The cards hovered in the air like dramatic tarot, suspended by golden light and the unsettling hum of something very, very ancient.
Three cards.
Already chosen. Already sealed.
And now they were putting on a show like they had something to prove.
The first one rotated toward me, the back peeling away like a curtain. The illustration was so vivid it might as well have blinked—an enormous, unblinking eye, etched into what looked like starlit glass. It hovered over a dark void, galaxies spiraling beneath it like it was watching the universe from the VIP section.
And then, it pulsed. Slowly. Like it knew I was looking at it.
"…Cool. That's not ominous at all."
Tip: The Ever-Seeing Eyes. Grants perception across all planes. Illusions, lies, deceptions—none may remain hidden.
I raised an eyebrow. "So, basically god-tier surveillance. I'm one floating trench coat away from being every conspiracy theorist's worst nightmare."
Tip: Your awareness will transcend time, space, and intention.
"I don't even transcend social awkwardness."
The eye blinked. Or maybe I blinked. I honestly couldn't tell anymore.
"So, I'm the cosmic peeping Tom now? Great. Can't wait for that to be my legacy."
Tip: Misuse discouraged. Violation of divine ethics will result in revocation.
I scoffed. "Right. Because divine ethics are definitely a real, organized thing and not something made up on the spot."
Silence. The card simply hovered, pulsing gently like a knowing parent waiting for me to get it out of my system.
"I swear," I muttered, "if the next one is a nose, I'm walking out."
The second card unfurled like a red carpet at a celebrity gala—if the gala was hosted by ancient cosmic forces with a flair for theatrical reveals.
It rotated, slowly peeling back to reveal a figure painted in bold, dramatic strokes. Not a man, not a woman—just person, deliberately vague, unnervingly perfect. They held a half-mask in one hand, grinning like they knew every secret in the room and were two seconds away from turning it into a performance.
And as I stared, the image began to shift.
Male. Female. Old. Young. Wide-eyed. Cunning. Joyful. Cold. Each version just as compelling, just as magnetic, like the world's most cursed slideshow of people you'd instantly trust and probably regret it five minutes later.
"…Okay," I said slowly, "this one's just showing off."
Tip: The Thousand Faces. Grants flawless mimicry, enhanced persuasion, and adaptive charisma.
I rubbed my face. "So basically, I get to lie professionally. And look good doing it."
Tip: Influence extends to vocal tone, body language, and social resonance. Deception optional.
"Right. But encouraged, I'm guessing?"
The card shimmered, shifting into a version of the figure giving me a charming wink.
"Oh my god, it flirts now."
Tip: You will be able to seamlessly navigate social hierarchies, perform roles, and inspire loyalty.
"Inspire loyalty? I couldn't even get my high school group chat to agree on a pizza topping."
The card's smile turned smug.
I pointed at it. "Don't look at me like that. I know that look. That's the 'you're going to pretend to be a noble and accidentally get engaged' look."
Tip: Engagements can be annulled.
"I haven't even been kissed and now you're handing me full-blown drama arcs?"
No response.
"I should've picked a skill that let me go invisible."
Tip: This card will ensure you never want to.
I sighed, dramatically. "I'm gonna be insufferable, aren't I?"
Tip: Statistically? Yes.
The third card hummed low—warm, steady. Not ominous like the others. This one felt… inviting. Like the quiet whir of an engine about to change your life—or blow up in your face. Fifty-fifty odds.
It turned, slowly revealing two radiant, golden hands. They were cupped gently, palms glowing, and from their center poured light—soft at first, then blinding.
Shapes bloomed out of that glow. A castle. A sword. A flower. A bird. A book that opened and flipped its own pages. Then more: a clock without numbers, a floating bridge, a key with no door. Each form emerged, glowed, and melted back into golden mist—like the hands weren't just showing what they could make, but everything they might.
Until the image blurred entirely, pulsing with the weight of possibility.
"Golden Hands…" I whispered, more to myself than anything else. "Okay. Cool. No pressure."
Tip: Grants divine crafting. If it can be imagined, it can be made—within divine limits.
"Within limits. Great. So you're telling me I can invent stuff, just not the fun, potentially universe-breaking kind."
Tip: Ethics and balance protocols apply.
"Ethics? You're trusting me with ethics? I almost failed Home Ec because I gave my cupcake googly eyes and called it sentient."
The card pulsed, like it was trying not to judge me. But it was. Oh, it absolutely was.
I tilted my head at it. "So what if I try to build, I don't know, a portable dragon? Or a teapot that reads minds?"
Tip: Theoretically possible. Side effects unpredictable.
"I swear, if I don't accidentally create a toaster with feelings, I'll be proud of myself."
Tip: Sentient appliances are discouraged.
"Yeah? Well, you gave me the hands."
Tip: Responsibility is part of godhood.
I groaned. "There it is again. That word. Godhood."
The card faded slowly, the glow sinking back into the shape of the hands, one of which almost looked like it gave a thumbs-up before disappearing.
I stood back and looked at the trio: the all-seeing eye, the shifting actor, and the hands that could build anything.
Me. The stalker, the liar, and the walking 3D printer.
What could possibly go wrong?
The three cards floated together now, circling me in slow, graceful orbits like tiny gods trying to decide if I was worthy… or just taking turns judging my outfit.
They moved with an eerie grace—The Ever-Seeing Eyes pulsing gently like it was watching me, Thousand Faces spinning through personalities like a moody theatre kid, and Golden Hands glimmering like it was ready to build me an IKEA shelf and give it sentience.
Tip: Divinity profile confirmed.
A soft hum filled the air. The light intensified, golden and warm and somehow way too dramatic for a Tuesday morning.
Tip: Confirmed domains — Perception. Persona. Creation.
I squinted up at the rotating cards. "Oh no. That sounds… artsy. Am I about to become the god of interpretive dance?"
Silence.
Which honestly hurt more than a no.
Then, in a slow flourish that felt way too much like a game dev showing off a final boss, glowing golden letters appeared midair:
Divine Title Assigned: The God of Revelation.
I blinked. "That's it? That's my cool title?"
Tip: You perceive what others hide. You become who others trust. You create what others fear.
You are Revelation. The truth behind masks. The hand behind the curtain. The unmaking of lies, and the maker of miracles.
"…You're really trying to sound poetic so I don't realize I just became the god of spoilers."
Tip: Accepted.
"Unbelievable. So what—am I the final twist? The post-credits scene? Do I get a cape? I feel like this job needs a cape."
Tip: Capes are optional. They are not recommended in high-wind regions or during close-range combat.
"Noted. I'll wear a cloak of vague metaphors instead."
Tip: Dramatic flair detected. You are adapting well.
"Thanks, I hate it."
The cards pulsed once more, like they were laughing at me. Or congratulating me. Or judging me. Honestly, all three seemed likely.
I crossed my arms. "Revelation, huh. Sounds like I'm about to ruin everyone's day with the truth."
Tip: Correct. You are now a divine disruption to ignorance.
I muttered, "So basically, I'm the god of awkward conversations and identity crises."
Tip: And miracles. Don't forget miracles.
"Right. Miracles. Totally balanced."