At the center of a village, an elderly man sat hunched on a tattered rug, his thoughts weighed down by a single, crushing realization—he had failed his people. At first, he believed his second wish had been the only one misspoken, but only a day and a half later did the truth become clear: it wasn't. A few villagers had come forth, their voices hushed with dread, to reveal what was happening to the first sprouts of life outside the village.
"Father, what should we do? At this rate, the forest will die out before it even begins to heal," a man rasped. His skin, rough and sickly, bore dark spots, and his long beard—once black—was now streaked with gray. He scratched absently at his arms, the dead skin flaking away in brittle patches.
This was the price of the radiation that plagued their world. Men like him, and others even worse off, were a common sight. Unlike the generations before, he had barely seen the world as it once was at a young age—and had only ever heard stories from his father and uncles, tales of a time when the land was still whole.
"I don't know, child," the elder admitted, his voice heavy. "Perhaps I misspoke in my old age. Had I known this would happen, I would have wished for fully grown trees, filled with fruits that would both never rot or die against the radiation. But… perhaps we still have a chance to make that wish possible in a few days."
His whitened eyes drifted toward the distance, yet his hand moved to something far closer—instinctively brushing against the golden lamp tied to his waist. He traced its cool, smooth handle, ensuring it was still there.
"Do you remember what the genie told me before granting my wishes?"
"Yes, I remember," the rough-skinned man said, recalling their first encounter with the being. "He said that when the full moon rises, he will not grant wishes to anyone in this village—except for the boys who found him."
The elder nodded solemnly and released the lamp, wary of summoning Zahiris al-Miraj by mistake. "Exactly. Though it saddens me that the genie refuses to grant us all wishes, I accepted this condition. I will not complain. But there is still hope."
His voice gained strength. "He only spoke of this restriction on this coming full moon—not the next, nor the one after. And, more importantly, the boys who found the lamp can still have their wishes granted tonight."
He turned toward his son, closing his sightless eyes in thought. "Tell me, how many were in that group?"
"I know Max was among them," his son replied. "But who were the others?"
"Max led that day's scavenger group," the man confirmed. "Along with three other children. Two of them were Uncle's great-grandchildren. A shame he wasn't here to witness this fleeting miracle… He always wished to see the forest come alive again. He would have found peace at last."
A wistful smile flickered across his cracked lips, his voice steeped in nostalgia.
The elder, however, was counting. "Four children… three wishes each… That makes twelve."
He exhaled sharply. Twelve. That was enough.
Turning to his son, he murmured a name. "Nathan."
"Yes, Father?"
"Go. Call my grandson and his friends."
For the first time in forty years, a fire burned within the elder's chest. He would not squander these wishes. He would not let another mistake be made.
"I need them here before nightfall," he continued. "I will teach them what to say when we summon Zahiris al-Miraj again. This time… there will be no loopholes."
Nathan nodded briskly. "I understand. I'll fetch them immediately."
With that, he turned and hurried off, leaving the elder alone with his thoughts. The full moon loomed ever closer. And with it… the fate of their village would change.
—
Within the golden lamp, and in a grand palace chamber draped in rich crimson velvet, Zahiris al-Miraj lounged upon a vast four-poster bed. Dying candles flickered in their golden holders, their wax pooling onto cold white marble. Five women lay curled against him, their bodies warm and soft—yet lacking something vital.
"Is this what they meant when they said power corrupts?"
The thought drifted lazily through my mind as I gazed at the figures surrounding me. Each one was an almost flawless creation, a masterpiece sculpted by his will—yet none possessed true sentience. Current empty puppets. Nothing more.
Still… I'd admit it did feel... great.
I smirked, running a hand along the bare shoulder of the nearest woman. "God, do I feel like a king. If this really is a dream, coma, or whatever the fuck else—then I don't ever want to wake up~."
I grabbed one of the only conscious ones—if you could even call a crystal skull puppeteering a body conscious—and pulled her in for a kiss.
Her soft lips parted easily as I shoved my tongue inside, meeting no resistance as I explored her mouth. Her soulless black eyes stared into me, void of life yet utterly obedient. This was the latest body I had crafted for the skull interface, designed solely to let me indulge in even more pleasures. Her eyes were darker than a starless night, her skin a rich bronze, flawless and smooth.
I lay back against the silken sheets, arms sprawled out, basking in the sheer luxury of it all. And yet, there was something about it, something still off, like a lingering taste that hadn't been quite fully savored. Almost satisfied, but not entirely.
The palace was opulent. The women were perfect. The bed was divine.
And yet, something inside me still felt a strange unity, like I wasn't quite complete—like I had been filled but not fully fulfilled. It gnawed at the edges of my mind, a small, persistent tug I couldn't quite shake off.
