The afterlife was remarkably architectural, which was a massive disappointment.
I had always assumed that if I died, it would involve a profound sequence of blinding flashes, perhaps some dramatic choral music, or at the very least, a tunnel of light that didn’t look like it had been drafted by an aggressive corporate minimalist.
Instead, I was standing in a void of matte black, staring up at a towering, obtuse pillar of pure, radiant light.
It didn’t have a face, but it possessed an aura that practically screamed interstellar bureaucracy.
“So,” I said, rubbing the back of my non-physical neck, the phantom sensation of my final moments on Earth still lingering like an irritating itch.
“Let me get this straight. I died because I wasn’t paying attention to a fluorescent yellow sign that explicitly stated there was an open construction ditch and a historical unexploded ordnance demolition site. I managed to hit both.”
“Correct,” the pillar resonated, its voice echoing directly inside my skull.
It lacked a throat, but it certainly didn’t lack an attitude.
“A spectacular display of situational unawareness. However, cosmic clerical anomalies dictate you have a surplus of soul equity. You have exactly one hundred character points. These allow you to choose whatever reincarnation options you desire. Or, if you prefer, you can simply dissolve into the grand cosmic soup. What if you don’t want to choose?”
I smirked, crossing my arms.
“And miss out on an existential do-over? Please. Let’s start with the destination. I want Marvel.”
“A high-risk, high-casualty reality,” the pillar noted, its light shifting from a pristine white to a slightly ominous amber.
“That will be forty points. Next. What powers do you intend to bring into a universe where cosmic gods regularly throw world-ending tantrums?”
“I want Rimuru Tempest’s power set,” I replied instantly.
“The whole devouring, replicating, absolute-analysis package.”
The pillar shifted slightly, its light pulsing with what felt like mechanical skepticism.
“Meaning you wish to begin your secondary existence as a sentient, gelatinous blob of blue slime. How delightfully uninspired.”
“No, absolutely not,” I interrupted, raising a finger.
“I want a human body version of Rimuru, with the powers fully intact from the start.”
“Ah. The premium tier,” the pillar hummed, the sound vibrating through my ethereal feet.
“A complete, autonomous human vessel carrying the intrinsic qualitative laws of a Demon Lord. You can have that, but it will cost the entire one hundred points. Furthermore, under standard protocol, choosing a high-tier absolute power means you forfeit the right to choose your destination world. The system will randomize it.”
I frowned, a sudden bad feeling creeping up my spine.
“With Rimuru’s foundational abilities, I can survive pretty much anywhere, right? But out of curiosity… can I see what worlds I can go to by chance?”
A glowing holographic menu materialized in the air between us, a cascading waterfall of realities written in a script that my mind translated instantly.
My eyes scanned the text, skimming past various standard fantasy realms, until they hit a specific name written in jagged, blood-red text: Warhammer 40,000.
A cold sweat broke out across my conceptual back.
“Yeah, no. Absolutely not,” I said, pointing aggressively at the screen.
“The movement I saw Warhammer, I choose to buy a ticket to Marvel. No. Not going there. Not even a fraction of a chance. So, is there any way I can do something like that? Like, create a system of my choosing that mimics the progression?”
“You wish to construct a personalized interface to manage your growth?” the pillar asked, the holographic screen shifting into a complex, blank wireframe ledger.
“If you decline the direct power transfer, you may use your remaining sixty points to forge a System of your own choosing to bridge the gap. It will allow you to buy the traits back over time. How do you wish to structure its architecture?”
“Hmm, this can work. Maybe I can create an even more powerful system,” I murmured, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face.
If I couldn’t have the full power immediately, I’d build the machine that could manufacture it—and then some.
“Let’s start by connecting my system to the multiverse. Let’s pull data streams from everywhere. Yes… Ben 10, Dragon Ball Z, One Punch Man…” I started laughing, the sheer absurdity of the scale intoxicating me.
“Yeah. Let’s make it an absolute monstrosity.”
The pillar remained silent for a long moment.
Then, a sharp, metallic chime sounded, echoing like a cash register through the void.
“Total cost for a multiversal cross-referenced evolutionary system: One hundred and thirty-four thousand points.”
I blinked, my laughter dying instantly in my throat.
“What? You didn’t give me this much!”
“It is your greed; do not bring me into this,” the pillar retorted, its tone drier than a desert bone.
