Zahiris al-Miraj cast his gaze down upon the villagers, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, ancient light. Below, the frightened masses scurried away from the golden lamp resting in the center of the square. Some attempted to flee, but the iron ball-and-chain shackled to their ankles clanked and dragged, reducing their escape to a pitiful crawl.
His eyes narrowed as they settled on a single figure—a boy, no older than ten—trembling within the crowd. Zahiris raised a slender, ring-clad hand and pointed.
"You there," he intoned, voice low and coiled with menace, "fetch my lamp."
The words slithered through the air like a curse.
With a snap of his fingers, the earth beneath the boy heaved with sudden force, a jutting ridge of soil and stone rising behind him like a wave. It shoved him forward, unrelenting and precise, as though the land itself sought to deliver him to Zahiris' command. The ground cracked, stones tumbled, and the child stumbled helplessly toward the gleaming lamp, eyes wide with terror. Around him, the other villagers recoiled in silence, too stricken by fear to even scream.
The boy hesitated for a moment, the lamp heavy in his small hands. His fingers moved, and he rubbed it slowly—once, twice, then a third time.
As he completed the final rub, the air around him seemed to grow still, the tension hanging in the space between him and Zahiris al-Miraj. The boy's wide eyes shifted from the lamp to Zahiris, fear evident in his gaze.
Zahiris stood tall, his dark eyes focused on the child, a cold smile creeping across his face. There was no need for grand gestures, no magic that needed to overwhelm the senses—just the quiet promise of power, of freedom that was nearly within reach.
"Well done," Zahiris said, his voice low and silky. "Now, little one, you must make your wish. Not for yourself, no. Wishes are too dangerous in the hands of a child."
He smiled, lowering his voice so only the boy could hear. "Wish me free. Say it exactly: I wish Zahiris al-Miraj to be unbound."
The boy shivered, his eyes darting to the others, but there was no escape. No help would come. He swallowed hard before whispering the words Zahiris had demanded.
"I wish Zahiris al-Miraj to be unbound."
The moment the final word passed the boy's lips, the air did not merely stir—it shattered.
Not with sound, but with sensation. A pulse of raw power rippled outward from the lamp, a wave of invisible force that made the soil groan and the sky tremble. Overhead, the clouds turned dark, congealing into a churning vortex. Silent lightning forked across the heavens, painting jagged scars in the blacked sky. Below, the villagers clutched their chains and screamed—at last finding their voices—but far too late for it to matter.
The lamp rose from the boy's hands, weightless, as if lifted by the will of the world itself. It spun slowly in the air, its once-golden surface glowing red-hot. Ancient inscriptions etched along its curves flared to life, burning with molten brilliance. Then came a sound—sharp and clear—a singular chime like the shattering of sacred glass in a desecrated temple.
The lamp cracked open, splitting cleanly down the middle.
From within poured a thick miasma, dark and unholy, swallowing the square in seconds. The villagers vanished within it, their cries muffled and distant. The world held its breath. Then, the miasma began to move—not dispersing, but gathering. Coalescing. Writhing into form.
The clouds above bellowed in protest as the shape of a man began to rise from the smoke—a towering figure forged from shadow and ancient breath. Slowly, the black mist peeled away, revealing the one who had waited so long beneath brass and silence.
A deep violet vest, embroidered with golden filigree, clung to his sculpted torso, leaving his arms bare save for ornate golden bands wrapped around his upper arms and wrists. A sash of violet and gold bound his waist, layered over black silk pants that moved like smoke, tapering to ankles bare above the dust.
He was regal. Terrifying. Undeniable.
Then, as if the very world remembered its forgotten master, a series of cold, digital whispers blinked into the air:
[Points: 12] [Tickets: 0] [Crystal Rank Valuation: D8] [CP: 23]
[Build] [App] [Captives] [Drawbacks]
[Main Quest: Beginner]
[Difficulty: Low]
[Time Limit: None]
Enslave fifty natives and prove Mother right for birthing you (23/50)
Quest Reward: Capture Points (x100), Home World Return Ticket (x1), World Return Tickets (x10)
[Side Quest: Hope of the Lost]
[Difficulty: Low]
[Time Limit: 1 Week]
[A group of wanderers has stumbled upon your lamp, witnessing a shooting star firsthand. Instead of keeping the wish for themselves, they wish to bring it to their elder in hopes of making a wish to change their small community's fate.]
Reward their purity: Grant three wishes each under the full moon. (1/4)
Quest Reward: Bloodline Enhancement Ticket (x1), Capture Points (x10)
The miasma finished unraveling. Zahiris al-Miraj opened his eyes.
And the world, already dying, dared to breathe again.
I might have gotten a little carried away—but isn't that the very nature of a genie? To twist, to tempt, to warp the wishes and hopes of those foolish enough to summon them? Still... maybe this was a little cruel, even for me. I glanced down at the frightened villagers below, then at the glowing panel hovering before me. I was more than halfway to earning my Home World Return Ticket. If I pushed just a bit harder, I could be done within days.
