Since sleep had abandoned me, I figured there was little point in lying awake any longer. Pulling on my coat, I decided to take a quiet stroll through the streets, to see if any shops had dared to open so early, or perhaps a pub might be stirring to life. Maybe, just maybe, I’d find the ‘temple’ open—curious to see if anyone was already kneeling in prayer within.

  And if the city remained stubbornly shut and silent, well... I might just have to hunt down that blasted rooster myself and then attempt to coax myself back to sleep.

  After wandering through the quiet streets, I soon spotted a few shops already open. Not just open, but with shopkeepers standing outside, beckoning customers inside with practiced smiles. There was something oddly familiar about the place—the buildings all shared a similar shade of red, or something close enough to it. Ah, of course. This was the Red District, wasn’t it?

  The realization hit me sharply, and I made my way directly back to my own little store. When I finally stepped inside, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. That had been awkward, to say the least. It took me far too long to understand that those women, so insistently emphasizing their chests and curves, weren’t exactly there to sell me bread.

  I sank back into my chair, the morning sun now spilling properly through the window. There was nothing to do but wait for customers—though, truth be told, waiting felt a little like watching paint dry. After a while, as the silence stretched on, I began to wonder if my way of doing things was all wrong.

  I couldn’t just sit here, hoping a trickle of customers might wander in—especially when there were barely one or two a day. No, if I wanted my shop to thrive, I needed more people to come through that door. To do that, more people had to know I existed. In other words, I needed advertisement.

  But how to advertise? I certainly couldn’t afford to buy space from some multimillion-dollar company. No, what I needed was something more... dramatic. Something public. A demonstration, perhaps—something that would make the city sit up and take notice.

  So, I made my way to the bustling market square and planted myself in a small empty space between a cloth salesman, whose colorful bolts fluttered in the breeze, and a burly butcher hawking thick cuts of meat. Around me, the air buzzed with the cries of vendors, each trying to outshout the other, their voices a lively chorus of commerce.

  Taking a deep breath, I decided to try my hand at it. “Step right up! Step right up! Come and change yourself for the better! Don’t like your eyes? Don’t like your teeth? Come and change them here—for free, for a limited time only!” I called again and again, my voice rising above the din.

  After nearly an hour of this, I noticed a few curious glances—but alas, no one stepped forward.

  What was I doing wrong? Maybe waiting for people to come to me wasn’t the answer. Perhaps it was time I went out and found them instead.

  This was a sprawling city, teeming with millions of souls—surely it wouldn’t be hard to find at least one unhappy soul desperate to change themselves. But where to begin the search?

  Of course—the slums! They were close enough to my shop, which explained why my rent was so cheap. With a determined step, I made my way there.

  The slums were a tangle of small, cramped homes, each little more than the size of my ‘temple.’ The streets were narrow and crowded, choked with discarded waste that stank of neglect. People moved with weary steps, their faces marked by dirt and hardship. The only ones who looked clean on the outside seemed to carry a darker grime deep within—the kind that clings to the soul.

  I scanned the grimy street, searching for someone truly down on their luck. Well, that described nearly everyone here—but what I meant was someone marked by misfortune in a way that might need... a little help. And then, just ahead, I spotted what I was looking for.

  There, sprawled in the middle of the street, lay a figure who looked utterly lost to the world. At closer glance, he was a dwarf, his two legs broken badly, with pale bones jutting painfully through tattered skin.

  I hesitated only a moment before gently nudging him. “Hey, wake up.” Another nudge followed. “Come on, wake up.”

  But the man was in a sleep so deep it seemed almost like a spell. No matter how much I prodded, he didn’t stir.

  The passersby began casting me curious, uneasy glances, as if I were some odd creature disturbing the peace. Just as I gave the dwarf another gentle nudge, a man approached, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “Why are you touching him?” the man asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

  “I’m trying to wake the sleepyhead, obviously,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

  The man’s gaze flicked toward the dwarf, then back to me, his expression hardening. “You do realize that fellow’s dead, don’t you?”

