The peon crawled out from his stinking hovel, a crumpled sheet of paper covered with scribbles from top to bottom in one hand. The tired fingers of his right hand were still clutching the worn out, ancient pen - the tool of his trade. He slowly walked towards the light, limbs aching, and before stepping out on the Grand Square, took a deep breath. His lungs refused to obey and after one long coughing fit, he finally walked into the light. Gnarled old fingers holding his sheet of paper and pen high, the peon's uttered with his sickly voice:
“I wrote this...”
Many tired, sad peons watched him from the windows of their hovels. Mothers covered their child's eyes, fathers shielded the babe's ears, for they knew what was about to transpire. First there was the silence and then, emanating from His throne, came the blinding Light of Knowledge. So powerful was this radiance, that the peon's scribbles were instantly consumed by fire and with smoldering hands, crying, he fell to his knees. His eyes were closed shut, yet he almost lost his sight. Then came the words, just as mighty as the Light they shook every hovel, even the ground upon which he knelt.
“WORTHLESS, FILLED WITH EGREGIOUS ERRORS PIECE OF GARBAGE!
The peon's ears bled, so strong was the Voice Of Judgment! The knowledge of this Great Sage could only be matched by the Gods themselves.
“YOU SHOULD BE EMBARRASSED BY THESE PATHETIC SCRIBBLES OF YOURS, PEON!”
With smoldering fingers the peon grabbed his pen and then crawled on all fours. Away from the Grand Square, far from the most gifted Sage and back to his stinking hovel he crawled. Back where he belonged, underground, the peon sat on the earthen floor and, while his aching old bones rested, he dressed his blistered hands. Surrounded by his meager possessions, the peon tore pieces from his dilapidated shirt and bandaged himself. A plank he could rest his hands and write, one hole-ridden blanket to cover his sickly, old body with while he slept. Broken this hovel was, fetid and damp, yet it was much better than living outside on the cold wynd.
After he drank a glass of tap water and ate his last slice of moldy bread, the peon marked something on his calendar. One more year had slipped away from under his gnarled fingers; he was painfully aware that about a dozen or so were still left. Just like all other peons like him after he expired, he'd be quickly forgotten, left to rot in some damp hole. Oh, how he dreamt he had more time to learn, how much he wished he was born with even a tiny bit of talent! But he was a dirty peon after all; only supreme beings like the Great Sage, only they descended from the heavens bestowed with godly ability, it was them who were gifted. The peon's lot was to work, while the Sages judged them from atop their shining thrones – this was the way of this world.
The peon summoned what little skill he had, concentrated to the best of his ability. He still had a couple of years left and knew that the only way forward was to work without rest, create more. He very much wished before his departure from this plane, that at least one of his goals could be achieved. One day, if he worked harder that his peers, he could ascend and no longer be a mere 7th level peon. However slim this possibility was, he was prepared to toil without end in order to fulfill his dream. Maybe then he would be remembered and instead of a damp hole, his body will be buried in a proper grave – with tombstone and everything.
The peon took one crumpled sheet of paper with shaking, still bleeding fingers. He straightened it as best he could and then wrote:
“I am a dirty peon and this is the embarrassing tale of my ineptitude.”