Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

Fenrir lay back on the smooth stone surface of the tower, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed. He wasn't trying to sleep—not really. But habit was hard to kill.

For a while, he simply listened to the faint, melodic rustle of mana in the air, like a song too old for memory. He exhaled slowly and allowed his mind to drift.

Yet sleep never came.

His body didn't tire. His breath remained even, his pulse steady. No muscle cramped, no fatigue settled in his bones.

After nearly an hour of silence, he opened his eyes again and frowned.

"System."

He muttered.

[Yes, Creator?]

"Why can't I sleep?"

A flicker of light danced before his eyes as the system answered, its voice as even and calm as always.

[Your body has transcended human biology. You no longer require rest, food, or water. Your vessel now operates as a divine construct, sustained by pure mana and bound to your world's core. Sleep is obsolete.]

Fenrir sat up, scoffing.

"So I'm stuck like this? Awake forever?"

"Correct. Your mind will self-regulate and remain optimized across cycles unless forcibly deconstructed."

"Sounds like hell."

[Divinity is not comfort. It is a responsibility.]

The system replied.

Fenrir leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the horizon. The land was no longer barren.

In just a few short hours, mana had fully saturated the crust. Crystalline rivers now shimmered between rising forests.

Hills had formed, shaped by pulsing ley lines. Rain fell in the distance—not water, but liquid mana, nourishing the terrain.

Plants sprang from the ground in strange colors—blues, purples, obsidian reds—twisting into bioluminescent blooms.

"It's working."

Fenrir murmured.

"Indeed. Your realm is maturing ahead of schedule."

The system confirmed.

Then, with a faint glow, a new panel opened before him.

[World Creator Program: Activation Complete

Welcome, Fenrir. You will now be entered into the list of active divine creators. Your realm will undergo its first ranking assessment at the end of this week. Afterward, your score and tier will be recalculated every ten thousand years of internal time.]

Fenrir tilted his head.

"So I'm part of some divine leaderboard now?"

[Yes. As of now, there are one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three known divine realms under the program. All creators compete for influence, resources, and status. Your actions, design, and intervention in your realm's growth will determine your position.]

Fenrir narrowed his eyes.

"And what happens if you rank low?"

[Obsolescence. Low-performing creators are periodically removed.]

"…Of course."

He took a breath and stood, stretching out his arms as the sunless sky slowly began to change color again, streaking with molten orange and teal as the world's rhythm found balance.

Below, the World Tree pulsed in response, as if it too was awakening from a long slumber.

Then the final countdown appeared before his eyes:

[Stabilization Cycle: 00:00:05

00:00:04

00:00:03

00:00:02

00:00:01

Stabilization Complete. World Core Sealed. Primary Phase Initiated.]

The ground shuddered—not in chaos, but in life.

The World Tree's branches pulsed once with golden light. Then, from between its roots, forms began to crawl out—shimmering first as energy, then coalescing into flesh and bone.

The first wave of creatures was born.

Fenrir watched in silence. They were animalistic, primal, unaware of anything beyond survival.

Some resembled beasts from Earth—four-legged, horned, clawed. Others were utterly foreign—multi-winged things that glided on mana currents, translucent serpents that swam through the air like water.

They didn't speak. They didn't think. But they lived.

And almost instantly, they hunted.

Predators chased prey. Herbivores grazed under the thick foliage. Even among the primitive, a food chain was already taking form, dictated by size, strength, and instinct.

The system hovered beside Fenrir once more.

"Your world has begun its own story. The World Tree will now recede into the core. It will remain connected to you, and through it, you may observe, influence, or intervene."

It said.

Fenrir's gaze remained fixed on the lands below, where survival now ruled.

"And my job?"

[Is to give this realm a unique identity. Develop a mythology. Encourage evolution. Shape a history that sets your world apart from others. During the next phase, your realm will be compared to others in preparation for The Time of Clash.]

"What is that?"

[A convergence. When chosen realms are drawn into one plane to compete, align, or wage war—depending on their creators' intent. Only the strongest realms survive.]

The system replied.

Fenrir let the silence stretch as the wind picked up.

The tree had disappeared, its glow now deep beneath the surface—but he could still feel it, alive and humming in the back of his mind.

His heartbeat was no longer just his own; it echoed across mountains, forests, and seas that he hadn't yet named.

"Then I better come up with a damn good story."

