The dice clattered across the old wooden table, bouncing like tiny hammers. Cal leaned forward, eyes locked on them like his life depended on the outcome.
"Snake eyes," the dealer muttered, sweeping them up.
Laughter exploded around the table. Cal's stomach twisted.
That was his last fifty bucks—gone. Just like the rent money before it. And the grocery cash before that. He didn't say a word. Just stood, shoved his chair back, and walked out.
Rain hit him the second he stepped onto the street. Cold, fast. Neon signs rippled in puddles like ghosts. Cal pulled his hoodie up and muttered to himself.
Maybe I can pawn Dad's watch. Maybe Tommy'll lend me more. Though… he's been jumpy lately. Everyone is.
Then came the car.
Headlights. Screeching tires. A rush of panic—
And then… nothing.
No pain. No sound. Just black. Like the world had been yanked away.
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He came to lying face-down in dirt—dry, cracked, and bitter-smelling. Not concrete. Not the wet street. His throat burned like sandpaper.
He coughed, spitting grit, and pushed himself to his hands and knees.
Above him, the sky was a dark, bruised purple. Clouds tore across it too fast, like they were running.
He staggered to his feet, heart pounding. No buildings. No traffic. No people. Just open, dead land stretching forever. Far off, jagged mountains stabbed at the sky.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He checked his pockets. Same jeans. Same hoodie. But no phone. No wallet. Just dust.
He stood there, listening.
Nothing.
No wind. No birds. No distant engines.
Just silence.
His breath grew shallow. "Okay… maybe I got hit. Maybe I'm in a coma. Or dead. Or dreaming."
But it didn't feel like a dream. The air was thick, heavy. Every step crunched underfoot like dry bones.
He picked a direction and walked. There wasn't much else to do.
Time stretched. Or maybe it didn't move at all. The sky stayed the same—the same color, the same light. He walked until his legs ached and his mouth felt like it was packed with dust.
Then he saw it.
A village, tucked near the base of a low hill. Small, weathered buildings—clay or mud—huddled close like they were hiding from something.
He stopped. Wiped the sweat from his face. Stared.
Finally.
He walked faster.
People were out—men, women, even kids—all in simple clothes. When they saw him, they froze. Tools clutched tighter. Baskets held close.
"Hey!" Cal called out. "I'm lost! Can you help?"
He barely finished the sentence before a flash of light burst from the ground beneath his feet.
He jumped, stumbling back. But it wasn't fire or lightning. Just a brief, blinding spark.
The villagers gasped.
And dropped to their knees.
"What—?" Cal backed up, heartbeat in his ears. "What was that?"
No one answered. They weren't looking at the ground. They were looking at him.
Whispers passed through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
An old woman crawled forward. She laid a woven mat before him and bowed low. Her voice trembled. "Divine One… You've come."
Cal blinked. "Wait—what?"
"The sign," she said. "The light. You are the one the elders spoke of."
He opened his mouth to argue, but the words stuck. They were all staring. Eyes wide. Hands clasped. Faces full of awe.
"I think you've got the wrong guy," he said, throat dry.
Someone stepped forward and held out a wooden cup.
Cal hesitated—but only for a moment.
His mouth was parched. His lips cracked. He hadn't had water in… hours? Longer?
He took the cup and drank deeply, not even thinking. The water was warm and gritty—but to him, it tasted like heaven.
When he looked up, the man who gave it to him was bowing even lower.
"We are yours to command."
More villagers stepped forward—offering food, fruit, and a folded blanket. His stomach growled. But even more than hunger, something else filled him.
They're looking at me like I matter.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth, and cleared his throat.
"…Alright," he said softly. "Let's talk."
Cal stayed.
At first, he tried to explain. "I'm not a god," he told them. "You've got it wrong."
But they didn't listen.
A sick child got better after he touched her. Rain fell the day he spilled water. Birds flew when he shouted in frustration.
They saw signs in everything.
Eventually, he stopped denying it. Why fight it?
Back home, he was a loser. Here, he was something else. Something more.
He gave vague advice—"Trust yourself." "Be kind." They treated every word like scripture. He made up rituals. They followed them like law.
A year passed, quiet and strange.
They built statues of him. Sang songs. Brought gifts. Laughed with him. Prayed to him.
He smiled. Played the part. Lived like a king.
But deep down, he knew it was all built on a lie.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a thought never stopped whispering:
Cal Weaver isn't a god.