  I glanced down at the dwarf again, then back up at the man, the truth settling like a stone in my stomach. “Well... I do now.”

  Without another word, the man turned and melted back into the crowd.

  Well, this was a complete waste of time. I couldn’t cure death… or could I? The thought struck me like a lightning bolt, wild and impossible, yet tantalizingly within reach.

  I knelt down and placed a hand on his head. Instantly, a torrent of information surged into me, hitting me all at once like pages of a book flipping too quickly to read. And Merlin’s beard, this poor man was utterly ruined. Most of his organs had liquefied—his brain included. It was a wonder he hadn’t melted entirely into the cobblestones by now.

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  I inhaled deeply, steadying myself, and focused on reversing his condition. Slowly, his shattered bones began to mend, slipping back beneath his skin as though retreating from sight. His organs—once a grotesque, sloshing mess—started to re-form, taking shape again, solid and whole. Even his brain, impossibly, knitted itself back together, the liquid resolving into a healthy, unbroken organ.

  It was like watching time rewind itself, and I couldn’t help but marvel at what I had just done.

  I’d fixed him—or so I thought—but the dwarf still wasn’t moving. Frowning, I touched his head again, sifting through the information his body offered me. His heart was beating steadily now, which meant some part of him was alive, his synapses still firing away. But he wasn’t breathing. Hmm. I just needed to send the right message to his brain.

  With a sigh of determination, I rolled up my sleeves, removed his tattered shirt, and, without a second thought, delivered the hardest purple nurple I could muster.

  He gasped awake, his chest heaving as his eyes flew open in confusion. He looked at me, utterly bewildered. “Who are you? Who am I? And... why do my nipples hurt?”

  I straightened up with as much dignity as I could manage under the circumstances. “I am your god,” I declared, “and you are my trusty servant. The nipple pain is... well, the result of a medical procedure.”

  His brow furrowed, and he blinked at me, clearly still disoriented. “You’re my what?” he asked, his voice wobbling as he struggled to make sense of things.

  From the look on his face, it was obvious—he had no clue who he was, where he was, or what had just happened. The only thing he seemed to be aware of was the language he was speaking.

  It seemed his brain hadn’t quite reverted to its old self but had instead grown new parts—strange, unfamiliar sections where memories should have been. Apparently, that was the limit of my power.

  “As I said,” I told him firmly, “I am your god, and I have just resurrected you.”

  He blinked at me, confusion clouding his eyes, but before I could say more, I glanced around at the passersby. Every single one of them stood frozen, mouths agape, as if they’d just witnessed something utterly impossible.

  “…He really is a god,” someone muttered under their breath.

  “Alright, it’s time for us to go,” I said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward my shop, all the while trying to ignore the heavy stares burning into my back.

  At last, we reached the door, and I eased him into one of the chairs inside.

  “I don’t think anyone followed us, but just in case,” I murmured, shutting the door firmly behind us, sealing us away from the curious eyes of the city.

  “Now,” I said, settling into my role with as much gravitas as I could muster, “back to what I was saying. I am your god, and I have resurrected you to be my servant.”

  He blinked, still trying to make sense of it all. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why did you choose me to be your servant?”

  I shrugged, a small, wry smile tugging at my lips. “Because I saw great potential in you... and, well, because I was winging it.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t lie,” I said, “I just speak half-truths.”

  He frowned, clearly puzzled. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do as your servant?”

  “Oh, plenty,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially. “For starters, if I need to show people what kind of changes they can expect, I can just use you as a test dummy. That way, the customers can see the results for themselves.”

  “Do you get many customers?” he asked, eyes flickering with cautious curiosity.

  “Well,” I admitted, “we’ve been in a bit of a slump lately, but I’m expecting that to change soon enough.”

  “Do you need me to do anything right now?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “So, what now?”

