The only light in the room spills from a curved monitor, painting Jaxon's face in shifting hues of blue and green. His fingers dance across the mechanical keyboard, each clack a sharp note in the quiet hum of the computer's fans. Lines of C++ fill the screen, a digital tapestry weaving together the rules of a new universe. He leans closer, green eyes scanning the function he just wrote, a final polish on the item shop UI. It's almost three in the morning, but the world outside his bedroom door, the world of sleep and school and responsibility, melts away. Here, in the glow of the screen, he is a creator. He is building a world from scratch.
A stray thought about a frayed power strip cable flickers through his mind, a fleeting notion dismissed as quickly as it arrives. He hits compile. The code runs. He stretches back in his chair, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as the game's welcome screen materializes. The interface is clean, minimalist, exactly as he designed it. His mouse hovers over the 'New Game' button. He clicks.
A sudden pop. The room plunges into darkness. A blinding white light erupts from the tower case beside his desk, and an invisible force slams into him. His muscles seize, every nerve screaming with a current that isn't his own. His headphones fly from his head, the music cutting out into a deafening silence. The world fractures into a kaleidoscope of static and pain, then snaps to black.
A rhythmic, insistent beep pulls him from the void. It's a sterile, impersonal sound that doesn't belong. He forces his eyelids open. The ceiling is a landscape of white acoustic tiles under the flat glare of fluorescent lights. A sharp, antiseptic smell invades his nostrils. He turns his head, the motion stiff and slow. His mother sits in a plastic chair beside the bed, her face pale, her knuckles white where she grips his father's hand.
A man in a white coat stands at the foot of the bed, flipping through a chart on a clipboard. The plastic name tag reads Dr. Aris. The doctor offers a thin, professional smile that doesn't reach his tired eyes.
"Good to see you're with us, Jaxon. You gave your parents quite the scare."
His mother's grip on his father's hand tightens. "He just collapsed. We heard the crash and…"
Dr. Aris nods, his gaze shifting to the worried couple. "Mr. Steele and Mrs. Steele, the initial assessment suggests a significant electrical shock. It seems his computer short-circuited. He was unconscious when the paramedics arrived, but his vitals are stable now. We'll want to keep him for observation, run a few tests to check for any internal damage, but all things considered, he's very lucky."
As the doctor continues to speak, his voice explaining procedures and possibilities, something flickers in Jaxon's vision. It's like a graphical glitch in the air itself. A faint, translucent rectangle shimmers into existence, blocking his view of the doctor's torso. Jaxon blinks hard. The image solidifies. It's a panel. A user interface. His user interface.
It floats a few feet from his face, perfectly rendered in the deep blues and sharp whites he had spent weeks designing. The font, the layout, the clean lines—it's all there. Across the top, in crisp, sans-serif letters, is the title: CREATION SHOP.
Below the title, a grid of icons waits for a selection. The first is a simple swirling vortex of black and purple.
[PRIMORDIAL VOID]
COST: 0 GENESIS POINTS
DESCRIPTION: An infinite expanse of nothing. The perfect canvas for a new reality. A beginning.
Next to it, a shimmering cluster of tiny lights.
[STARDUST]
COST: 0 GENESIS POINTS
DESCRIPTION: The basic building blocks of matter. Disperse to form the first elements.
A list of other starter items scrolls below: Nebula Gas, Basic Gravity, A Single Spark. It's the very first menu of his game, the one a player uses to build a planet, a solar system, a galaxy. The one a player uses to become the god of their own world.
His parents' voices are a muffled drone, a background track to the impossible interface hanging in his vision. The doctor's words about EKGs and concussion protocols fade into meaningless noise. Jaxon's focus narrows, his entire world becoming the glowing blue panel. He can't touch it. He can't speak to it. But it feels connected to him, an extension of his own thoughts.
He concentrates on the first icon. Buy Primordial Void.
The swirling vortex pulses with a soft light. A new notification slides into view, clean and crisp.
[PURCHASE COMPLETE. PRIMORDIAL VOID ADDED TO CREATION SLATE.]
He feels a strange, distant hum, a vibration not in the hospital bed but somewhere deep inside his mind, like a server spinning up for the first time. He shifts his mental focus to the next icon. Buy Stardust.
[PURCHASE COMPLETE. STARDUST ADDED TO CREATION SLATE.]
The hum grows a little stronger. He scrolls down with a thought, the list of items flowing upward smoothly. There it is. Basic Gravity. The cornerstone of any stable universe. But next to the name, the cost glows in a soft, prohibitive red.
