Chapter 4
Written by Bayzo Albion
"You've crossed the threshold, Cuddly Boogeyman. Now the question is not about sins or punishments—it's about creation. You must shape a world of your own, with rules and laws that spring from you alone. They can be as rigid as iron, enforcing order with unyielding precision, or as light as a dream, fluid and ever-changing. You set the rhythm; you decide what breathes and what fades, what flourishes in the light and what withers in the shadows."
Her hand lifted gracefully, fingers tracing elegant patterns in the air, and the interface shimmered in response, rippling like a pond disturbed by a gentle breeze. New options bloomed across the translucent screen like branches sprouting from a tree, each one a seed of potential worlds waiting to take root.
"Of course," she continued, her voice weaving through the air like silk threads, "you don't have to start from nothing, from the void's blank canvas. You may copy an existing world—Earth, with its bustling cities and untamed wilds, or any of the countless realms you've glimpsed in story and legend, from enchanted forests teeming with mythical creatures to distant stars harboring alien civilizations. They're all stored here, echoes ready to be replayed, templates infused with the essence of countless souls who came before." She smiled faintly, though her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite name—a mix of encouragement and caution, perhaps. "Or… you may choose something simpler, more intimate. A single house, vast and beautiful, filled with the friends you love most, their laughter echoing through halls adorned with memories. A sanctuary large enough to contain every laughter, every feast, every long conversation you ever wished would never end, where time stretches lazily like a cat in the sun."
Her words tempted me more than I cared to admit, painting vivid pictures in my mind's eye that tugged at the strings of my heart. For a moment I could almost see it: an endless home, rooms lit by warm lanterns casting golden hues on polished wood, windows opening into gardens where familiar voices waited just out of sight, calling me to join in eternal camaraderie. A place without arguments, without distance, without the sting of loss that had haunted my mortal days—a utopia tailored to heal the wounds of isolation.
But the skeptic in me stirred again, rising like a persistent tide, refusing to be lulled into complacency. Worlds built too perfectly had a way of cracking under their own weight, revealing flaws that festered in the foundations. I folded my arms, forcing a crooked smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.
"So I'm supposed to play god now? Draw the lines of gravity, decide what counts as truth or illusion, what separates dream from waking? And if I just want a roof and a few friends, you're telling me paradise will nod and hand it over like a parcel, no strings attached, no cosmic fine print to trip me up later?"
The priestess tilted her head, her expression unreadable, a mask of serene mystery that concealed depths I could only guess at. "Exactly so. This is the heart of the gift: here, reality bends not to necessity, but to desire, yielding to the whispers of your soul. But whether that is blessing or trap…" Her smile deepened, though it wasn't entirely kind, carrying a subtle edge like a rose's thorn hidden among petals. "…that depends on how you use it, on the wisdom—or folly—you bring to the act of creation."
The words echoed in me, stirring equal parts excitement and unease, a duality that mirrored the realm itself. If paradise truly ran on will alone, then I was standing at the edge of limitless freedom—or the first step into a cage of my own making, where every choice could forge chains invisible until too late.
The interface flared with possibilities, line after line of rules waiting for my hand, an infinite scroll of parameters that invited exploration. At first I braced for complexity, expecting a labyrinth of options that would ensnare me in confusion, but the system guided me like a patient tutor, intuitive and responsive. With every choice I made, it adjusted, suggested, refined—never forcing, never tricking, but illuminating paths I hadn't considered, like a wise mentor unveiling hidden potentials.
I trimmed away pointless cruelties, those senseless sufferings that had plagued my earthly existence, reshaping justice so it resonated with intention rather than blind punishment, allowing mercy to temper retribution. I wove in threads of wonder, permitted desire to grow without rotting into fear or obsession, and infused the fabric with harmonies that encouraged growth over stagnation. It wasn't about sculpting mountains or seas with godlike flair—it was about writing the physics of meaning itself, defining the very laws that governed joy, sorrow, and everything in between.
And then, a final option appeared, materializing at the bottom of the list like a whispered afterthought:
Erase Memory of Creation — Recommended for First Experience.
I froze, my ethereal form tensing as if still bound by mortal muscles. It was the one setting that unsettled me, a proposition that clawed at the edges of my trust. Erase my own authorship? Step blind into the very rules I had just designed, forgetting the architect's blueprint? My suspicions of the priestess stirred again, whispering of hidden traps, of manipulations lurking in the subtext of this paradise.
But then I realized—there was no trick, no sleight of hand at play. Every choice until now had been transparent, laid bare like an open book. The system had let me see the gears turning, touch the wires of creation, set the boundaries with full awareness. Nothing had been hidden, no shadows cast over the process. If I clung to the memory of building, the world would be no more than a project, a sterile playground devoid of genuine surprise. But if I forgot… it would become real, immersive, a living canvas where I could experience it as a participant, not just a creator.
I exhaled, slow and steady, the breath a release of pent-up tension. For the first time since this began, my mistrust loosened its grip, unraveling like frayed threads in a gentle wind. The priestess had been right all along. This wasn't about deceit—it was about freedom, about surrendering control to embrace the unknown.
I pressed Confirm.
The interface pulsed once, a vibrant throb of light that echoed through my being, then dissolved into white, a blank slate of possibility. The knowledge of my own authorship drained away like water through open fingers, slipping into oblivion without resistance. In its place swelled something else: anticipation, clean and sharp, like standing at the door of a life I hadn't yet lived, the threshold humming with untapped potential.
And in that moment, my doubts about her vanished completely, replaced by a quiet gratitude for her guidance through the veil.
> System: Initializing process…
→ Creating new world
→ Automatic parameter setup
→ Generating optimal environment
I watched as the interface came alive—numbers flickering like fireflies, diagrams unfolding in intricate patterns, fragments of landscapes flashing past like a painting being composed in real time, strokes of color and form blending into coherence. After only a few seconds, the system displayed its verdict, the words appearing with a triumphant glow:
> System: World successfully created.
You may adjust and refine parameters manually to suit your preferences.
> Hint: Be advised: in its current state your world may be illogical or chaotic, since parameters have not yet been corrected.
Would you like to add realism? Adjust it manually.
I gave the screen a small nod, acknowledging the prompt, my mind already envisioning tweaks to ground the fantastical in something familiar. Before I could act further, another notification appeared, pulsing like a heartbeat, insistent yet patient:
> System: Final warning. Are you sure you want to erase your memory of this world's creation?
You will forget every detail—but retain the knowledge that you are its author.
For a moment I was silent, the gravity of the choice pressing upon me like an unseen hand. There was something unsettling about releasing what I had just brought into being, like setting adrift a child before even holding it, watching it sail into the horizon without a backward glance. And yet, I understood—this was the only way to live it, not merely administer it, to dive into the depths rather than skim the surface.
"Yes," I said at last, my voice steady, resonant with resolve forged in the fires of introspection. "I'm sure."
The priestess inclined her head, as if to bless the decision, her movement a graceful arc that conveyed approval and farewell in equal measure. In that gesture, all my earlier doubts melted, dissolving into the ether like morning mist under the sun. She had never tried to deceive me; she had only waited for me to choose, a steadfast guardian at the crossroads of fate.
I whispered a farewell to her calm, unreadable smile, a silent thank you for illuminating the path, then pressed the button:
Begin New Life.
And the world rushed in, a torrent of sensation and color, sweeping me into the embrace of creation, where every breath promised adventure and every shadow hid wonders yet to be discovered.