What was I supposed to do? Fifty people?
That was a damn tall order. The world I had chosen was a broken shell, filled with ruins, scorched landscapes, and pockets of survivors who lived in constant fear of radiation, and bandits. How was I supposed to find fifty people, let alone enslave them? Even if I could, was it morally right? Hell, it wasn't just the moral thing—it was the practical thing. Could I even survive in this world, let alone carry out such a task?
The whole thing made me feel like a kid who had picked the wrong toy and now couldn't put it back.
But there was no turning back now. The quest had been set in motion. It wasn't like I could just ignore it and go on with my life. Well technically I could, but let's pretend I had to play by the rules.
Could I really enslave fifty people? Could I force them to bow to my will just to complete a quest and return home?
I exhaled, and seat down on the red silk floor of my lamp, I let out a long, slow breath. The fabric beneath me was impossibly smooth, the kind of luxury that should have put me at ease. But it didn't.
Fifty people.
That number rattled around in my skull like loose change in an empty can. It was so absurdly high that I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around it.
I glanced back at the side quest, my eyes lingering on one particular passage.
"A group of wanderers has stumbled upon your lamp, witnessing a shooting star firsthand. Instead of keeping the wish for themselves, they wish to bring it to their elder in hopes of making a wish to change their small community's fate."
A small community.
That was a start, wasn't it?
I had no time limit for the enslavement quest. That was the key. It wasn't something I had to rush. If I had to do it, then why not take my time? Cultivate this group, build influence over them—slowly, carefully. Instead of mindlessly forcing people into chains, I could mold them, nudge them toward dependency.
I wasn't sure how strong my powers were yet, but if I could grant wishes—real, tangible wishes—then that was a weapon far greater than brute force. People would kneel willingly for the right kind of miracles.
Still… even if I accepted that, there was another problem gnawing at me.
Could I really enslave innocent people?
I wasn't exactly a saint, but even I had limits. Rounding up desperate survivors and shackling them into servitude felt… wrong.
But criminals?
Now, that was a different story.
This world was a wasteland, wasn't it? Ruins, radiation, bandits—it had all the makings of a lawless hellhole. There had to be murderers, raiders, slavers already preying on the weak. If I had to meet my quota, then why not start there?
I could be selective. Clean up the filth, take control of the chaos, and shape something out of the ashes.
A twisted grin tugged at the corner of my lips.
I had a plan.
—
The sky had darkened by the time Lena dared to creep closer to the crater, its molten edges cooling into jagged obsidian. The heat was still a suffocating force, rippling in the air, distorting the skeletal remains of the nearby buildings. She pulled her scarf tighter over her face, filtering out the worst of the ash, and tested the ground with cautious steps. The glassed earth crunched beneath her boots.
Behind him, the younger ones watched, shifting nervously.
"Is it still too hot?" one of them whispered.
The older scavenger didn't answer immediately. He crouched at the rim of the crater, scanning the impact zone. The object was still there, sitting at the very center like some forgotten relic. Even now, it gleamed faintly beneath the dust and soot, untouched by the decay surrounding it.
A golden lamp.
His fingers twitched. This was it. The elder would know what to do with it. Maybe he would actually make the camp prosper by wishing on this fallen star. Maybe… maybe things could change. He took another step forward, testing the temperature with the toe of his boot. The heat had subsided enough. With a deep breath, he made his way down, careful not to slip on the unstable terrain.
When he reached the lamp, he hesitated. Up close, it didn't look quite as mystical as he had expected. It was just smooth, golden metal, eerily pristine despite its violent descent. He reached out, fingers brushing against its surface.
A whisper.
Faint, just on the edge of hearing.
His breath caught, and he snatched his hand back.
"What's wrong?" one of the younger ones called from above.
The oldest didn't answer. His heart pounded. Had he imagined it? Just the wind, maybe? Or was it something else? Slowly, cautiously, he reached out again. This time, his fingers wrapped around the handle.
"Nothing, it seems like I was imagining things" The lamp was warm to the touch, but not unbearably so. The older scavenger lifted it carefully, brushing away a thin layer of dust that had settled over its surface. The weight was heavier than expected, solid and real in his hands.