He said quietly.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

If this was a game of gods, then he would make sure his world wasn't just a part of it.

It would be the world that rewrote the game itself.

Fenrir leaned on the edge of his obsidian tower, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the blooming world below.

The primitive life he had birthed moved in lazy circles of instinct—eating, chasing, sleeping, dying. There was no spark, no meaning yet.

"System, when does the war begin?""

He said suddenly, his voice echoing faintly through the empty realm.

The light orb shimmered into being beside him, pulsing in a slow rhythm.

[The Time of Clash is far from now. Your world lacks sufficient development. You have not reached the qualification threshold. Without clearing the Tower, your realm will not be eligible for participation.]

It replied.

Fenrir raised an eyebrow.

"Tower?"

[A trial set at the core of every divine realm. Until your creations evolve and ascend to challenge its floors, your world remains untested. Unworthy. You may spectate, but you cannot compete.]

The system explained.

He gave a slow nod and turned his gaze downward once more.

Creatures moved through thick underbrush, biting and howling and reproducing. But it was the same, day after day.

Primal, dull, slow. Watching it unfold was like watching dust settle—predictable, linear, lifeless.

He sighed.

"It's boring."

[The early stages of evolution often are. However, you may intervene indirectly. Divine creators often generate obstacles—disasters, anomalies, plagues, or false gods. Conflict is a catalyst. Struggle invites innovation. Reward breeds aspiration. The more your world adapts and overcomes, the more karma you gain.]

The system agreed.

"Karma…"

Fenrir murmured.

A panel opened beside him with a quiet pulse.

[KARMA BALANCE: 1,000,000

Divine Status Bonus: Slain One Deity (Recorded)

Origin Bonus: First Realm Created Without Template]

Fenrir smirked.

"So I get paid for messing with them."

[In a manner of speaking. Karma is the currency of creation. With it, you may unlock items, systems, anomalies, even push evolution forward—though each has its cost. You may also transfer karma to your world directly to accelerate its growth. However…]

The system said.

Another prompt appeared.

[Warning: Direct Transfer of All Karma Will Remove Creator's Ability to Interfere Until Realm Reaches Ascendant Tier. Proceed?]

Fenrir frowned.

"So if I dump it all in now, I just have to sit and wait?"

[Correct. You will not be able to place events, shape civilizations, or interfere through narrative. However, the developmental rate will increase exponentially, condensing millennia of growth into days. You may choose to observe or enter dormancy.]

He stared at the prompt, silent.

One million karma. Hard-earned. Stolen, really. Blood and defiance had bought it. Power hoarded from another god's fall.

And now… he was thinking of giving it away, just to speed up a world that might collapse on its own?

But the silence around him was eating away at his mind. There were no gods here to fight. No humans to deceive. No councils to defy.

Just sky. And trees. And dumb animals gnawing on each other's bones.

"Do it."

Fenrir said.

The system hesitated, perhaps simulating a final warning.

[Confirm. You will relinquish direct control. You will become a passive observer until your realm produces an ascendant being. Proceed?]

"Yes. Use it all."

Fenrir said firmly.

The world pulsed.

A sound like thunder cracked across the realm as the energy of one million karma points poured into the veins of the world.

The World Tree surged in response, its roots glowing gold as they dug deeper into the crust.

Mana storms howled in the skies, spiraling over the land like divine hurricanes. Reality trembled.

Below, evolution leapt forward.

The first beasts began to mutate. Extra limbs. Sharper instincts.

Tribal behavior emerged. Language, crude at first, began to form. Fire was discovered. Then tools.

Then homes, stacked into hill-dwellings. The food chain splintered as intelligence bloomed in more than one species.

Cities were still far, but there were villages. Clans. Purpose.

Fenrir stepped back, eyes wide.

He could feel it—no longer as a god controlling his world, but as its silent anchor.

He was now connected through the World Tree, an observer, a root system buried in its bones. He could feel every death, every discovery, every birth.

And yet, he could do nothing.

"This better be worth it."

He muttered.

The system hovered near.

[You have made your choice. The realm is no longer a garden—it is a crucible. When next you speak, your voice will be prophecy. When next you appear, your image will be myth.]

Fenrir gave a dry laugh.

"Guess I'll make a great legend, then."

Below, a newly-evolved creature looked up at the sky for the first time—intelligence dancing behind its eyes.

The era of watchers had begun.