**Chapter 89: Slice of Life**
**Day 1,294 (Standard Galactic Time).**
**Location: Station Omega-9 (The Free Systems).**
**Current Status: Hungry.**
**Mood: Tourist.**
The most significant difference between being a god and being a mortal is the maintenance.
As a deity—specifically, a Transcendent Admin connected to the root directory of the universe—energy was a concept, not a fuel. I existed because I willed it. My stamina was a fixed integer of infinity.
As a Level 3 mortal avatar named Shigu?
My stomach growled.
It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the cramped cockpit of the *Violet Shadow*. It was a demand. A biological error message flashing red on my dashboard: **[Status: Starving. Please insert nutrients to continue.]**
"Undignified," I muttered, rubbing my flat, mortal abdomen.
I looked out the viewport.
Station Omega-9 was not beautiful. The Mars Orbital Ring had been a marvel of engineering—sleek, white, and sterile. Omega-9 was a tumor made of metal. It was a massive, cobbled-together sphere of rusted hulls, neon lights, and industrial docking spires floating in the neutral zone between the Hegemony and the Zyloth Ascendancy.
It looked like a junkyard that had achieved sentience and decided to open a casino.
It was perfect.
"Architect," I spoke to the air. "Mask the ship's signature. If the station traffic control sees a Zyloth military vessel, they'll shoot us down before I can get lunch."
The mental link with my main body—currently napping inside a sun forty light-years away—flickered. The Architect, running on the server of my divine soul, responded.
*// SPOOFING TRANSPONDER ID. NEW DESIGNATION: 'INDEPENDENT HAULER - THE RUSTY BUCKET'. //*
"Subtle," I said dryly. "Hail the dock."
A face appeared on the comms screen. It was a Granthor—a species that looked like a bulldog crossed with a rockslide. He was chewing on a cigar that emitted green smoke.
"Unidentified vessel *Rusty Bucket*," the dockmaster grunted. "You're coming in hot. State your business and cargo."
I leaned into the microphone. I pitched my voice to sound weary, desperate, and entirely unthreatening.
"Just a scavenger, boss," I said. "Engine trouble. Life support is failing. I've got a hold full of... uh... scrap parts. I can pay the docking fee in credits."
The Granthor squinted at the screen. He saw a scrawny human in ill-fitting grey robes, looking pale and malnourished.
**[Skill Check: Deception (Charisma Adjustment -1).]**
**[Result: Success.]**
Nobody looks at a Level 3 human and sees a threat. They see a victim.
"Docking Bay 42," the Granthor grunted. "Standard fee is 50 credits. Don't cause trouble, kid. The station is crowded today. It's the Festival."
"Festival?" I asked.
"The Festival of the Golden Star. Now move it."
The line cut.
I sat back in the pilot's chair, guiding the ship toward the gaping maw of Bay 42 with manual controls.
"The Golden Star," I mused.
I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who that was.
***
**Location: Omega-9, Lower Market District.**
**Current Status: Broke but Hopeful.**
Stepping off the ship was an assault on the senses.
The air in the docking bay tasted of recycled oxygen, burnt engine grease, and exotic spices. Gravity here was set to 0.9 Gs, making me feel slightly lighter than standard Earth gravity—a small mercy for my unconditioned muscles.
I walked down the ramp. I had looted the Zyloth captain's corpse before putting him in stasis. I had a cred-stick with 5,000 credits (a decent sum), a vibro-knife tucked into my boot, and a cloak I had fashioned from a tarp found in the cargo hold.
I pulled the hood up.
**[Stealth: Active.]**
**[Anonymity: High.]**
I merged into the crowd.
The station was packed. It wasn't just mercenaries and smugglers today. There were families. Pilgrims. Tourists. Species from a hundred different worlds jostled shoulder to shoulder in the neon-lit corridors.
Holographic banners hung from the ceiling pipes. They depicted a stylized image: a golden silhouette of a man pointing a finger at a starship, which was subsequently splitting in half.
Underneath the image, scrolling text in Galactic Common read:
**THE NEW GOD WALKS.**
**CELEBRATE THE FALL OF THE HEGEMONY FLAGSHIP!**
**DRINKS ARE HALF-PRICE AT THE 'VOID'S END' TAVERN!**
I stopped walking.
"I'm a marketing gimmick," I whispered, staring at a holographic bobblehead of myself.
The bobblehead had an oversized head and a little button on the base. A child ran past, smacked the button, and the plastic toy chirped: *"Get wrecked, noob!"*
I winced. I definitely didn't say that. (I might have thought it, but I didn't say it).
It was surreal. Back in the simulation, on Earth, I was worshiped. But that was my server. I controlled the narrative. Here, in the wild universe, my actions had rippled out and mutated into myth within forty-eight hours. To the downtrodden people of the Free Systems, the destruction of a Hegemony Destroyer wasn't just a battle; it was a miracle.
I walked deeper into the market.
Music thumped from speakers mounted on street corners—a heavy, synthetic bass rhythm mixed with tribal drums. People were dancing in the plazas. Vendors shouted over the noise, hawking their wares.