  I glanced around the quiet shop, then sighed. “...Let’s just wait for a customer.”

  And so we waited—time stretching endlessly—until finally, a knock echoed at the door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The door creaked open, and in stepped the Tumor Girl. I really ought to learn her name someday.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes, voice sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me you could raise the dead?”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “You’re making it sound worse than it is. I’m not your run-of-the-mill necromancer.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the dwarf sitting nearby. “Well, where’s the guy you raised? Is that it?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “And don’t call him ‘it.’ He has a name.”

  “What’s his name then?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

  “It’s... Bob,” I said, feeling a little sheepish.

  “Bob? That’s a rather odd name.”

  I shot back, “His name’s no weirder than yours.”

  She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Now that’s just preposterous. Anteka is far less strange a name than Bob.”

  At last, I learned her name.

  “Alright, let’s get back to why you’re here.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you could raise the dead? I could’ve slipped that into my morning sermon.”

  “I only figured out how to raise the dead today,” I admitted, “and… you do sermons? Why wasn’t I informed of that?”

  She smirked, folding her arms. “Of course I do sermons. They’re for worshippers, not gods. But back to this raising-the-dead business—what are your limits?”

  I pondered for a moment. “There doesn’t seem to be many. Only if the patient’s brain is severely damaged might they lose their memories.”

  “Any other limitations?”

  “No, that’s about it.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I can weave this into my sermon. I’ll say the memory loss is you removing the shackles of their previous life.”

  “Do you need anything else, or is that all?” I asked, hoping this conversation was nearing its end.

  “Actually, yes. Can I be blessed?” she asked, her tone suddenly eager.

  I frowned. “What do you mean by ‘blessed’?”

  “I mean,” she said with a sly grin, “give me something—some feature—to set me apart from the rest of your flock.”

  I considered her request for a moment, then shrugged. “Alright.” I placed my hand gently on her head and, as usual, information flooded into my mind.

  As I sifted through it, a thought dawned on me: I’m in a fantasy world. Why on earth have all my modifications been so grounded in realism? It was utterly foolish of me. I had an entire realm of impossible possibilities to explore! And, as the idea struck me, I knew exactly what I could give her.

  I focused on her hair, willing it to transform. Slowly, her locks began to shimmer and shift, their strands flickering like tongues of flame. I made sure the fire was purely aesthetic—tepid to the touch and incapable of harming her, of course.

  “Done,” I said, stepping back proudly. “You can check out what I did in the mirror over there.”

  She walked over to the mirror and stared at her reflection. “Holy heck, I’m on fire!” she exclaimed, panic flashing in her eyes as she began frantically waving her hands, trying to smother the flames.

  “Alright, stop! You’re going to hurt yourself,” I said, gently taking hold of her hands. “Calm down and look at the mirror.”

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, her breathing slowing as her gaze fixed on the fiery mane. A slow smile spread across her face. “I’m on fire… awesome.”

  “Now that that’s settled,” I said, stepping back, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  She moved her hands repeatedly through her flaming hair as she made her way out, clearly fascinated by the magical gift she now carried with her.

  “It’s just you and me now,” I said softly, turning to Bob. Silence settled between us like a thick cloak.

  I forced a yawn, stretching my arms dramatically. “Oh, look at the time—it's getting dark. I think we should head to bed.”

  “I have a bed?” he asked, surprise flickering in his voice.

  I chuckled, shaking my head. “Let me rephrase that. I’ll be going to my bed, while you’ll have to make do with the chair or the table—whichever you find more comfortable. We’ll get you a proper bed tomorrow.”

  “Can I at least have something to cover myself with?”

  “Sure,” I said, shrugging off my jacket and draping it over his shoulders.

  “Thanks,” he murmured.

  “Well, see you tomorrow,” I said, heading for the stairs.

  “See ya.”

  I climbed the stairs and slipped into my bed, a warm satisfaction settling over me. Outside, the rooster crowed, marking the end of a curious, extraordinary day.