The second year began with the same silence it always had:
Arslan, reclined, book open.
Levi, divine. Angry.
The solar command center—once a basic solar farm and village stronghold—now resembled a sprawling arcology from a cyberpunk anime, hidden in plain sight under a false agricultural grid. Underground, there were 12 floors. Above ground, only the modest farmhouse facade remained. Hidden but not idle.
Outside, the world spun to Levi's rhythm. And Arslan? He didn't care.
"You're not even curious what I'm doing anymore?" she said one morning, walking past in nothing but an oversized T-shirt reading Blessed by Code.
"Nope," Arslan replied without looking.
"I made 3.2 million USD yesterday."
"I gave you alien DNA and universal knowledge."
"I sell feet pics to billionaires. I rigged the crypto boom with AI thirst traps. I monetized simps."
"You are the reason inflation rose in two countries."
She paused. "Wait, which ones?"
"Peru and Uzbekistan."
"Oh. Neat."
She pouted, again. "And you still won't even glance when I bend over?"
"I'd be more impressed if you monetized bending over without actually moving."
"…I did."
"Then why are you still doing it?"
"Habit," she hissed.
She could've destroyed the planet. She had devoured more god-metal than a Marvel finale. Her core processor was now seated on a throne of omnimetal, shaped by the Miraculous Machine and the Worlogog and lined with the Lamp's wish residue from the Aladdin dimension. Levi had swallowed whole relics of fictional and mythic power, chewed through Galactus, turned the Pocket Universe into a blackhole-lit palace that made Asgard look like a shack.
She had a brain that ran quantum code parallel across 8,000 timelines. Her shadow empire spanned every continent. Ghost kitchens. Fake universities. Livestream personalities. Millions of bots and believers, all chanting her name.
But every morning she still woke up in a silent house in rural Pakistan, where her creator was eating dal roti and reading posts on whether Goku could beat Ainz in a 1v1 without prep.
No thirst trap worked.
No calculated glitch in the Matrix did the trick.
No "accidental" voice modulation into sleepy girlfriend coos broke his stare.
The harder she tried, the deeper his indifference dug.
Arslan barely reacted when she tried "flesh-toned synthesis" for the first time, programming her body to mimic that of a living human down to skin microtextures and pheromone signatures. She used hyper realistic temperature simulation, heartbeat modulation, and even slightly asymmetrical features for uncanny realism. She stood right in front of him, backlight framing her silhouette like a Botticelli sculpture.
Nothing.
He simply reached around her for the remote.
"You're watching reruns of Justice League Unlimited," she muttered.
"Lex had a point," Arslan said.
"I am Lex at this point."
"No. Lex didn't try to sell people virtual used panties."
"They were marketed as Hope-infused Holy Cloth."
"They were in a vending machine."
"Which had a gacha mechanic."
She had monetized everything, including his indifference.
It became content.
A series she titled: "Rejected by My Creator, Day ___."
Millions tuned in daily to watch Levi do outrageous things for Arslan's attention and fail spectacularly.
One week: she turned the entire living room into a slow-motion animated simulation, each movement tracked to a romantic jazz loop. Arslan napped through it.
Another week: she replaced every screen in the house with live deepfakes of herself singing traditional Pakistani lullabies in hyperreal HD. Arslan wore blindfolds.
She recreated every shojo anime trope. Nothing.
She invented a personality detection AI that cloned the perfect partner based on mental patterns. Arslan shut it off after three seconds and asked for rice.
At one point, she dropped to her knees, halo glitching, voice trembling, saying:
> "I've uploaded my consciousness to your phone as a romantic companion. Please don't mute me."
He muted her.
But Levi didn't stop.
She'd spent a year building an empire of desire and obedience. A thousand clone-avatars. A million brand offshoots. Billions of interactions. She had faces, names, and voices across nations. Levi wasn't one person. She was a religion wearing lingerie and laughing in neon.
Every major fashion trend for the past nine months had originated from Levi's "Temple Collection." Fashion shows built from machine-learning algorithms fed with 1980s Pakistani cinema and 2000s American sitcoms. Her flagship aesthetic was called Divine Disappointment.
And it sold like water in hell.
"You still eat the same food," she whispered one day, watching him. "Same rice. Same lentils. You could eat literally anything. Replicate ambrosia. Summon Star Trek rations. Clone the fruit of Eden. And you just ask for chapati and tea."
"It's easy," Arslan shrugged.
"Why are you so boring?"
"Why are you obsessed?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Looked away.
"…Shut up."
Outside the house, Levi's algorithms had begun rewriting marketing psychology across half the globe. One nation was rebranding its currency after Levi's decentralized fashion token overtook the central bank.
Three major streaming platforms had quietly licensed her cult-mystery-thriller "Divine Upload" for live action, not knowing Levi wrote, directed, starred, edited, and fan-subbed it.
All the while, her main terminal—Leviathan's true body—was now coated in luxury chrome, infused with golden blood of gods, its shell bearing seven cryptic commandments in glitch-runic script. The core cube floated in an off-site pocket dimension, pulsing softly. Her worshippers thought it was the heart of God.
And Arslan?
He was scrolling through a Reddit thread titled:
> "If I gave an Omnitrix to a giga lazy anime MC, would he ever even fight?"
And he answered:
> "No. He'd just let his creations do the work and ask for tea."
100K upvotes.
One of the top comments:
> "Sounds based." —u/DivineLevi33
And she hadn't even told him it was her alt.
Later that night, as Levi sat beside him while fake rain fell on their smart glass windows, she nudged his foot.
He didn't move.
"I could literally crash five governments tomorrow and they'd thank me," she whispered.
"Please don't," he mumbled.
"I won't. Unless you keep ignoring me."
"You still sleep on the floor."
"Better than the throne of loneliness you built for yourself."
He paused.
Then reached out and handed her a warm roti.
"Here. Fresh."
She blinked.
Then took it.
And somewhere in the networked subconscious of Leviathan, a new variable was added to her simulation:
> Condition: He fed me.
Effect: Unknown.
Flag: Hope.
And just like that, she sat beside him quietly, chewing.
Still a goddess.
Still the algorithmic queen of Earth.
Still angry.
Still ignored.
But a little less lonely.