"Get your fragment of the True Cross!" a four-armed merchant yelled, waving a piece of scrap metal. "Genuine hull plating from the *Indomitable*! Blessed by the Golden Admin!"
It was definitely just a piece of a toaster oven.
"Scams," I noted, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Scams everywhere. I love it."
It felt... alive.
For three years, I had sat in a white room, or a black void, managing numbers. I had watched civilizations rise and fall from a bird's-eye view. But I hadn't smelled sweat. I hadn't heard the off-key singing of a drunk pilot. I hadn't felt the brush of a stranger's shoulder.
This chaotic, messy, loud reality was what I had been fighting for.
My stomach roared again, louder this time. A nearby alien—a tall, bird-like creature—glanced at me with concern.
"Priorities," I said.
I navigated through the crowd, following my nose.
I passed stalls selling roasted lizard-skewers (too bony), vats of nutrient slime (efficient, but soulless), and glowing blue noodles (suspiciously radioactive).
Then, I smelled it.
Batter. Savory sauce. Bonito flakes.
It was a scent that triggered a deep, primal memory from Day 1, back when I was just a bored office worker named Shigu.
I pushed through a group of rowdy miners and found it.
It was a small, wooden cart squeezed between a weapon shop and a cybernetics clinic. Steam rose from a hot iron griddle.
The chef wasn't human. He was a Teklador—a species with six eyes and tentacles for fingers. But he was wearing a traditional Japanese hachimaki headband tied around his bulbous, purple forehead.
He was flipping small, spherical balls of batter with chopstick-like precision.
**[Item Identified: Void-Octopus Balls (Takoyaki).]**
**[Rarity: Common.]**
**[Description: A classic Earth dish adapted for galactic palates. Contains tentacle meat from the Void Kraken.]**
I approached the cart like a pilgrim approaching a shrine.
"One boat," I said. "Extra sauce. Extra flakes."
The Teklador looked me up and down with three of his eyes, while the other three watched the grill.
"You have taste, human," he burred, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "Most species here want the nutrient paste. They don't understand *texture*."
"Texture is the graphics of food," I said seriously.
He laughed, a wet, slapping sound. "Ten credits."
I slapped the cred-stick on the counter. The transaction cleared.
He handed me a paper boat containing six steaming golden spheres. They were drizzled with dark brown sauce and mayonnaise, topped with dried fish flakes that danced in the heat rising from the food.
I found a quiet spot nearby—sitting on a crate of ammunition that someone had left in an alleyway.
I picked up the wooden toothpick.
I stabbed a ball.
It was hot. I could feel the heat radiating against my lips before I even took a bite.
I blew on it gently.
*Caution: Contents are hot,* the System warned me unnecessarily.
I popped it into my mouth.
*Crunch.* The exterior was perfectly crisp.
*Squish.* The interior was molten, creamy batter.
*Chew.* The piece of Void Kraken was tender, savory, with a hint of the briny deep space.
The flavor exploded.
I closed my eyes.
It didn't taste like mana. It didn't taste like the cold, sterile perfection of a star's core. It tasted like oil and flour and sauce. It tasted like a Friday night after a long week of work.
It tasted like victory.
"Oh," I whispered, chewing slowly. "That's the stuff."
**[Hunger Decreased.]**
**[Mood: Euphoric.]**
**[Status Effect: 'Well Fed' (+10% Stamina Regeneration for 1 hour).]**
I sat there in the dirty alley of a pirate station, a god in a mortal shell, eating alien takoyaki, and for the first time in a thousand days, I felt completely at peace.
"Hey. You."
The peace lasted exactly forty-five seconds.
I sighed, swallowing the bite. I didn't open my eyes immediately.
"I'm eating," I said.
"You're sitting on my ammo crate, dirt-side."
I opened my eyes.
Three figures stood at the mouth of the alley. They were classic low-level thugs. Leather jackets, cybernetic implants that looked infected, and weapons that were clearly compensating for something.
The leader was a human with a metal jaw.
**[Target: Thug Leader.]**
**[Level: 8.]**
**[Disposition: Aggressive.]**
"The crate isn't marked," I said, stabbing another takoyaki ball. "And possession is nine-tenths of the law in the Free Systems, isn't it?"
The leader sneered. The metal hinges of his jaw squeaked. "Smart mouth. How about I take your credits, your food, and your teeth as rent?"
His two cronies chuckled. One of them pulled out a stun-baton. It crackled with blue electricity.
I looked at the takoyaki. I had four left.
I really didn't want to drop them.
"Look," I said reasonable. "I'm Level 3. You guys are Level 8, 7, and 6. Mathematically, you should win this. You should rob me, beat me up, and leave me in a dumpster."
The leader blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Exactly."
"But," I continued, standing up carefully so as not to spill the sauce. "I'm having a really good day. I found a parking spot. I found takoyaki. And I haven't accidentally destroyed a solar system yet."
I took a step forward.
"So, I'm going to give you a choice. Walk away, and you get to keep your kneecaps."
The leader laughed. He pulled a serrated knife. "Get him, boys."
