The moment I blinked, I was standing in a different world again.
Same feeling. Same shift in gravity. Same quiet hum of magic in the air that made my skin crawl—but not in a bad way. Just… different. Like I was breathing through someone else's lungs.
I found myself exactly where I expected: the small, rented room in the village inn.
The mattress was a little lumpy, the air faintly scented with dried herbs and old wood, and the sunlight filtered through the modest window with a sort of slow, sleepy calm. Rustic, but livable.
> Tip: Return coordinates calibrated. Current spatial anchor: Village of Norrest, Room 3, The Brambleberry Inn.
"Yeah, yeah. I remember." I brushed myself off and glanced around. Everything was exactly where I left it: the thin cloak over the chair, the empty cup on the table, and the faint impression of where I'd sat last time.
There was a reason I came back here specifically.
"You teleport out of thin air in the middle of town and suddenly you're either a god or a threat. Probably the second."
I paced once across the room, adjusting the satchel strapped to my side—now loaded with snacks and wrappers from my own world, courtesy of a morning fridge raid. The items had transferred neatly. The packaging even retained its glossy branding, though the phone had subtly altered the text into Elysian script. One less thing to worry about.
"This room's a safe point," I muttered to myself. "Leave from here, return to here. No screaming villagers, no sudden sword-to-the-throat greetings."
Their world was already unstable.
I could feel it in the way the wind outside moved too quietly, or how even birdsong felt rehearsed. Like nature itself was watching, holding its breath.
"They don't need me showing up like some ominous light show." I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers steepled beneath my chin. "One false step, and I could tip this whole place over."
> Tip: Divine interference must be subtle. You are here to guide, not dominate.
"I know. I'm trying to be subtle. That's why I didn't materialize in someone's chicken coop or on the mayor's dining table."
I took a breath.
Time to act the part.
Merchant by day, god by… whenever the system decided I needed to glow ominously again.
I descended the narrow wooden stairs, each step creaking softly underfoot. The common room of the Brambleberry Inn was already alive with quiet clatter—mugs being scrubbed, chairs shuffled, the smell of something thick and herbal cooking over the hearth.
Behind the counter, the innkeeper looked up and grinned, a large man with a thinning braid and a nose that had clearly lost a few arguments in its time.
"Well now, mornin' to ye, traveler," he said, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. "Sleep well? Hope our bed didn't fight ye too hard."
I smiled, sliding into my performance without even thinking. "Fought valiantly, but I prevailed. A good night's rest—your hospitality, as always, is leagues better than the road."
His chest puffed a little. "Ahh, you're too kind. Always a pleasure havin' polite folk about. You stayin' another night?"
I nodded, folding my arms across my chest in what I imagined was a very merchant-like fashion. "Aye. The roads are long, and the coin's still waiting to be made."
He chuckled. "Well, that's the spirit."
He gestured toward a steaming bowl being set on a nearby table. "Fancy somethin' to eat, then? We've goat stew this mornin'—with parsnip and wild thistle. Warms the bones, it does."
I winced before I could help it.
"I tried the stew yesternight," I said, voice lowered slightly in mock-conspiracy. "And while I deeply admire the… boldness of the flavors, I think I'll pass this time."
He gave a booming laugh. "Ha! Fair 'nuff, stranger. Ain't to everyone's taste, I'll grant ye that."
"Nothing against your cook," I added quickly. "I'm just used to meals with fewer… unexpected textures."
"Say no more," he winked. "I've been married long enough to know when a man's bein' polite."
I offered a parting grin and made my way toward the door. The morning sun was just beginning to crest the rooftops, casting a golden glow across the stone road outside.
I stepped outside, the cool morning breeze brushing against my skin like a polite stranger. The air here always felt cleaner—lighter somehow—though that might've just been the lack of car exhaust and existential dread.
Still, my thoughts circled back to the performance I'd just pulled off.
"God," I muttered under my breath, "this Thousand Faces skill is really something."
The ease of it still startled me. The moment I needed it, it was like flipping a switch—I became the part. Tone, posture, vocabulary—all of it shifted without effort. The voice that answered the innkeeper hadn't even sounded like mine. It was natural. Seamless.
If I had this on Earth? Interviews? Customer service? Social anxiety? Over. I could've been a politician. Or a con artist. Or both.
I sighed.
"Such a waste," I said, glancing down at my hand like the skill might answer back. "But no. It only works here. That arbitrary 'you-can't-use-your-divine-powers-on-Earth' rule again. Like some kind of celestial DRM."
I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking.
"Figures. The one place where pretending to be someone else is a survival skill, and I can't even use the cheat codes. Earth really is the hard mode."
The marketplace smelled like dust, sweat, and potential customers. Stalls were shoved together like people trying to board a train late, and the whole place buzzed with a kind of controlled chaos. No labels. No queues. No central lane. Just shouting vendors, curious villagers, and me—an undercover divine about to sell chocolate bars like they were black market spell scrolls.
