. Recognized by all nations."
"And goblins start where?"
The stone one points to a crack at the map's edge. "There."
A hole in the dirt.
I nod. "Alright."
"You do not protest?" asks the golden one.
"Why would I?" I say. "You think I can't climb out of a hole. I've been doing that my entire life."
The storm one laughs again, genuine this time. "I almost hope he succeeds."
The golden one raises his hand. "Then go, mortal. Let's see if your quiet goodness can wear a crown."
The light around them intensifies until it burns the edges of thought. I feel myself unravel. I don't fight it.
The last thing I see is the court watching - curious, not merciful.
***
Darkness. Pressure. Heat.
The world is wet and angry. I can't move. Muscles twitch that I don't recognize. My lungs burn. Instinct takes over. I gasp. Air - damp, sour - floods in.
Screams echo around me. Harsh voices. Throaty, fast, guttural. Goblins.
I'm surrounded by bodies - small, quick, green. A cave lit by fungus and fear.
Someone lifts me. Old hands. Scarred. Careful. A goblin matriarch studies my face like she's reading a bad omen.
I look back. I'm newborn, but memory burns behind my eyes. The court's words still echo.
Become the ruler of the greatest kingdom.
I smile - a tiny, feral thing.
"Challenge accepted..." I whisper through a breath too weak to matter.
The matriarch tilts her head, confused. She mutters something sharp, then presses a symbol on my forehead - a mark for the unwanted.
Fine. Let them start by rejecting me. It'll make the ending cleaner.
The court wanted proof.
They'll get it.
Even if I have to build a throne out of bones and logic to make them understand.