[BASIC GRAVITY]
COST: 1 GENESIS POINT
He has zero. His current balance is displayed in the top right corner of the panel: GP: 0. Frustration prickles at him. How does he get points? The question forms in his mind, directed at the silent interface. How do I earn Genesis Points?
The panel flickers. The shop vanishes, replaced by a simple text box.
[GENESIS POINTS ARE AWARDED FOR COMPLETING SYSTEM OBJECTIVES AND ACHIEVING CREATIVE MILESTONES.]
[NEW OBJECTIVE: SYSTEM CALIBRATION.]
[DESCRIPTION: Establish a stable connection between Creator and System. Focus your intent on the central matrix of this panel for ten consecutive seconds.]
[REWARD: 1 GENESIS POINT.]
A simple wireframe cube appears in the center of the panel, slowly rotating. Ten seconds. He can do that. He ignores the nurse who comes in to check his IV drip. He ignores his mother asking if he wants some water. He fixes his entire concentration on the spinning cube. The edges of his vision blur, the sounds of the hospital room recede until only the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor remains, a steady metronome for his focus. One… two… three… The cube glows brighter. Seven… eight… nine… A brilliant flash of light fills his vision for a second.
[CALIBRATION COMPLETE. CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.]
[REWARD: 1 GENESIS POINT HAS BEEN AWARDED.]
The balance in the corner updates. GP: 1. A surge of triumph, sharp and exhilarating, cuts through the fog of his injuries. He immediately navigates back to the shop, the single point burning a hole in his metaphysical pocket. He buys Basic Gravity.
With the foundational elements secured, curiosity takes over. What else is in here? He scrolls past cheap, fundamental concepts—Electromagnetism, Weak Nuclear Force, a few basic elements. The prices climb. He sees items for forming planets, for sparking atmospheres, for seeding single-celled life. Then he sees an icon that is far more complex than the others, an ornate, glowing archway. The price next to it makes him stop.
[GATE]
COST: 100 GENESIS POINTS
He focuses on the description, and the words snap into sharp relief, each one hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
[DESCRIPTION: A stable, two-way portal connecting the Creator's reality to the created world. Allows for physical entry and exit. WARNING: Environmental conditions must be rendered hospitable prior to initial activation.]
Jaxon's awareness collapses into the glowing rectangle floating above his sternum. The doctor's voice becomes a dull hum, his parents' worried whispers a distant echo. The sterile room, the beeping monitor, the crisp hospital sheets—it all blurs into an irrelevant backdrop. This panel is the only thing that matters. His panel.
His gaze locks onto the shimmering icon for Stardust. Zero Genesis Points. Free. The word forms in his mind, a silent command. Buy.
A small, satisfying chime, a sound he himself coded, rings only in his ears. A notification slides into view from the right edge of the panel.
[Stardust Acquired]
[Item has been added to Creation Inventory]
A new tab labeled INVENTORY pulses with a soft blue light before dimming. It's real. The system is responding. His heart thumps a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He shifts his focus to the next item on the list.
[Basic Gravity]
COST: 1 GENESIS POINT
He checks the top right corner of the UI. A clean, digital display reads GP: 0. He has nothing. How does he get more? The question is a desperate, silent plea aimed at the interface. How do I earn Genesis Points?
The shop vanishes, replaced by a new pop-up, its header a stark white against the deep blue.
[NEW OBJECTIVE: FIRST PRINCIPLE]
Define a core concept that will govern your new reality.
REWARD: 1 GENESIS POINT
Define a concept. A rule. A law of physics from scratch. His mind whirls, grappling with the scale of the request. Where does he even start? Conservation of energy? Every action has an equal and opposite reaction? The task feels monumental, the single point an almost insulting reward for laying the foundation of a universe.
While his thoughts grind against the problem, he dismisses the objective window with a mental swipe. The shop returns. He lets his focus drift down the list of available items, a lazy scroll through the building blocks of creation. The prices escalate quickly. Nebula Gas - 5 GP. Planetary Core - 20 GP. Stellar Ignition - 50 GP. The numbers are meaningless, astronomical sums he cannot afford. He keeps scrolling, past icons for exotic matter and strange energies.
Then he stops. An icon depicts an archway, not of stone, but of pure, swirling light. The price next to it makes his breath catch.
[GATE]
COST: 100 GENESIS POINTS
He focuses on it, and the item's description expands, filling the panel.
