No choir of angels, no glowing interface suspended in the air listing his attributes like a market receipt. Up there were no ceiling, just a void. He blinked twice, half expecting a translucent window appear: Strength 999, Faith: Absolutely MAX.Unique skill Unlocked. Nothing came. Only a draft that slipped across his cheek like an indifferent hand.
He sat up.
His body felt... ordinary. Not reborn in splendor. Not refined. Not even healthier. His knees still carried that faint ache from the life he remembered. His chest tightened when he breathed too deeply. If this was resurrection, it was done without enthusiasm.
Around him stood four figures.
They were not grotesque. That was his first surprise.
They were beautiful in the way statues are beautiful and deliberate, proportioned, composed with care for admiration.
One rested her chin lightly on her knuckles as though mildly entertained. Another examined her own fingernails with detached curiosity. A third watched him the way a scholar watches an insect that may or may not be useful. The fourth smiled, but not warmly. Politely, as one does when welcoming a guest of uncertain value
"Hm, you are late," said the smiling one, though her tone suggested she did not particularly mind.
He looked behind him, as though perhaps a hero of prophecy might be standing there. There was only cold wall
"I wasn't told there was an appointment," he answered.
A pause.
The one examining her nails glanced up at him. "Oh," She said softly, as if confirming an internal suspicion. "He's not one of those." The air shifted slightly in recalculation.
"you were summoned," said the scholar-eyed goddess. "though I must confess, the summoner grew bored through the ritual. Your... specifications were not prioritized."
"Specifications?" he repeated.
The smiling one tilted her head. "You know.. Power, Capacity. Narrative moment. The usual."
"I see," he said.
And strangely, he did not seem particularly disappointed.
That unsettled the god more than outrage would have.
Most summoned demanded status immediately. They trembled with anticipation for their role in reshaping destiny. They asked about demon kings, skill trees, harems. They negotiated.
This one looked at his hands, steady. Too steady.
"Very well unnamed summon," Said the polite one at last. "The Adventurers' Guild is to the east. They can assign your work appropriate to your current parameters."
"And what are my parameters?" he asked.
...
"Alive?" Is her answer.
He nodded once, as though that were sufficient.
And they lost interest.
Not because he resisted or argue. But he did not reach.
So they dissolved like mist under administrative dimissal.
He was alone
....
He follows what the Polite One says,
He pushed through the heavy oak doors without flourish, the iron hinges giving a low, reluctant groan that vanished almost at once beneath the clamor inside.
!!!!!
The guild hall was loud in the way men are loud when afraid of irrelevance. swords clanged unnecessarily. Laughter was sharpened at the edges. Contracts were discussed with inflated gravity. Every face seemed angled slightly toward imaginary applause.
He stood at the doorway for a long time and no one even notice the existence of him. But it was not humiliation anyway, it requires acknowledgment in order to feel that. This was simple invisibility.
A clerk eventually slid a parchment toward him without lifting her eyes. "Huh, no listed abilities," she muttered. "Well, you may assist with inventory transport."
He bowed slightly in thanks.
She frowned, as though gratitude were an inefficient response.
...
Days passed.
He carried crates, clean the spilled ale and slept in a narrow rented room that leaned inward as if the building itself were tired. The goddesses watched on him occasionally, he can't see them.
Then, the Goddess of Recognition appeared leaning against a pillar one afternoon. She whispered into his thoughts as he scrubbed dried mud from another man's boots.
"Once you were erased, weren't you?" she said softly. "Would you not crave the opposite now? To be lifted into the light.. seen, truly seen, until the gaze of strangers becomes a mirror that never lies. Every eye a votive flame laid at your feet. Every whisper your own hymn returned."
He continued scrubbing.
"I can make them admire you."
The bristles move steadily.
"I can make them apologize."
He rinsed the brush.
Upon seeing him, she frowned faintly. Then she withdrew.
...
That night despair arrived.
He sat on the edge of his bed and felt the old weight, not because of physical exhaustion, but of meaninglessness. Had he died only to repeat smallness? Was this mercy? Or satire?
Then he make prostration for hours. Not gracefully as his knees struck the floor.
"I don't want paradise," he whispered.
"I don't want power."
"I don't want narrative correction also,"
...
"I only want You."
The words sounded foolish in a world where four goddesses could materialize with architectural precision. Then struck his forehead to the floor.
"If you were only a man," his voice breaks, "You would still deserve my love."[1]
There are no light coming directly at him.
No tremor that shook the stones.
But then, between exhaustion and surrender, a memory surfaced, a sentence.
"I am the resurrection and the life..."[2]
He lifted his head. The room stayed exactly itself, and the shadows pooled in corners, the candle flame leaned sideways on its wick.
The words lay plain on the page. There are no illumination nor sudden rearrangement. Only the word flashing on his mind.
Yet something in the chest gave way, that is not rapture,, but the brittle scaffolding of resistance. His despair did not flee; it simply shifted to make room, allowing a thin, stubborn trust to settle beside it like an old dog finding its place by the fire.
"If this is only memory," he murmured, "let memory suffice."
...
The next morning, it's the same day.
He still carrying crates that is bruising his shoulder. Still being invisible. Hell, he has no power either.
Later that week the Goddess of Power manifested, appeared radiant. She stood composed, offering him strength sufficient to sunder mountains, her voice measured and generous
"With my blessing," she said,
"You will become the unbreakable shield. You will protect the weak, carry every burden they cannot bear, stand as the wall that nothing, nothing can ever tear down. Say yes, and the whole world will know safety because of your strength."
He answered "And if I refused?" Considering her carefully
She smiled. "You will remain as you are."
"Very well," he nodded "then I will remain."
She felt the tremor of that truth ripple through her divinity, unsettled by his simplicity. Because a man who wants nothing cannot be recruited. She lingered a moment longer than necessary, then she's gone.
The guild hall stayed loud in precisely the same register, sword clanging, laughter honed to a defensive edge, contracts recited like talismans against irrelevance. The world continued its indifferent rotation.
The goddesses watched him now and then from the distant, the way one might observe a specimen that refuses to either flourish or perish. Curiosity edged toward irritation, he was no longer a experiment, only anomaly.
Yet each night he knelt in the same unadorned room, not to summon his own, nor other, nor heaven's visions. He also kneel not to bargain with fate, but to rest in a love that asked nothing of performance. Forehead repeatedly back and forth to floorboard, breath slowing until thought itself grew quiet
He desires nothing, not strength that could be measured. He did not want fame, or latent glory rose to claim him. What emerged instead was subtler, more subversive: he ceased requiring resurrection to appear consequential. In a cosmos drunk on apotheosis,[3] where every soul strained to become extraordinary, he refuse to strive was the sharpest heresy for them.
He simply was
And that sufficiency, small and unadvertised, quietly fractured the logic of every offer that had come before.
[1] “Since that’s how Christ was, even if He was only a man, He deserves my love, obedience, and self-sacrifice. I don’t want paradise – I don’t want anything. It is worth making every sacrifice for the sake of His holiness and kindness.” - Saint Paisios
[2] He looked on me with tremendous love and said to me, “I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live” (John 11:25). He was holding open the Gospel in His left hand, where the same words were written.” - Saint Paisios
[3] Theosis: “God became man so that man might become god.”(Christ humility that is practiced by man) Athanasius of Alexandria. However Apotheosis: Self-deification through ecstasy or intoxication(999 MAX POWER I AM DIVINE)