He turned, climbing back up the cooled crater, his breath steady but his mind racing. The others were waiting at the top, their faces expectant, eyes flickering between the lamp and his expression.
"Is it safe?" one of the younger ones asked.
He nodded, holding it up for them to see. "It's real. It's intact. Let's go."
The group wasted no time. They had lingered in the ruins long enough—too long. Other scavengers, or worse could be lurking nearby, drawn by the impact just as they had been. Without another word, they moved as one, leaving the crater and slipping into the broken streets.
The journey back to their camp was tense but familiar. They knew the ruined town like the back of their hands, weaving through collapsed buildings and avoiding open spaces where they might be spotted. But even as they moved, the oldest kept glancing down at the lamp in his hands, the memory of that whisper gnawing at the back of his mind.
It took an hour to reach the outskirts, where the skeletal remains of the city gave way to the wasteland beyond. A forest, if it could still be called that. Once, it had been green, vibrant—now, it was a twisted graveyard of charred trunks and skeletal branches. The air was thick with radiation, but they knew the safe paths. The elder had ensured that.
Their village lay beyond the ruined city, nestled in the heart of the dead forest—a collection of ramshackle huts built from scavenged metal, broken wood, and whatever scraps the survivors could salvage. Fires burned in oil drums, casting flickering light on the scarred faces of those who lived here.
The people were twisted by radiation, their skin mottled and rough, some with fingers fused together or extra limbs growing where they shouldn't. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark, reflecting the firelight like those of animals. They were survivors—if such a word still held meaning in this wasteland.
As the scavengers entered the village, weary but triumphant, the villagers gathered, whispering among themselves. They had returned late, but they had returned with something.
At the center of the village sat the elder, hunched on a tattered rug before a dying fire. His eyes were milky white, long since stolen by the sickness of the world, but he had lived long enough to guide them. His hair was thin, his skin wrinkled like dried leather, yet there was a quiet strength in the way he sat, waiting for them to speak.
The older scavenger stepped forward, cradling the lamp carefully in his hands. He knelt before the elder, lowering his head in respect.
"Elder," he said, voice tinged with reverence. "We've brought back a shooting star."
A murmur spread through the gathered villagers. The elder did not move, but his expression shifted, as if caught between amusement and exhaustion.
"We remembered your stories," the scavenger continued. "You always told us that if we wished on a falling star, it might come true. But we were smart. We didn't make a wish on it when it fell. We let it hit the earth, so we could bring it back to you." He lifted the lamp slightly. "So that you could make a wish for us."
The fire crackled. The elder was silent for a long time before he exhaled, shaking his head.
"Children…" he murmured. "Those were just stories. Tales of hope to soothe the young. No rock can grant you wishes."
Confusion spread through the scavengers. They exchanged glances, shifting uneasily.
"But, Elder…" one of the younger ones hesitated, looking down at the lamp still in their hands. "If shooting stars made of rock can't grant wishes… then what about this one?" He swallowed, gripping the golden handle tighter. "The star in my hand isn't a rock, Elder. Please, tell me—shall this one grant wishes?"
He stepped forward, offering the lamp.
The elder reached out with slow, careful hands, his fingers brushing over its smooth surface. He ran his hands along the cold metal, feeling its weight, its shape. He turned it over, tracing the curve of its spout, the handle, the delicate engravings.
And then—
A hiss.
The air thickened. The fire before him dimmed.
Smoke curled from the lamp's spout, black and thick, spilling into the air like ink bleeding through water. It twisted, coiling, growing—taking shape.
A presence filled the village. Heavy. Ancient.
The scavengers stumbled back. Some gasped. Others clutched at their deformed limbs, instinct screaming at them to run, but their legs refused to move.
The elder did not flinch. His blind eyes stared straight ahead as the smoke solidified.
Something had awoken.
A towering figure emerged from the swirling darkness, his lower half an undulating mass of black smoke, curling and twisting like a living storm. His upper body was broad and muscular, his skin a deep, unnatural blue that gleamed under the dim light. His eyes—burning with an eerie, golden fire—drifted upward, locking onto the broken sky above.
