Max woke to the sensation of pins and needles, but intensified a thousandfold. It wasn't just his limbs falling asleep; it felt as though his very atoms were being unzipped and re-stitched in the wrong order. He was lying on something flat, cold, and unapologetically metallic. The chill didn't just touch his skin; it seeped through his clothes, through his muscles, and anchored itself directly into his spine.
For a long, agonizing minute, he couldn't tell if he was breathing, dreaming, or simply a lingering thought in a dead brain. When he finally managed to crack his eyes open, the world didn't make sense. His vision swam in oily circles, forcing him to roll onto his side and heave, though nothing came up but a dry, metallic gasp.
The air around him was the strangest part. It wasn't stagnant, but it wasn't moving either. It lacked the scent of dust, or ozone, or even oxygen. It was simply... empty. It was as if the concept of "atmosphere" hadn't finished downloading yet.
"Focus, Max. Deep breaths. If you have lungs," he whispered to himself. His voice sounded thin, lacking the resonance of a physical room.
As his vision cleared, he realized he was on a raised dais of brushed steel. The room was an infinite stretch of pitch-black nothingness, except for a single, harsh spotlight about ten feet away. In the center of that light sat a high-backed ergonomic office chair, and in that chair sat a figure that made Max's head ache just by looking at it.
The silhouette was vaguely masculine, wearing what looked like a rumpled dress shirt and slacks, but the edges of the form flickered like a corrupted video file. Every few seconds, the figure's head would duplicate, or its arm would stretch three feet too long before snapping back into place with a sound like static electricity.
"Alright, let's do this," the figure said. The voice was enthusiastic, bordering on manic, and it echoed with a strange reverb that suggested the room had infinite walls. He cracked his knuckles—a sound like gunshots in the void—and leaned forward. "I'm tossing you into the Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss universe. You've already got a cool character design rolling around in your head—'Demon of Hell,' very edgy, very chic—so let's crank that up a bit."
Max blinked, pulling himself into a sitting position. "The what? Wait, Hazbin? Like the cartoon?"
"Bingo. Top-tier choice for a chaotic afterlife," the figure chirped. He began typing on a keyboard that wasn't there. Each keystroke produced glowing, neon-blue symbols that hung in the air for a heartbeat before dissolving into sparks that drifted toward Max. "Now, we can't have you going in as a low-level Imp. That's boring. Readers hate boring. Let's see... Powers of Ainz Ooal Gown? Oh, that's a classic. Complete Tier-Magic system, World Items, the works. Perfect fit."
"Wait, wait!" Max scrambled to his feet, feeling his knees wobble. "You can't just—"
"Ooo, Seven Deadly Sins abilities?" the figure continued, ignoring him. "Yeah, we're definitely stacking those. Let's merge it all with the Tensei skill system for that sweet, sweet soul-evolution logic. Oh man, this is going to look absolutely ridiculous on paper. People are going to call you a Mary Sue, but who cares? Power is fun."
Max's brain felt like it was lagging several seconds behind reality. He reached out, trying to grab a handful of the glowing symbols, but his hand passed through them. "Who are you? Where am I? Did I die? I remember... a truck? No, that's a cliché. It was a heart attack, wasn't it?"
The figure froze. The "glitching" slowed down, the silhouette becoming momentarily stable. He sighed, a long, weary sound that belonged to a man who had worked twenty-four hours straight in a cubicle.
"Yes. Reincarnation. You're dead. Welcome to processing. I'm the guy who handles the paperwork, the wishes, and the 'Grand Exit.' Currently, I am your God, your concierge, and your most overworked employee."
Max looked down at his hands. They were translucent, flickering in and out of existence like a bad Wi-Fi signal. The reality of his situation hit him with the weight of a falling building. He wasn't dreaming. He was a soul in a waiting room at the end of time.
"You get three wishes," the figure continued, his manic energy returning as he resumed his invisible typing. "Standard protocol. So far, I've already granted two based on your subconscious desires and my own professional 'flair.' Now I just need help deciding the third."