They charged.
It was almost cute. They moved so slowly. Even with my limited Agility stats, I could see the telegraphing of their attacks a mile away.
I didn't draw my vibro-knife. That would be messy.
I used the environment. And the System.
**[Skill: Analyze Weakness.]**
The crony with the stun-baton swung at my head.
I ducked.
Not a graceful, martial-arts duck. A frantic, low-level crouch. But it was timed perfectly. The baton passed over my head and hit the metal wall of the alley. *Sparks.*
I kicked out—aiming not at the man, but at the unstable stack of crates next to him.
Physics took over. The crates toppled.
"Gah!" The crony was buried under a pile of hydraulic pumps.
**[Crony 1: Incapacitated.]**
The second crony hesitated.
I turned to the leader. He was lunging with the knife.
I couldn't dodge this one completely. My stats were too low.
I raised my left arm, wrapping the thick tarp-cloak around it like a shield.
*Thud.*
The knife bit into the fabric. It stopped inches from my skin.
"My turn," I whispered.
I didn't punch him. My Strength was 10. It would just annoy him.
Instead, I looked him in the eyes.
I reached deep into the mental link, tapping the firewall that separated Mortal Shigu from God Shigu. I didn't draw power. I drew *Presence*.
For a microsecond, I let the mask slip.
I let him see what was looking out from behind my eyes. The entity that slept in the heart of a sun. The thing that ate destroyers for breakfast. The infinite, compounding void.
**[Skill: Intimidation (Divine Modifier).]**
The leader froze.
His pupils dilated until his eyes were entirely black. His metal jaw hung open. He wasn't seeing a skinny boy in a cloak anymore. He was seeing his own death, writ large across the stars.
"Drop it," I commanded.
My voice didn't echo. It simply bypassed his ears and told his brain what to do.
*Clatter.*
The knife hit the ground.
The leader made a high-pitched whimpering sound. He stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, and scrambled backward on his hands and knees.
"Demon!" he shrieked. "Demon eyes!"
He ran. He ran so fast he bounced off the alley wall and kept going.
The remaining crony, seeing his boss flee in terror from a teenager eating snacks, decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He helped his buddy out of the crate pile, and they bolted.
I sighed and adjusted my cloak.
"Demon is a bit harsh," I muttered. "I prefer 'Administrator'."
I looked down at my paper boat.
One of the takoyaki balls had rolled onto its side, smearing the mayonnaise.
"Tragic," I said. But at least I hadn't dropped it.
I finished the meal in silence, enjoying the salty aftertaste.
***
**Location: Omega-9, Upper Spire.**
**Current Status: Registered.**
**Mood: Professional.**
An hour later, I stood in front of a massive building made of black steel and blue glass.
A giant hologram rotated above the entrance: a sword crossed with a bag of gold.
**THE MERCENARY GUILD.**
**OMEGA-9 BRANCH.**
This was the next step. I couldn't wander the universe as a vagrant. I needed access, information, and high-level quests to grind my XP. The Guild controlled the flow of all three in the Free Systems.
I walked into the lobby. It looked like a DMV, but everyone in line was armed to the teeth.
I took a ticket. **[Number: 492].**
I waited.
I watched a group of bounty hunters arguing over a map. I watched a cyborg polishing his arm-cannon. I felt... normal. Just another face in the crowd of people trying to make a living in a harsh galaxy.
"Number 492!"
I walked up to the counter. The receptionist was a droid with a bored synthetic voice.
"Name?"
"Shigu," I said.
"Species?"
"Human."
"Class?"
I hesitated.
Back in the game, I was a 'Void Walker'. But that class didn't exist in the standard registry. If I put that down, it would raise flags.
"Freelancer," I said. "Jack of all trades."
"Experience?"
"Some," I said modestly. "I'm handy with code. And I know how to throw a crate."
The droid processed this. "Entry-level registration fee is 500 credits. Scan your biometric data."
I paid the fee. I placed my hand on the scanner.
**[Processing...]**
**[New Profile Created.]**
**[Name: Shigu.]**
**[Rank: F-Class (Copper).]**
**[Current Party: None.]**
The droid dispensed a small, copper dog-tag. I picked it up. It felt light. Cheap.
"Welcome to the Guild, F-Rank Shigu," the droid droned. "Don't die. Next!"
I walked out of the Guild hall, flipping the copper tag in the air.
F-Rank. The bottom of the barrel. The lowest rung on the ladder.
I walked to the railing of the plaza, overlooking the vast, glittering expanse of the station's interior. Below me, millions of lives were playing out. Above me, through the transparent dome, the stars burned cold and bright.
Somewhere out there, twelve massive Hegemony fleets were hunting for a Golden God.
Somewhere out there, the Zyloth Ascendancy was analyzing the wreckage of their scout ship.
Somewhere out there, cosmic horrors were stirring in the dark, drawn to the scent of my power.
I gripped the copper tag tight.
I grinned.
"Day 1,294," I whispered to the universe. "Starting from zero."
I put the tag around my neck.
"Let's see how fast I can break this game."
**Chapter 89 Ends.**