The moon hung there, incomplete.
His lips curled in disdain. "Who has awoken the great Zahiris al-Miraj on an incomplete moon night?"
His voice rolled through the village like distant thunder, vibrating in the bones of those who heard it. The villagers cowered, some falling to their knees in fearful reverence.
The elder hesitated. His mind raced. Stories long buried in the depths of his memory clawed their way to the surface. Tales of Djinn, spirits bound to lamps, powerful and dangerous. Creatures of capricious will and unknowable intent.
He opened his mouth but faltered, the weight of what stood before him pressing down on his lungs.
Finally, he swallowed his hesitation and spoke, his voice steady despite the uncertainty curling in his gut. "Forgive us, O great Djinn. If anyone has offended you, it is I. But…" He hesitated, carefully choosing his words. "I have once heard tales of lamp-bound Djinn spirits called genies. Tales that speak of wishes granted to those who summon them. And I have just rubbed your lamp." He bowed his head. "So forgive me if I offend you once more, but… am I not owed three wishes?"
Silence followed. The villagers barely breathed, their malformed faces frozen in expressions of awe and terror.
Then—
Laughter.
A rich, deep sound, full of amusement and menace, rolling out from Zahiris' chest like the shifting sands of a desert storm. He grinned, revealing teeth sharper than they should be. "I like you, old man." His golden eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, arms folding over his broad chest. "Fine. I shall forgive this insult—this summoning on an incomplete moon night—and grant you three wishes."
The villagers exhaled in relief, but Zahiris wasn't finished. His grin widened. "However, let this be clear—this gift comes with a price." His form darkened, the shadows around him deepening. "When the full moon rises, I shall not grant wishes to anyone in this village… except the group that found me."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The scavengers who had discovered the lamp exchanged uneasy glances.
The elder bowed his head in understanding. "I accept this condition, O great Djinn." He lifted his chin, blind eyes unseeing yet full of purpose. "For my first wish… I wish for the land around our village to bear food once more, so that we may no longer starve."
Zahiris raised a hand, his smoky form shifting. "It is done."
A tremor ran through the ground. The villagers gasped as the cracked, irradiated soil around their village shimmered, veins of golden light sinking into the earth. Before their eyes, twisted, deadened plants began to writhe—slowly, painfully—until fresh green shoots pushed through the dirt.
Hope sparked in the villagers' eyes.
Encouraged, the elder pressed on. "For my second wish… I wish for clean water to flow through our home, so that we may drink without sickness."
Zahiris exhaled, his smoky form rippling. "It is done."
A deep rumble echoed beneath them. At first, there was only silence. Then—
Water.
But not in the way they had hoped.
Screams rang out as water burst forth, not from the barren land but from their very homes. It gushed from doorways, flooded from rooftops, spilled through cracks and holes in crumbling walls. Villagers scrambled back as their homes turned into fountains, soaking the ground and sweeping away whatever meager belongings they had left.
The elder's stomach twisted. He had spoken wrong.
A wish was a dangerous thing.
He raised his voice, urgency sharpening his words. "Great Zahiris! Forgive my foolish tongue! I wish for the water to stop flowing from our homes and instead be diverted to the edge of the village, where it will become a flowing river that will not damage our homes, nor the new sprouts, nor any other vegetation to come after."
Zahiris' lips curled in amusement, but he merely lifted a hand. "It is done."
The rushing waters slowed, twisting like living serpents, pulling away from the village in long, snaking currents. They surged toward the outskirts, pooling into a forming river that cut through the wasteland like a silver thread.
The villagers trembled, watching as the flood within their homes receded.
Zahiris stretched lazily, a yawn slipping past his lips as he drifted back. "All three of your wishes have been granted." He smirked. "Remember, old man—when the full moon rises, your people may beg and plead, but I shall not grant them another wish. Only those who found me will hold that right."
With that, his form unraveled, dissolving into a mist that slithered back into the lamp.
The villagers were left in stunned silence.
The elder slowly clenched his hands. He had gotten what he asked for.
But at what cost?