"But you never even asked me!" Max snapped, his fear giving way to a spark of indignation. "You're just throwing things at me! And you're giving me way more power than that universe could handle! I'll break the world just by walking through it!"
"You're right," the figure said, snapping his fingers.
A burst of blinding white light exploded overhead, and Max felt a sudden, heavy pressure settle into his chest.
"Okay. Angelic skill package added to balance the demonic core. Every spell system from Overlord included. Cross-universal compatibility confirmed. Your soul-rank is now 'Primordial.'"
"WHY?" Max yelled, throwing his arms up. "Normally the protagonist gets a say! Normally there's a negotiation! Why are you over-buffing me?"
The figure leaned back, the office chair squeaking in the void. He rubbed his flickering temples. "Look, Max, I'll give it to you straight. You know how genies twist wishes? They give you a billion dollars but it's all in pennies that crush you to death? That's amateur hour. Our system is the opposite. It's governed by Cosmic Labor Law. We are legally required to grant wishes exactly as intended—or better. No loopholes. No ironic punishments. Everything must benefit the reincarnated soul."
He jabbed a flickering finger at himself.
"I used to be a guy like you. Just a soul in a void. One of my wishes was to gain the powers of the being handling my reincarnation. I thought I was being clever. I thought I'd be a god." The figure let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Congratulations to me. That made me the new Reincarnation God. Do you have any idea how much paperwork there is for an entire multiverse? Infinite souls. No vacation days. No bathroom breaks. I've been sitting in this chair for what feels like six billion years. And now? I'm trying to get fired."
Max stared, his mouth slightly agape. "Fired? You can get fired from being a God?"
"If I over-perform to the point of breaking the balance of the target universes, the Higher Ups—don't ask who they are, they're terrifying—will eventually deem me 'unstable' and terminate my contract. I want that termination, Max. I want to go to a beach in a lower-dimensional pocket and sleep for an eon. So, yes, I am giving you the 'Everything Package.' I am loading you with so much narrative weight that the Hazbin-verse is going to groan when you step into it."
"…Why don't you just trick someone else into taking your place?" Max asked.
"I may be trying to quit," the figure said sharply, "but I'm not a scumbag. There's a difference. Passing this job onto someone else is a fate worse than Hell." He waved a hand, and the darkness rippled like liquid. "Anyway. Want your powers mostly hidden? Because right now, your aura would vaporize half the Pride Ring just by existing. You'd walk into the Happy Hotel and Charlie would turn into a puddle of holy ash."
Max nodded instantly, the image of accidentally nuking the protagonist's hotel flashing through his mind. "Yes. God, yes. Please. Give me some kind of limiter."
"Done. Suppression filters active. Your power will scale based on your intent. If you want to tap a glass without shattering the planet, you can." The figure grinned, a row of white teeth appearing in the darkness. "Now, give me your final wish. Don't hold back. If it's not big enough, I'll upgrade it for you. Think big. Think 'Cosmic Error' big."
Max thought hard. He had the power of a skeletal god-king, the traits of seven sins, and the backing of a disgruntled deity. What was left? "If I'm going to be this powerful... I need a place in the hierarchy. Something that explains why I'm there. I want to be... God's brother. The shadow to his light."
The figure raised an eyebrow, his fingers flying across the invisible keys. "Already done. 'Demon of Hell.' The one you invented while you were drunk at 2:00 AM three years ago, rambling to your cat about 'cosmic balance' and how Lucifer was just a middle-manager."
Max groaned, covering his face with his flickering hands. "Oh no. Not that one. That was so edgy. I called him 'The Void-Walker' or something equally embarrassing, didn't I?"
"Actually, you called him 'The Primordial shadow,'" the figure chuckled. "But don't worry, I've polished the lore. It's actually quite poetic now. Here, look at the character sheet."
The figure gestured, and a colossal holographic screen materialized in front of Max. It was massive, stretching upward until the top was lost in the dark.
It wasn't.