It was a perfectly fine afternoon in the summer of 2026.

  The world, apparently, was edging toward a Third World War. The United States and Iran were at each other's throats again — or still, depending on how closely one followed the news. Fortunately, this had absolutely nothing to do with Tryn Lyqr.

  What did have something to do with Tryn Lyqr was the rather expensive hazelnut coffee he had just purchased as a reward for surviving another work week. He'd left the office early. He deserved this.

  He was still, if he was being honest with himself, in the process of convincing himself that it actually tasted good. For what he'd paid, it had better. Still, complaining about a self-inflicted luxury felt deeply counterproductive, so he kept his thoughts to himself and took another sip.

  The footpath was quiet. The sun was warm. Life, for once, was manageable.

  Then, as the cup lowered from his face, Tryn noticed something terrifying.

  An out-of-control car was charging straight at him. Like a hurricane. Like fate with a bonnet and four wheels.

  His body froze instantly.

  His legs ignored every survival instinct he possessed, and his brain — that magnificent, supposedly evolved organ — concluded that standing perfectly still was, in fact, the optimal strategy.

  The car screeched.

  The brakes screamed.

  The vehicle stopped exactly one inch from the front of his shoes.

  His hand jerked from the shock, and hot hazelnut coffee splashed generously down the front of his white shirt.

  His body was completely unharmed.

  His shirt was not.

  His head, however, had begun to spin in a manner that felt entirely unrelated to the coffee.

  ***

  When Tryn opened his eyes again, the world had changed rather dramatically.

  It was still, technically, a fine afternoon. Though it felt considerably brighter than it had any right to be. The light around him was pure white — endless, blinding, and deeply inconvenient. A warm breeze moved gently against his skin.

  Oddly, his body felt lighter than usual.

  Then a voice echoed through the emptiness.

  "Son. I have a proposition for you."

  The voice carried an odd resonance, as though it was coming from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously and had rehearsed for the occasion.

  "Dad?" Tryn asked, with appropriate caution. "Is that you?"

  "No, son. I am not your dad."

  The voice was firm on this point.

  Tryn looked around. There was nothing to see. Only the endless white light, the warm breeze, and the rather uncomfortable realisation that he was completely naked.

  Well.

  Almost completely.

  He was still wearing his socks.

  White ones, naturally.

  "Who are you, sir?" he asked, because whatever situation one found themselves in, basic politeness cost nothing.

  "I am what your people would call… a god."

  At that precise moment, soft mythical harp music began playing somewhere in the background.

  Tryn frowned. "Are you playing a harp?"

  "Ah." The voice hesitated, in the way that very powerful beings apparently do when caught doing something slightly embarrassing. "I noticed humans tend to play this sort of music during moments of existential grandiosity."

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  "That's actually fair," Tryn admitted.

  Then a rather unpleasant thought arrived.

  "Does that mean I'm dead?"

  "Oh yes! Quite dead."

  Tryn's stomach dropped — which was impressive, given that he didn't appear to currently have a stomach. "That can't be right. The car didn't even touch me!"

  "That is correct," God confirmed pleasantly. "You died from a heart attack."

  "…What the—"

  He stopped himself. One had to maintain some standards.

  "It's quite alright," God said. "You may swear freely. I only judge actions, not vocabulary."

  "That's enormously comforting," Tryn muttered. "But how does one die of a heart attack at my age? From not being hit by a car?"

  "Quite easily," God replied. "Many people do."

  Before Tryn could argue further — and he had several arguments prepared — God pressed on.

  "Now then. I have a proposition for you." A dramatic pause, which suggested God had also rehearsed this part. "When I say 'proposition', I mean, in full transparency, an order. You will be sent to a place called Shiftland, where you will receive a second life."

  Tryn's head began spinning again.

  Is this an isekai?

  "God," he said carefully. "I think I'm having another heart attack."

  "Nah," God said, with the casual tone of someone who had seen this reaction before. "You're just low on sugar."

  "…Right."

  Tryn rubbed his temples — which, again, he technically didn't have, but the gesture felt necessary.

  "What exactly am I supposed to do in this Shiftland?"

  "You will find my son, Deryuam, and keep him safe."

  Tryn blinked. "That sounds like an enormous responsibility."

  "It is."

  "How am I supposed to find him?"

  "I will give you a system. It will guide you."

  "A system," Tryn repeated slowly.

  "Indeed."

  He let the silence stretch for a moment before asking the most obvious question available to him.

  "…Why me, specifically?"

  God paused.

  It was the particular kind of pause that suggested the answer was either deeply meaningful or deeply awkward.

  "Because in his current form," God said at last, "my son looks… remarkably similar to you."

  Tryn opened his mouth to ask what on earth that meant —

  The white light flashed.

  The world spun with catastrophic enthusiasm. It felt rather like being thrown inside an industrial blender — the sort of experience that is very difficult to describe and entirely impossible to recommend.

  Hot. Cold. Burning. Frozen. Air roaring like a tornado on a very personal vendetta.

  Then, with an abruptness that felt almost rude —

  Everything stopped.

  Something soft and cool pressed against his back.

  His mind, quite sensibly, shut down entirely.

  And Tryn Lyqr fell asleep.

  ***

  When he woke, he was lying on damp soil.

  The smell of earth filled his nose. Above him stretched an enormous canopy of trees, sunlight threading through thousands of leaves — red ones, green ones, dark green ones, and, somewhat inexplicably, blue ones.

  Tryn sat up slowly.

  His body felt fine. Suspiciously fine, actually, for a man who had recently died.

  He looked down at himself. Green cotton shirt. Brown trousers. Boots, sensible ones. And a straw hat perched on his head with an air of quiet confidence.

  "Well," he said. "At least I'm not naked."

  A bright blue panel materialised directly in front of his face.

  ? SYSTEM ACTIVATED

  He blinked. The panel flickered, then updated.

  ?? MISSION Find Deryuam

  Three small icons appeared beneath it.

  [STATS] [INVENTORY] [MAP]

  "Right," Tryn sighed. "So that wasn't a dream, then."

  He tapped the Map icon. The panel shifted immediately, displaying a rough outline of the surrounding forest. A small glowing dot pulsed gently — his location, presumably. A second dot blinked approximately twenty metres away.

  He stood up and walked toward it.

  The jungle was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. No birdsong. No insects. Only the soft, slightly ominous rustling of leaves.

  After a short walk, he reached a small clearing.

  And there — standing in the grass with an expression of serene indifference — was a goat.

  A perfectly normal goat.

  Well. Almost normal. Its horns were a vivid orange colour, curled like two enormous spiralled carrots, and it regarded the surrounding world with the sort of quiet authority that suggested it had absolutely nothing to prove.

  It chewed a patch of grass.

  The system chimed.

  ? MISSION ACCOMPLISHED ?? TARGET FOUND Deryuam

  Tryn stared at the goat.

  The goat stared at Tryn.

  Between them, the universe held its breath.

  "Don't tell me," Tryn said slowly, in the voice of a man watching a particularly unreasonable situation confirm itself in real time.

  "Is this goat… the son of God?"

  The goat chewed its grass.

  It offered no comment.

  Which, Tryn decided, was probably answer enough.