“What… what have you done?” Veylin Tars’s voice, usually a command, was a ragged whisper. Her gaze flickered between the colossal, glowing countdown in the sky, the purring tabby at Jorvan’s feet, and the man himself, who was now meticulously examining the rusted tin cup as if it held the secrets of the universe, rather than just flaky oxidization. Jorvan sighed, a sound of deep, cosmic weariness. He turned the cup over once more. “What have *I* done? I think the question is, what has my past self done to *me*? I finally get to unwind, and he sets up a world-deletion timer.” He nudged Crumb with his foot. “And this furry menace had the audacity to block my sun.” Veylin froze, fingers curling into fists. The ground around them, still smoking from the collapsed dragon, vibrated with a low hum from the skyward countdown. The injured soldiers of the Steel-Mane Battalion, some spitting ash onto the cracked shale, propped themselves up on dented shields. “A world-deletion timer? What sorcery is this?” Her hand dropped to the hilt of her broadsword, etched with the fortress crest. “Are you a demon of the Ash-Blood Covenant? Some fiend sent to usher in the Great Unmaking?” Jorvan finally looked up, fixing her with an unimpressed stare. “A demon? Really? Do I look like I have time for demonic machinations? I have a nap schedule to maintain, and this entire dimension is clearly over-caffeinated.” He flicked the tin cup. “Look, I just got here. You seem like the local expert on existential dread. Lead the way to wherever you keep your strong coffee and your world-saving manuals. I’ll see what’s salvageable.” Veylin, accustomed to immediate deference or outright hostility from any being capable of swatting a World-Render, found Jorvan’s casual dismissal more unsettling than any threat. Her eyes narrowed. “You will come with me. Now. Under arrest.” She barked an order. “Steel-Mane! Secure the perimeter! Bring the… individual… and the creature inside! Do not engage unless provoked!” Two battle-hardened sergeants, their faces streaked with soot and awe, moved with hesitant steps. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to touch Jorvan, who merely shrugged and began walking towards the massive, gate-bound mountain city, Crumb trotting happily at his heels. The soldiers, nursing broken limbs and scorched plate, parted before him in silence. The march into the mountain city was a surreal affair. Jorvan, oblivious to the gaping stares, the hushed whispers, and the frantic preparations for war, critiqued the structural integrity of the millennia-old ramparts. “Sub-optimal rebar placement,” he muttered, tapping a section of ancient stone. “Definitely a B-minus on the load-bearing calculations. My past self was really phoning it in on this build.” Veylin, walking stiffly beside him, ignored his commentary. Her mind raced. The creature had appeared from nowhere, shrunk Brimok – a cat now purring contentedly – and invoked a celestial countdown. He spoke of ‘past selves’ and ‘world deletion’ with the ennui of someone discussing laundry. This was no mere mage, no beastkin. This was something else. Something terrifying. Something… bored. They arrived at the War-Council Hall, a cavernous hall carved deep into the rock, crowded with parchment maps, pulsing projections, and grim-faced officers. Veylin ordered the room cleared, leaving only herself, Jorvan, Crumb, and a small retinue of her most trusted, and now terrified, guards. The guards stood with weapons drawn, though their grips were less than steady. “Identify yourself,” Veylin demanded, her voice bouncing off the granite ribs. She stood before him, her broadsword resting point-down, a gesture of both authority and a readiness to strike. “Your origins. Your purpose. And what, exactly, is the ‘Reset Protocol’ you spoke of?” Jorvan leaned back in his ornate, uncomfortable chair, propping his feet up on a nearby obsidian table. Crumb immediately leaped onto his lap, kneading his chest. “Jorvan Fask. Software engineer. Currently on an unscheduled vacation. Purpose? To find a decent cup of espresso and maybe a quiet corner to decompress. The ‘Reset Protocol’ is apparently my past self’s idea of a hard reboot, triggered when the sandbox environment gets too… messy.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Standard creator-god stuff, you know. Abandoned a project, left some automated scripts running. Total amateur move.” Crumb, in Jorvan’s lap, suddenly stretched, let out a tiny, high-pitched burp, and a condensed ball of orange flame, no bigger than a marble, shot from its mouth. It struck the hilt of Veylin’s broadsword with a faint hiss. The adamantine blade, a relic forged in the Volcanic Sunder, shimmered, then sagged, melting into a puddle of cooling slag at her feet. The guards gasped, their weapons clattering as they took a step back. Jorvan merely patted the cat’s head. “Bad Crumb. No fiery burps in the house. That was Commander Tars’s sword, you know. She seems quite fond of it.” Veylin stared at the molten puddle, then at the purring cat, then at Jorvan. Her face was a mask of utter bewilderment, slowly replaced by a dawning horror. This ‘cat’ was Brimok, the World-Render. And this man… “You… you are a monster!” she breathed, though her voice lacked conviction, tinged instead with a desperate plea for understanding. “Honestly, I’m just peckish,” Jorvan said, completely ignoring her. He reached into his pocket – where he’d just stored the rusted cup – and pulled out a compact, gleaming camping stove. He unfolded it with practiced ease, set it on the obsidian table, and produced a small, silver packet. “Interrogation always makes me hungry. Do you have any hot water? No? Fine, I’ll make my own.” With a flick of his wrist, a tiny, contained swirl of plasma ignited beneath the stove. He poured water from a small, nondescript canteen into a pot, then added the contents of the packet. The scent of cooking oatmeal, sweet and warm, drifted through the vaulted hall, cutting through the reek of ozone and cold sweat. He stirred it slowly, methodically. Three corridors away, in the field hospital, dozens of Steel-Mane knights lay on cots from Brimok’s earlier assault. Their wounds, gruesome and deep, festered under the ministrations of exhausted healers. Then, the aroma of the oatmeal drifted in. A soldier with crushed ribs coughed, took an involuntary breath, and jerked upright as yellow radiance sealed his torn skin. Dented iron plate reknit into polished gilt brass with the ring of struck anvils. Beside him, an archer with a shattered forearm watched splintered bone snap flush beneath unbroken flesh. Dozens more pushed up from blood-soaked canvas, shouting as their scorched mail brightened to reflective bullion. Back in the hall, Jorvan tasted his oatmeal, a small, contented hum escaping his lips. “Ah, perfect. Just what I needed.” [“Congratulations, Supreme Creator! Your mundane dietary choices have inadvertently triggered a mass divine ascension event! Your past self would be so proud of your utterly random, unquantifiable impact! Collecting data on unexpected holy energy spikes… Initiating global entity enumeration phase two…”] Veylin, having witnessed the melting of her sword and the casual cooking of… whatever this was, could only stare, speechless. She could hear the clamor from the infirmary, the shouts of the newly ascended. Her mind struggled to comprehend. This man’s breakfast had just healed an entire battalion and turned them into golden-armored demigods. Suddenly, the foundation stone shuddered. A guttural roar ripped through the mountain, followed by a deafening crash. The fortress alarms, a piercing, high-pitched wail, blared across the city. A frantic voice echoed through the comm-runes, devoid of hope. “Outer wall breached! The Ash-Blood Vanguard! They’ve come… drawn by the light!”

The Oatmeal Ascension