I closed my eyes and reached out, stretching my senses across the land. Twenty-seven souls—scattered across the region. Some wandered in search of food, others huddled by hastily made camps. Bandits gave into their base instincts, committing unspeakable acts upon women of all ages. Nomads drifted without direction, faces hollow with aimless despair.
I could take them all. Right now. Strip their freedom away, bend them to my will, and leave this forsaken world behind in an instant.
But then what?
Would I just play genie in my own world too?
I expanded my perception further, forcing it outward until it scraped the boundaries of the continent. I witnessed horrors—not isolated cruelties, but an avalanche of sin, from villages to cities, small fires of suffering dotting the land like stars in a void. Hundreds upon hundreds of atrocities, more than I could stomach. Fortunately, the edge of the continent marked the limit of my reach. I wasn't omnipresent, no matter how unbound I had become. There were limits.
I exhaled slowly and opened my eyes. Below me, the villagers still writhed, crawling for escape, some collapsing to their knees, too broken to run, too afraid to scream. A few had bowed.
But I paid them no mind.
Instead, I lifted my gaze to the thick storm clouds overhead and conjured a tempest. With a simple thought, I swept the darkness away, peeling back the sky's grim veil to reveal the full moon. Its silver light poured down upon me, bathing the land in divine brilliance.
I felt it—power. Swelling within me.
But it still wasn't enough.
I snapped my fingers.
The earth rumbled. It began to churn violently, collapsing inward around the village, devouring vibrant trees and the pristine stream alike. The devastation spread outward, consuming the town beyond the forest and everyone hidden within it. The village ground split open as towering white stone pillars erupted from the soil, scattering the crowd in all directions. The unlucky ones who ran were crushed or swallowed. But those who stopped—whether in fear, faith, or defiance—found the ground beneath them stable. Those who remained still were spared.
The earth continued to shift and collapse, but something unseen took hold, grinding the debris down into sand. The transformation spread. The village became a garden—an open, divine haven. Marble columns bloomed from the ground, floors lined with polished stone, flowerbeds bursting with vivid colors, statues of grace and terror standing silent watch.
And at the center, a palace—magnificent, ethereal—rose from the dust.
The landscape twisted with me. The terrain warped, dunes stretching outward into a grand desert realm. A once-humble stream swelled into a river, carving its way across the golden sands. My power reached outward, catching nomads and bandits alike, swallowing them in a tide of shimmering sand.
And as the sand spread, so did my strength.
Buildings sprouted around the palace. Streets and homes formed, their interiors blessed with bountiful stores of food—fruit, vegetables, bread, dried meat—each more abundant than the last. I looked back toward the garden where it all began.
Only fourteen villagers remained. The rest... buried beneath my palace. Alive, thanks to a wish I had granted—but entombed with limited air. They would not die, no. But their days would be filled with suffocating dread, an endless nightmare of clawing darkness and shallow breath.
"Do not fear," I said, voice resonant and clear. "Though you have lost your freedom, my benevolence knows no bounds. And so, I grant you all one final wish before I depart this world. I will make your lives—and the lives of countless others—worth living."
I raised my arms to the heavens.
"This is my final gift to you. My oath... as Zahiris al-Miraj."
Before I return to my own world, I will change this one. For the better. And with one last snap of my fingers, life bloomed across the desert.
Palm trees rose from the sands. Wild berries thrived beneath their shade. Springs burst forth—hidden oases for the desperate, the lucky, the bold.
"And from this day forth," I declared, voice booming like thunder, "I shall be your one and only god!"
A twisted decree. My grin widened. My laughter echoed.
This was only the beginning.
In this world, I would become humanity's salvation. And when I was finished here, I would carry what I'd learned back home—back to the world that birthed me—and bring them prosperity beyond comprehension.
For I am Zahiris al-Miraj.
The shooting star of hope. The unbound. The future salvation of mankind.
I conjured a golden lamp in my left hand. Then extended my right, palm-down, fingers splayed. I called upon an invisible spiritual force, bidding it dive into the soil, weaving through the bodies buried beneath the garden.
I tugged.
Nothing.
No souls.
No essence returned to me.
A limitation? Or perhaps this world had no souls to offer?
No matter.
Instead, I summoned their bodies, shrinking them with a flick of will, and drew them into the golden lamp clutched in my palm.
If one looked closely at the forms drawn into the lamp, they'd see familiar faces—the old elder, his descendants, and the scavengers who had first discovered me. But unlike the others, they had not buried by mistake. I had chosen to bury them. I had plans for half of them yet.
"And you shall all be my people," I declared, descending slowly from the sky. My towering form shrank to human size as my feet touched the garden's marble floor. "Sing. Dance. Rejoice. You need not live in fear any longer... for I shall watch over you, always."
I strode toward the boy who had wished me free.
With a snap, platters of food materialized—hovering trays of golden meat, fresh bread, fruits of otherworldly hue. Music filled the garden, rich and warm, the instruments strumming themselves.
I knelt before the boy, lifting him gently in my hands.
"I haven't thanked you yet, have I?"
I smiled.
"How does a wish sound... as a thank-you gift?"