God Simulator: The Goddesses In The Simulation Are All Real

Linsley continued to create powerful artifacts, building trump cards for the Sinclair Order

Among his most notable creations were separate flux storage devices, secondary power banks that could be activated once his primary reserves of flux were depleted.

These allowed him to continue fighting or crafting without limitation, a key aspect of his preparation for the upcoming battles and conquests. His forward-thinking nature ensured that when the time came, he would not be left powerless.

The Sinclair Order had become everything Linsley envisioned—an invisible yet growing force that thrived beneath the surface, its true power concealed from the outside world.

The island, hidden by layers of mist and deception, was ready to serve as the heart of the Sinclair Order's growing power. And within its borders, Linsley, Lucy, and Ted had spent the last two years honing their skills, sharpening their strength, and building the foundation of their order.

Linsley gazed over the expanse of the island, his eyes resting on the magnificent infrastructures spread across the land.

"The time has come to start," he muttered to himself, a quiet resolve in his voice.

The island resembled a sprawling, hidden country, vast and untouched by the outside world. Despite its size, no one but the three of them roamed its lands—an eerie silence permeated the air

In the heart of this secret nation stood the conspicuous Sinclair Order's Holy Church, a towering edifice at the center of the country. Surrounding it were smaller branches, strategically placed throughout the cities, awaiting the arrival of their faithful followers.

Linsley took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his aspirations pressing down on him.

"Everything is in place," he reassured himself, glancing at the Holy Church that loomed majestically at the center of the island.

Its towering spire reached toward the sky, a silent promise of the power and unity it would bring once the believers arrived.

His gaze swept over the surrounding cities, their streets and buildings meticulously designed, each corner crafted with purpose. Yet, despite the intricate architecture and careful planning, the absence of inhabitants left an unsettling void.

The air felt thick with potential, and Linsley knew it was time to fill that emptiness.

"Lucy, Ted," he called, summoning his companions.

They approached, their expressions reflecting the same determination that pulsed within him.

"It's time to activate the dream-projection artifact," Linsley declared, his voice steady. "We need to reach out to those who seek salvation—those who are lost and desperate for change."

Ted nodded, his enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. "Let's bring them here. We can show them a new way, a new order!"

Lucy crossed her arms, her brow furrowed in thought. "But we must be cautious. We want to attract those who are truly devoted, not just anyone looking for a quick fix."

Linsley smiled, appreciating her foresight. "Exactly. The artifact will filter out those who lack sincerity. Only the worthy will be able to cross the threshold and join us."

As they gathered in the Holy Church, Linsley activated the artifact, feeling a surge of energy course through him. A shimmering aura enveloped them, and the air thickened with anticipation.

He focused his mind, visualizing the countless dreamers scattered across the world, souls yearning for guidance.

"Let them see me," he murmured, channeling his will into the artifact. "Let them dream of the Sinclair Order."

…

A man moved quietly across the dingy restaurant floor, pushing a mop with slow, practiced strokes. His clothes were simple and worn, the faded fabric clinging to his thin frame.

His dark hair was cropped short, and his skin had a weathered, pale tone from long hours spent indoors. Deep circles lined his eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and constant exhaustion.

This man was John Smith, a wasteborn, and for the past three years, this small, rundown restaurant had been his place of work. He mopped the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, wiped down tables—all in silence.

It wasn't glamorous work, but it kept him afloat in a world that never failed to remind him of his place.

Wasteborn.

A word drenched in contempt.

A label that marked him as part of society's lowest rung—those born without gifts, without status, without power.

Wasteborns didn't get much in life. There was no respect, no opportunity.

The only thing guaranteed was hardship. Yet, despite it all, John held onto this job, because in a world that had cast him aside, it was something—his only means of scraping by.

The restaurant was empty now, the last of the customers long gone.

John sighed as he wrung the mop out and leaned it against the wall.

The familiar ache in his back flared up, but he ignored it. It was time to get paid.

At the end of his shift, John wiped the sweat from his brow and approached the counter.

"Sir, my pay for the week?" His voice was quiet, hesitant, as if asking for what he was owed was somehow a crime.

The restaurant owner, a gruff man named Darrel, barely looked up from his ledger. "Your pay, huh? You think you deserve it?"

John clenched his teeth but didn't respond, knowing better than to talk back.

Darrel fished into his drawer, pulled out a small pouch of coins, and tossed it carelessly across the counter. The pouch was noticeably lighter than it should have been.

John opened it, counting quickly. His heart sank. It was less than a fifth of what he was owed.

"Sir," he started, trying to keep his voice steady. "This isn't what we agreed on. I worked the full week—"

"You work when I say you work, wasteborn!" Darrel snapped, his face twisting in irritation. "You should be grateful I'm even paying you. Plenty of your kind would kill for this job."

John's hands tightened around the pouch, anger simmering under the surface.

Grateful? For being exploited? For being treated like dirt? But he swallowed his pride.

He couldn't afford to lose this job, no matter how little it paid.

"Yes, sir," John muttered, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

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