God Simulator: The Goddesses In The Simulation Are All Real

John pocketed the coins, biting back the bitterness rising in his throat.

He turned on his heel and left the restaurant, his stomach churning with frustration.

The streets outside were as grim as ever, the twilight casting long shadows over the narrow alleyways.

John's head hung low as he walked, his mind filled with resentment.

How much longer could he live like this?

He worked himself to the bone every day, only to be cheated, berated, and treated like he was worthless.

As he made his way through the poorly lit streets, he sensed eyes watching him. Before he could react, a hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him into a nearby alley.

"Look what we got here," a sneering voice came from behind him. "A wasteborn thinking he can just walk around with money in his pocket."

John tried to pull away, but another figure stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

They were inferiors—one step above wasteborns in the social ladder, but still treated as lesser by the nobles and royalties.

But they weren't bullied like the wasteborn. No, they took out their frustrations on people like him.

"Hand it over," the one in front of him demanded, pointing at the pouch in John's pocket. "Now."

John's blood ran cold. It was all he had. "Please, it's not much," he started, trying to reason with them. "I worked all week for this."

The inferior thug laughed, a cruel sound. "Worked all week, huh? Well, that's too bad. Now you're gonna give it to us."

Before John could protest again, a fist collided with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for breath.

They didn't stop there. One punch after another landed, each one harder than the last.

John crumpled to the ground, clutching his side as they kicked him for good measure.

Finally, one of them yanked the pouch from his pocket, inspecting the paltry coins inside.

"Pathetic," the thug spat, pocketing the money. "Don't think about reporting this either. No one's gonna care about a wasteborn."

They walked away, their laughter echoing down the alley as John lay there, bruised and broken.

He didn't cry. He'd learned long ago that crying didn't change anything.

As he lay there, staring up at the night sky, John felt a deep sense of hopelessness.

He had no power, no future, and now, not even the meager pay he had earned.

What was the point of trying when the world was built to crush people like him?

John crumpled to the ground as they walked away, the world spinning around him.

His vision darkened, and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the night sky, cold and uncaring.

…

In the darkness of unconsciousness, a dream began to form—a vivid, strange dream.

John stood in a vast, formless space, the boundary between dream and reality blurred.

The world around him felt both distant and close, like a heavy fog obscuring the edges of his perception.

Before him stood a man, tall and regal, with neck-length purple hair that shimmered in the dim light. His eyes, a deep shade of violet, pierced into John's very soul.

"Do you want power?" the man had asked, his voice smooth yet carrying an authority that felt absolute.

The question echoed within John.

Was this real? Was it all in his head?

He couldn't be sure. But the words, they struck deep—so deep it awakened something dormant in his chest. A hunger. A desperation.

John's voice trembled as he whispered, "Yes… I want power. I want to change everything."

The purple-haired man was silent for a long moment, his gaze unyielding.

There was a weight in the air, something intangible pressing down on John, as if testing his resolve.

Then the man spoke again, his tone more serious this time, almost solemn.

"Only those who are worthy can receive salvation." The words were measured, deliberate. "Can you devote yourself to a god and serve his cause wholeheartedly?"

John hesitated, the gravity of the question settling in.

Could he? Could he devote himself to something larger, something beyond himself?

He had never believed in gods or salvation. Life had taught him differently.

But as he stood there, he couldn't stop the flood of memories from rushing back—his life as a wasteborn, the years of pain and humiliation.

He remembered the sneers, the mocking laughter, the jeers from those who saw him as less than human. He recalled the beatings, the bruises that never quite healed.

The indignities of being cheated, of being treated like dirt beneath someone's feet. The constant reminder that he had no worth, that he was just one more body in a world that didn't care whether he lived or died.

John had already lost everything. His dignity, his pride, his purpose—they were gone, stripped from him by a society that had cast him aside.

He wasn't living anymore. He was merely surviving, waking up each day with no reason other than habit.

But now... now he was being asked to live for something else.

To live for a god.

In exchange, this god offered him a chance. A chance to turn his life around. A chance for power.

John's hands clenched into fists, his breath coming in shallow bursts.

His mind raced. Was this his chance? Could he finally escape the misery he had known his entire life? He had no more dignity to lose, no more pride to protect.

The only thing left was a flickering hope—a hope that maybe, just maybe, his life could become something more.

His voice, though hoarse, was steady when he finally spoke. "I've lost everything already. I have nothing left. If serving a god is what it takes to gain power... to change my life... then yes." He lifted his head, determination filling his gaze.

"I will devote myself. I will serve."

The purple-haired man's eyes gleamed with something—approval, perhaps, or amusement. It was impossible to tell.

But his voice, when he spoke again, was as calm and composed as before.

"Very well," the man said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Your journey begins now."