DESCRIPTION: Creates a stable, two-way portal connecting the Creator's reality to the created dimension. Allows for direct physical entry and interaction with your world.
The words hang there, shimmering in the air between him and the hospital ceiling. Direct physical entry. A doorway. Not just a simulation on a screen, not a game to be played through a mouse and keyboard. This is a plan for building a place he can actually go. The realization lands with the force of a physical blow, and the world he thought he knew dissolves.
A path forward. A real one. The thought burns brighter than the fluorescent lights overhead. One hundred Genesis Points. It feels like an impossible number, a mountain he must climb with nothing but his wits. He dismisses the shop, bringing the objective back into focus.
[NEW OBJECTIVE: FIRST PRINCIPLE]
Define a core concept that will govern your new reality.
REWARD: 1 GENESIS POINT
His left hand, the one without the IV, fumbles for the phone on his bedside table. The hospital Wi-Fi is slow, but it works. He pulls up a search engine, his thumb tapping out frantic queries. Fundamental laws of physics. Theories of everything. Metaphysical concepts. He scrolls through dense articles on thermodynamics, quantum entanglement, and the conservation of energy. Each law is a complex web of mathematics and exceptions, a rigid structure built by minds far greater than his. Trying to replicate one feels like plagiarism on a cosmic scale.
He leans his head back against the starchy pillow, the screen of his phone casting a pale blue light on his face. The System does not ask for an equation. It asks for a concept. A law in this context can be anything, as long as he defines its rules. He could decree that all things must be purple. He could make the fundamental force of his universe the power of belief. The idea opens a door in his mind. He is not a scientist copying a blueprint; he is a programmer writing the source code.
His thoughts drift to the most basic, elemental state of being. Chaos. The unpredictable swirl of potential from which all else emerges. An engine of infinite possibility. What if that is his first principle? The Law of Chaos. All other laws would be temporary, localized structures fighting against an overwhelming tide of randomness. It is a compelling, terrifying idea. But it feels too big, too uncontrollable. It is the static, not the signal. He needs a framework first. A canvas on which chaos can paint.
What does every process need? What is the one constant required for anything to happen at all?
Time.
Without it, there is no cause and effect. No beginning, no end. No change. It is the most fundamental axis of existence. He lets the phone drop to the sheets beside him, his full attention returning to the panel.
How do I implement a new law?
The objective window dissolves, replaced by a new interface. It is stark and clean, titled LAW FORGE. Below the title are several empty text fields.
[LAW NAME:]
[CORE TENET: Define the primary function of this law.]
[AXIOMS: List the unbreakable rules that govern this law.]
He focuses his intent, his thoughts flowing into the empty fields like text from a keyboard.
[LAW NAME: Time]
[CORE TENET: Time is the medium through which events occur. It facilitates the linear progression of cause and effect.]
[AXIOMS:
- Time moves in a singular, forward direction.
- The passage of Time is constant and universal within the created dimension.
- Time can be measured in discrete units.]
He keeps it simple, foundational. No paradoxes, no loops. Just a straight, clean line. He gives the mental command to submit. The Law Forge interface glows, the text locking into place before the entire window compresses into a single point of light and vanishes.
A cascade of notifications follows.
[OBJECTIVE COMPLETE: FIRST PRINCIPLE]
[REWARD: 1 GENESIS POINT HAS BEEN AWARDED.]
The balance in the corner ticks over. GP: 1.
[MILESTONE ACHIEVED: THE ARROW OF TIME]
[You have defined a temporal framework for your reality. As the Creator of Time, you have unlocked a new ability: Temporal Control.]
A new tab appears on the main panel, labeled WORLD CONTROLS. He focuses on it, and it expands to show a single, simple slider. One end is marked with a snail icon, the other with a sprinting figure. A digital readout above it displays: 1.0x. He understands instantly. He can now fast-forward his creation, letting eons pass in minutes. The power of it sends a shiver through him.
But first things first. He navigates back to the shop, the single point a burning coal in his mind. His gaze finds the familiar icon.
[Basic Gravity]
COST: 1 GENESIS POINT
Buy.
[PURCHASE COMPLETE. BASIC GRAVITY HAS BEEN ADDED TO CREATION SLATE.]
The Genesis Point vanishes from his balance. GP: 0. He is back to nothing. But now his void has stardust. And his stardust has rules to follow. Time to pass, and gravity to pull it together.