Charles woke up screaming.

  This was not intentional. It was reflexive, the kind of scream that left his throat raw before his brain had even caught up. The last thing he remembered was being on his couch after working his shift as a bag boy at the local grocery store, reaching for the bag of chips during a streaming service’s third ad break in a row. Something about a car. Or insurance. Or a car with insurance. He had been annoyed, bored, and very much horizontal.

  Now his throat burned, and his heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest like it wanted a separate life.

  He rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting, and immediately regretted it when light stabbed him straight in the eyes like it had been waiting for permission.

  “Oh—oh no,” he groaned. “This isn’t my apartment.”

  He pushed himself upright, movements slow and careful, like sudden motion might make whatever this was worse.

  White.

  Not bright white. Not clean white. Just white. Endless, depthless, featureless. No walls. No floor. No corners. The kind of white that made your eyes itch if you stared too long, like the world had been scrubbed too hard and forgot to put anything back.

  “…the fuck?” he said aloud, because silence demanded commentary.

  The air screamed back.

  "CONGRATULATIONS, CONTESTANT!"

  Charles yelped and jumped back defensively, shoulders hunching instinctively.

  "YOU, OUT OF MANY, HAVE FOUND YOUR WORLD'S CURRENT ENTRY TO FORTUNE!!!"

  Pain detonated behind his eyes. Not migraine pain. Not sharp pain. Deep pain. The kind that felt like someone had found a loophole in how nerves worked and was using it aggressively, with enthusiasm.

  He collapsed back down—onto something that felt like a floor now—and curled in on himself, teeth clenched.

  “What is going on?!” he hissed.

  "YOU WILL NOW HAVE YOUR CLASS ROLLED!"

  “No,” Charles said hoarsely. “What the hell…?”

  "BEHOLD THE WHEEL OF CLASSES!"

  A massive wheel flickered into existence above him, rotating slowly, confidently. Huge blocks of color dominated most of it. Tiny slivers sat between them, so thin they barely existed. The largest section screamed WARRIOR in bold letters. MAGE loomed nearby, smug and glowing. PRIEST sat off to the side, smaller, polite, pretending not to notice the others.

  "YOUR CLASS WILL NOW BE SELECTED. MAY YOUR LUCK GRANT YOU THE BEST OF THE BEST!"

  “Oh no,” he whispered. “Please no.”

  The wheel spun.

  Faster. Faster. Clicking loudly with each passing segment, as if it wanted him to hear every single missed opportunity.

  It slowed.

  Passed WARRIOR.

  Passed MAGE.

  Hovered.

  Stopped.

  "CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR SELECTED CLASS IS—[PREIST]!"

  Silence settled over the white space, thick and awkward.

  “…You’re kidding,” he said.

  The wheel vanished.

  "SECOND SELECTION INITIATED!"

  Charles barely had time to process the word second before a new wheel snapped into existence above him. This one looked wrong immediately. Where the last wheel had been clean and readable, this one was covered in strange symbols—curved lines, jagged marks, things that looked halfway between letters and teeth. They crawled across its surface like they didn’t want to be looked at too closely.

  Charles squinted up at it, tension knotting in his shoulders.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “What….what?”

  He waited for the wheel to spin. Braced for it, actually. Instead, there was a sharp error sound, flat and unpleasant, like a speaker blowing out. The wheel froze mid-rotation, turned a dull, lifeless gray, and then blinked out of existence entirely.

  "SECOND SELECTION OVERRODE DUE TO SUMMONING PROCESS."

  “What the heck does that mean?” the man thought, his pulse ticking louder in his ears. Override sounded bad. Summoning sounded worse. Together they felt like a problem he didn’t want part of.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR ASSIGNED GOD IS “MR. REDRESS, GOD OF REVENGE”!"

  The man’s face did something complicated—eyebrows climbing while his mouth flattened—an expression that clearly said oh that can’t be good.

  "YOU WILL NOW BE TRANSPORTED TO A STARTING LOCATION. MAY YOU FIND YOUR FORTUNE ON FORTUNE!"

  “WAIT—”

  Black.

  Then sand.

  Charles gasped awake, lungs dragging in air like they’d forgotten how breathing worked. Heat pressed down on him immediately. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof, his skin already itching with the promise of a sunburn that hadn’t technically started yet but felt inevitable.

  Desert. Endless desert. The sun seemed to be just rising.

  And someone standing right in front of him.

  Charles scrambled backward with a yelp, nearly tripping over himself. “WHAT… WHAT!”

  The man didn’t move. He just stood there, relaxed, hands loosely at his sides, like he’d been waiting for a late bus. He looked… normal. That was the worst part.

  Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean slacks. A button-up shirt tucked just a little too neatly into his belt. Dress shoes that made no sense in sand and yet somehow stayed spotless. His haircut was aggressively average—short on the sides, longer on top—but styled in a way that felt off, like someone had described a haircut to a demon and this was the result. It sat too perfectly, not a single hair out of place, like it had never experienced wind.

  His smile was wide. Too wide. Excited. The kind that never reached the eyes.