Then it hit me. I was a genie—a being made to grant wishes. That was what I had become. A tool to complete and twist desires. But I couldn't scratch that need, and that's what made me feel unfulfilled. And I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be summoned again soon, not with the silent conditions I had set for the villagers that have my lamp. They wouldn't call on me until the full moon. And that... that was beginning to feel like an eternity.
A thought sparked.
Maybe I should speed up time instead. I closed my eyes, focusing on the very concept of time itself. I was a genie now, wasn't I? I should be able to manipulate something as trivial as time.
I willed the world to shift forward, to skip past this dull waiting period and push me straight into the next moment of significance. But... nothing happened.
I frowned. Again, I pushed, pouring my will into the very fabric of reality. Still, nothing.
"So I can't manipulate time..." I muttered, irritated. "But what if—"
A new approach came to mind. If I couldn't change time itself, maybe I could alter my perception of it.
I sat up and conjured something simple—a clock. An old-fashioned, ticking wall clock with long hands and a faded glass face appeared midair before floating gently onto a nearby nightstand.
Then, I focused. Instead of making time move faster, I made it feel faster.
Immediately, my awareness shifted. The flickering of the candles blurred. The rise and fall of the bodies around me became a slowly accelerating wave of motion. The distant hum of silence in the palace melted into an indistinguishable drone.
I let myself sink back into the bed, allowing time to wash over me like a current.
Seconds passed like drops of rain, turning into minutes, then hours—though to me, it felt like mere moments.
When I finally stirred again, the first thing I noticed was the sound of ragged breathing. The women around me—unmoving before—were now inhaling sharply, their chests rising and falling as if they had been sprinting for miles.
I focused on them, and their breathing evened out, steady and normal. It had just felt faster because of how I had bent my perspective on time.
I turned my gaze toward the clock, watching the hands tick forward.
Five hours had passed.
A slow smirk curled my lips. "Well, would you look at that?"
It worked.
Satisfied, I sank back into the pillows once more, folding my hands behind my head. Now, all that was left to do was wait.
Wait for them to summon me again.
—
Under the light of the full moon, the village seemed to pulse with an eerie energy. The air was thick, charged with anticipation, and the hushed whispers of the villagers swirled in the night. They were gathered at the center of the village, the "shooting star" that had been found by the young scavengers of the village.
Max stood at the forefront of the group, his hands trembling slightly as he held the golden lamp. He was young, but his face was already worn with the burdens of a life spent under the shadow of radiation, sickness, and decay. The glow of the moon caught in his dark eyes, and his heart beat in sync with the rhythm of the earth. Tonight, everything would change. The village would change. His people would change.
With a deep breath, Max rubbed the lamp three times, just as his grandfather had instructed. The golden surface began to shimmer, faint ripples of light dancing across it, as though the object itself were awakening from centuries of slumber.
The murmurs of the crowd swelled like a rising crescendo. The village elders—his father among them—stood back, their expressions etched with equal parts hope and fear. This was a momentous occasion—perhaps the most important in their entire history. Their wishes were about to be granted. They had once seen the radiance of the genie's power, long ago. And they had learned the hard way not to take such magic lightly.
The air around Max grew cold. A breeze picked up, sharp and sudden, as the moon's glow intensified, casting long, eerie shadows across the village square. The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet, as if the earth itself sensed the magnitude of what was to come.
Then, a burst of smoke unfurled from the lamp's spout, curling into the air. It twisted and coiled, growing, taking shape. The smoke solidified—and the figure of Zahiris al-Miraj emerged in the heart of the village.
He stood tall and imposing, his lower half a continuous swirl of dark smoke flowing endlessly from the lamp. His eyes glowed with a light that pierced the very fabric of night. His mere presence sent a chill through every villager's spine.
Max stepped back, heart pounding as he stared at the genie. Zahiris al-Miraj—the being that fell from the sky. The one who could grant anything. Though Max had been told what to wish for, the temptation to ask for something selfish flickered at the edges of his thoughts.
"G...Great Zahiris al-Miraj," Max whispered, voice cracking with awe. "Please, we need your help."
The genie's gaze shifted to him, his eyes glinting with something close to amusement. "You summoned me, mortal," he said, his voice smooth and cold as polished marble. "And I have answered. Now speak your wishes—three."
Max's breath caught in his throat. The villagers fell silent, tension thick in the air. One of the elders stepped forward, his voice steady and firm.
"Zahiris al-Miraj, we ask for your aid," he declared. "The land is dying. The forest outside our village is withering beneath the weight of radiation. I wish for a forest—full and vibrant—where the trees will never rot and the fruits never perish. A forest that will heal the land."
The genie's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, savoring the gravity of the request.
"Your wish is granted," he said, his tone laced with faint amusement. "Here is your forest—full and vibrant. Its trees will never rot, its fruits will never die. And by planting it in the soil around your forest, it will begin to heal the land.
Zahiris raised a finger toward the deformed man before him. A beam of magic shot forth from his fingertip. The man's arms arched involuntarily as though cradling something heavy, and the lamp slipped from his hands as his palms stretched open.