Thankfully, the divine phone wasn't just for creepy glowing dreams and dramatic system messages. It had an inventory feature, too—neatly categorized, weightless, and somehow temperature-controlled. Magic. Or close enough.
I slipped into a quieter corner, away from the loudest vendors but still visible enough to catch foot traffic. I pulled a folded cloth from the inventory, spread it on the ground, and sat cross-legged like I'd done this a hundred times before. Then came the snacks. Sweets, biscuits, chocolate—all individually wrapped in plastic like tiny treasures from another dimension.
"Alright," I muttered to myself, arranging the goods like a street magician. "Step right up, fantasy peasants. Behold the miracles of preservatives and industrial food science."
> Tip: Set your selling price.
"Already ahead of you," I whispered, not needing to open the interface again. "One Kin each. Easy enough."
One Kin, according to my divine prying, was worth about ten bucks back on Earth. Not cheap, but not luxury-tier either. In this world where sugar was probably rarer than magic swords, it was a fair price. A steal, even.
"And who do I thank for this economic crash course?" I asked aloud, glancing at the phone.
> Tip: You asked thirty-seven follow-up questions.
"Yeah, well. Sue me for being curious."
I hadn't even finished lining up the last of the cookies when someone shuffled up to me, wide-eyed and curious. She looked middle-aged, dressed in worn cloth, with a basket on one arm and a suspicious look in her eyes like she thought I might be selling curses.
> Name: Helna
Age: 42
Skill: None
Potential: F
I sighed internally. Not her.
Still, a customer was a customer.
"Good morrow, madam," I said smoothly, my voice slipping into the practiced tone of a seasoned merchant. "May I interest you in a delightful confection from a far-off land? This here's a cookie. It's sweet, it's soft, and it melts on your tongue like a blessing from the gods."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's it made of?"
"Oh, only the finest—flour, sugar, butter, and a bit of love." I gave her a warm smile and peeled open a sample. "Go on. Free taste."
She took it like I'd offered her dragon meat. Bit down. Chewed. Eyes widened.
Gotcha.
"Delicious, isn't it?" I said, leaning in like we were co-conspirators in some grand snack scheme. "That one's just a sample, but you can take home the real thing for just one Kin."
She hesitated. Wavered.
"Unless you'd like to take two?" I added gently, like I was doing her a favor.
Her shoulders dropped in surrender. "Fine. Two."
Cha-ching.
Before I could savor the victory, someone else stepped up, drawn in by the smell—or maybe the sight of someone actually buying. He was younger, rough around the edges, and stared at the plastic-wrapped goods like they were magic talismans.
> Name: Golt
Age: 26
Skill: Carpenter
Potential: F
Still not the one.
I flashed him a smile and offered another sample. "Go on. It's free to try."
He bit, eyes lit up, and coins hit the cloth.
Word must've spread faster than I expected, because soon enough, they were coming. One after another. Peasants, shopkeepers, children tugging on their parents' tunics, even a suspicious old man who sniffed every cookie before buying three.
It hadn't even been an hour and my inventory was picked clean.
I sat back, slightly stunned, crumbs in my lap, Kin clinking in a pouch at my hip.
"…Okay," I whispered, "so maybe I am good at this."
The system flickered once more.
> Tip: Sales efficiency—Exceeded expectations.
I smirked. "Of course I did."
As the last lingering customer left—an old man who asked three times if the cookies could cure joint pain—I stood and dusted off my pants.
"Thank you all," I announced, raising my voice just enough for the crowd to hear. "I'll be here again, same time, same place, tomorrow! Tell your friends. And remember—no pushing, no biting, and yes, I will bring the crunchy kind next time."
A few chuckled. Most just nodded and shuffled away, clutching their sweets like treasures.
As the square emptied out, I finally let the smile drop. My jaw ached from selling. My back hurt from crouching. And worst of all?
Not a single one of them was The One.
"F… F… F… F…" I muttered, scrolling through the system log. "One D. One C. That guy sneezed on my shoe. Definitely not divine hero material."
The phone chimed sympathetically.
> Tip: Patience is part of perception.
"Yeah, well, I'm not trying to be a monk. I'm trying to stop the apocalypse."
Still, I sighed, packed up my now-empty inventory into the divine phone, and slipped into a quiet alley.
"Back to the grind," I muttered.
The world shimmered, peeled away—and I was home.
Back in my condo. Same beige walls. Same slightly broken fan.
And now, a pouch of foreign currency and a heart full of disappointment.
"Come on," I muttered, tossing my keys onto the counter. "How hard is it to find a world-saving chosen one?"
No answer. Just silence—and the faint hum of the fridge that still had two boxes of biscuits left.