  “Well hey there,” the man said, grinning far too comfortably. “You’re up early.”

  “WHO ARE YOU,” Charles demanded, voice cracking despite himself.

  “Oh.” The man clasped his hands together. “I’m just the God of Revenge.”

  The words landed wrong. Heavy. Sticky. Like they clung to the inside of Charles’ skull.

  “Actually,” the man added with a wink, “I’m your god.”

  “I—no,” Charles said, shaking his head. “I don’t do revenge. I don’t have enemies.”

  The god laughed, soft and delighted. “Oh, sweet thing. You absolutely do.”

  He leaned forward slightly, close enough that Charles caught a faint scent of cologne layered over something older and unpleasant.

  “In fact, you’re here because of one,” the god said. “You’re here so someone else can take revenge on you.”

  The new [Priest]’s stomach dropped. “…what does that mean.”

  “It means,” the god said cheerfully, “someone was very upset, and instead of being a well-adjusted adult and feeling their feelings, they outsourced it to the universe.”

  Charles stared at him. “and now…I’m a [Preist].”

  “Yes!” the god said, clapping once. “Mine! Isn’t that delicious?”

  “In fact, let’s get to the good stuff,” he added, snapping his fingers.

  A blue notification popped up immediately.

  “See,” the god said, spreading his hands wide, “you’re on a dangerous world. Very dangerous. Full of things that want to eat you, stab you, wear you, or accidentally level a town because they rolled badly.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “You know. The usual.”

  Charles sat in the sand, blinking up at him, still trying to catch his breath. The heat pressed down on him like a physical thing, the sun already working on his skin with malicious intent.

  “You have to survive,” the god continued. “You have magical powers. You’ll grow stronger. You’ll meet people. You’ll make choices.” He rolled his wrist. “Yada yada yada. You’ve played games. You get it.”

  The god leaned forward suddenly, invading Charles’ space again, his smile stretching wider.

  “This is so exciting,” he said. “I’ve had tons of little [Priest]s before.”

  He made a face.

  “They’re awful. So annoying. Always with the needs. Always with the boring stuff. Healing this, cleansing that, whining if vengeance really aligns with my godhood.” He shuddered theatrically. “Typically, they’re lameos who get here the normal way. You know how useless [Priest]s are to me?”

  Charles did not answer. His mouth felt dry enough to crack.

  “They’re built to heal,” the god said, tapping Charles lightly on the chest with one finger, “and I am the God of Revenge.”

  He straightened, sighing dramatically.

  “Honestly, if it wasn’t for my [Warlock]s, I wouldn’t even get out of bed in the morning. Delightful people. Very proactive. So much initiative.”

  Then his expression shifted. Sharpened.

  “But you,” he said softly, leaning closer again, “are something new.”

  Charles felt his spine lock up.

  “I have never,” the god continued, voice dropping into something reverent and thrilled, “had someone who was summoned here for the express purpose of revenge become a priest of mine.”

  He laughed, short and breathy, like he’d just heard the best joke in centuries.

  “Do you know how interesting that is?”

  The god turned away and began to pace, shoes crunching softly in the sand despite still looking impossibly clean.

  “I even did you the favor of teleporting you not directly in front of them,” he said over his shoulder. “Aren’t I a generous god?” He glanced back with a leering smile. “Very thoughtful of me.”

  Charles’ stomach twisted.

  “Though,” the god added casually, “to be fair, I also let the summoner know that you did arrive here in one piece.”

  Charles’ head snapped up. “What?”

  The god spun around, eyes bright.

  “Who would hate me that much to bring me here? I’m a bag boy…” Charles asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

  The god’s grin widened.

  “Oh,” he said, delighted, “that would be telling. Where would be the fun in that?”

  He stepped closer again.

  “See,” the god said, lowering his voice, “as a [Priest], the only way you survive is to heal. Support people. Be useful. They probably won’t kill you if you’re actively saving their lives.”

  He tilted his head, studying Charles like an interesting bug.

  “You’ll have to meet and heal so many strangers,” he continued. “Bandits. Adventurers. Villagers. Monsters with opinions. You’ll help them recover. You’ll listen to their stories. You’ll fix what’s broken.”

  His eyes gleamed.

  “And you’ll never know if one of them is the one who screams your name regularly at the sky.”

  Charles felt cold despite the sun.

  The god leaned in close enough that Charles could see the reflection of himself in those eyes—small, confused, already tired.

  “You can’t opt out,” the god whispered. “You can’t refuse to help. And every time you save someone…”

  He smiled.

  “…you stay alive just a little bit longer.”

  Then he straightened, snapped his fingers once, and vanished.

  No flash. No sound. Just gone.

  The desert settled into silence again. Wind brushed across the dunes. Somewhere far away, something howled.

  The [Priest] sat there in the sand, staring at the empty air where the god had been.

  His hands trembled slightly. He realized that he still had a yellow potato chip in his hand that had been there the whole time.

  “…I should’ve skipped the snacks,” he muttered.

  The sun continued to rise.