The beam solidified, twisted, and conjured a miniature forest—hundreds of tiny, fruit-bearing trees rooted in a slab of rich soil, no larger than a tea table.
"Your first wish has been granted," the genie declared. "Now speak your second."
A sinister smile tugged at his lips. The radiation-sickened crowd recoiled in fear, even Max shivering beneath the genie's towering gaze.
"Max! The second wish!" Nathan, a flaking-skinned man, urged. They had prepared for the worst—prepared in case the genie twisted their wishes again.
Max looked toward his father and grandfather in the crowd. That was right. If this wish failed, there were still others. Others who could make it work.
"O great Zahiris al-Miraj," Max began, steadier now, "for my second wish, I wish for the forest surrounding our village to be filled with trees that will never rot and will bear fruit that never dies—trees that will grow new fruit after each one is picked."
Al-Miraj's lips curled, devoid of warmth. "Very well," he said.
The ground trembled harder. A deep, resonant hum filled the air. The earth vibrated beneath them. The wind began to swirl around the village in a tightening spiral.
From the outskirts, the cracked, barren ground split open. Green shoots erupted from the soil, writhing like serpents, then shooting skyward, expanding into towering trees in seconds. Bark gleamed with unnatural luster. Leaves unfurled like emerald wings. The air was filled with the sweet scent of fresh fruit and blooming life.
The villagers gasped. The land had transformed into a lush paradise before their eyes.
But the joy was fleeting.
A heaviness descended on the village. The air thickened. Though beautiful, the forest felt… too perfect. The branches stretched out like beckoning hands, their fruits too bright, too ripe, as if daring someone to bite. And in that overwhelming beauty, there lingered a sense of unease—as though the forest itself harbored secrets it would never tell.
Zahiris al-Miraj watched them in silence. "Your wish has been granted," he said, barely more than a whisper. "Now speak your third and final wish."
Max shivered. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. But he couldn't find the words—couldn't ask the question forming in his heart.
"Thank you for granting my wish, O great Zahiris al-Miraj. For my third and final wish… I wish for unending health for my people. Fix our radiation-stricken bodies. Give us healthy forms that will not fall ill, will not deform, and will not die."
The genie tilted his head slightly. "Hmm?"
Zahiris hummed thoughtfully, gazing down at the villagers. "I cannot fulfill this wish."
Not because it was beyond his power—but because he didn't want to. If he solved all their problems, they would lock him away again. Seal him in his lamp. Parade him out only when they needed something. And that… was not acceptable.
"O great Zahiris al-Miraj, wha—"
"I was not finished speaking, mortal," Zahiris interrupted, and a crushing weight fell upon them, forcing the crowd to their knees.
"O great Zahiris al-Miraj, forgive my grandchild for speaking out of turn. Please, O great Djinn," an old man said, pressing his head to the earth.
The pressure eased slightly. Zahiris glanced at the man. "So this boy is your kin, old man. Then I will forgive him—this once."
He turned back to Max. "As I was saying, I cannot grant your wish… not without a price. Something precious. The price is always steep. Are you willing to pay it?"
Nathan looked to his father, who gave a solemn nod. "We have nothing left to lose," he said. "We are prepared."
Max looked to them… and then rose, despite the lingering pressure. "I… I want to continue with my wish."
Zahiris smiled coldly. "Very well," he said, and his voice rolled through the village like thunder.
With a snap of his fingers, change began.
The wind howled. The villagers clutched their arms, trembling as something unseen slid through their bones. Muscles tore and reformed. Skin smoothed. Fingers fused by radiation separated. Extra limbs remained but adjusted into proper shape. Hair grew thick and lustrous. The sickness faded.
Cheers erupted. Young and old wept with joy.
But one man stood frozen. His vision cleared—and horror filled his eyes.
"No… it can't be…" he whispered. "Max!! Let go of that lamp! Send that demon back!!" He surged forward—
But stopped.
Ethereal cuffs snapped around his wrists and ankles. Chains followed. And he was not alone.
"Give the lamp to the others!! Qui—!" he shouted—before his mouth was sealed shut by an unseen force.
Regret consumed his gaze. He had believed he could outwit a genie. Believed they could control him. That so long as the genie didn't wish for freedom, they could keep using him.
"Max!!" Nathan screamed, his voice cut short as his own mouth sealed.
Panicked, Max hurled the miniature forest aside and kicked the lamp toward the next chosen wisher. But the man stepped away—as if from a plague. The lamp fell. Black smoke poured out.
Zahiris laughed.
His body began to swell, casting a massive shadow over the village. "Foolish mortals," he said. "You claimed you had nothing to lose… And yet, when I claimed that nothingness—you panicked."
Golden flames danced in his eyes. "Don't make me laugh."
Zahiris al-Miraj loomed above, as villagers scrambled away from the cursed lamp—
And the chains around their ankles began to drag them back.