“You have sixty points left for your system architecture. Be realistic, human.”
“Fine, fine. Let’s scale back,” I sighed, waving off the massive, impossible number.
“I want to connect just one world to my system, and that is Dragon Ball Z.”
“One thousand points.”
“Okay, look, I don’t need the whole universe. I will connect to one character. Which one to choose? Goku? No, he has power but no brain. I need something that actually works with my style.” I tapped my chin, running through the options before my eyes snapped back to the baseline I actually wanted.
“Okay, I have chosen again.
Rimuru as a whole.
“How much for access to Rimuru’s entire evolution tree?”
“One hundred points,” the pillar stated flatly.
“Come on, do something for me here, man,” I groaned, throwing my hands up.
“I’m forty points short and I’m trying to build a career here. Work with me. Throw me a bone.”
The pillar’s light flared with a sudden, competitive energy, the hum in the air sharpening into something almost playful.
“Very well. You can play a game. If you win, I shall drop the price of the Rimuru baseline system core in half, fitting it within your remaining sixty points. If you lose, you go to a random world as a regular slime.”
I paused, looking at the monolithic structure.
“Which game?”
“You choose.”
“What game can I play with a pillar?” I asked, gesturing wildly at its complete lack of limbs.
“Do not worry, I am not playing. It would be cheating, because I can read your mind,” the pillar replied smoothly.
“I will call a lowest-ranking angel. It will manifest with the exact same body as yours, with the same neurological and physical constraints.”
“A game of skill against a literal celestial being sounds like a setup,” I muttered, my mind racing.
I couldn’t out-chess an angel, and I certainly couldn’t out-trivia one.
I needed something stripped of all divinity.
Something raw.
“Okay, I have chosen. We will play a coin toss. Pure, unadulterated, fifty-fifty chance.”
The pillar actually seemed to sigh, its light dimming slightly in disappointment.
“Oh. And here I thought I would see a football match.”
A tiny, glowing figure manifested out of the darkness, holding a standard, silver-looking token.
Without a word, the figure flipped it into the air.
It spun, catching the non-existent light of the void, a metallic blur of pure probability.
“Heads,” I called out, my voice steady despite the absolute insanity of the wager.
The coin clattered against an invisible floor, bounced twice, and settled.
Heads.
“Hah! Perfect,” I snapped my fingers.
“The house loses.”
The angel vanished back into the dark as quickly as it had arrived.
“A deal is a deal,” the pillar conceded, though it sounded distinctly amused.
“The Rimuru baseline system core has been discounted and integrated into your sixty-point allowance. However, pay attention to the terms of your creation. Because you chose the system structure over direct power manifestation, you will be born without any baseline abilities active. You will have no Great Sage, no magicules, no resistances, and no human morphing. You possess the tree, but you must buy everything from scratch using the currency system your thoughts established. No missions, no control over you. It is entirely as you wished.”
The pillar pulsed one final time, a faint ledger appearing in my mind, showing my final balance.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[REMAINING BALANCE: 10 POINTS]
“Excellent. Now, for the remaining ten points, what do you want?” I tapped my foot, thinking about the brutal reality of the Marvel Universe.
Survival wasn’t just about laser beams and magic; it was about resources, status, and the ability to operate without being hunted by S.H.I.E.L.D.
or Hydra on day one.
“I want to be born rich. Give me the trust-fund upgrade.”
The pillar’s light flickered, a sudden, complex calculation rippling through its structure that felt distinctly like a trap springing shut.
“If you would have chosen this before I made the system, you would have been born as the richest man’s son,” the pillar explained, its voice dripping with a terrifyingly corporate satisfaction.
“But because of your system—which your own thoughts designed to require massive financial or material liquidation to purchase skills—every dollar is now structurally more valuable to your evolution. The cosmic balance cannot give you both an optimized progression system and a direct multi-billion-dollar handout without breaking the point limit. You will have your wealth, but it will be tied to your system’s economy.”
I froze, realizing the logical loophole I had just stumbled into.
The money wouldn’t be sitting in a neat Chase bank account; it was going to be hard-coded into the world around me.
“Wait… then can I redo?”
The pillar didn’t answer with words.
Instead, the void began to tilt violently, the immense gravity of reincarnation pulling at the edges of my soul.
The last thing I felt was the distinct sensation of a cosmic entity grinning at my expense as the darkness swallowed me whole.
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