Benson steps into the house, letting out a long breath. It's afternoon now, and he calculates that Klein's interview should be over. A smile spreads across his face as he opens the door, greeted by his younger brother's scholarly features.
"Klein, you're back! How'd the interview go this afternoon?" Benson asks, his lips curling into a warm grin.
"Terrible," Klein replies, his face blank, catching Benson off guard. But the deadpan lasts only a moment before Klein breaks into a smile. "Actually, I didn't even go. I found a job beforehand—three pounds a week."
Benson listens quietly, his face softening with pride, as if marveling at how grown his little brother has become. His mouth quirks upward. "Klein, guess why I didn't get home until this afternoon?"
Klein blinks, puzzled by the question. Benson taps his slightly balding head, chuckling. "This morning, I landed a big deal for the company. And, as luck would have it, I met a generous gentleman…"
"…"
"…and now, my weekly salary's up to two pounds. With your wages, things won't be so tight for us anymore."
From the shadows across the street, I watch the Moretti household. My gaze lingers as Melissa returns home, a faint smile tugging at my lips. Through Benson, Klein and Melissa now know of my existence. The next step is to forge a partnership as a wealthy merchant, earning enough favor with the future Lord of Mystery to secure my place. Then, I can continue observing the world from on high, lounging in the peak of a divine life spent watching the cosmic drama unfold like a movie.
Thud! An invisible wave of spiritual energy ripples outward from the Moretti house. I glance at the crimson moonlight overhead and leap backward without hesitation. Landing lightly, I brush the dust from my coat.
—Damn Evernight Goddess.
Far above, in the distant starry void, my true form, the High-Dimensional Observer, stirs. In a fit of irritation, I nudge one of the Celestial Worthy's planets, then retreat behind my veil to savor the ensuing chaos. The complex, ever-shifting systems bring me a flicker of joy, dulling the annoyance of being suppressed by a mere true god.
The irritation doesn't vanish—it simply transfers to the Celestial Worthy, who's likely cursing me now.
I tap my cane on the ground, seizing the brief window of the Evernight Goddess's laxity after her scan. I head toward the Aurora Order's hideout. It's time to join them under this identity and let them take the fall for my outer god schemes. The True Creator is a key piece in my plan. Compared to the Lord of Mysteries, I'm far more determined to prevent God Almighty's rise. After all, my High-Dimensional Observer pathway neighbors the "White Tower" and "Spectator" pathways, sharing similar authorities.
I walk with unwavering poise, my face expressionless. The quiet streets hum with the era's chaotic undercurrent, a vibe that satisfies my cosmic sensibilities. Everyone here acts on their desires, unshackled by their roles. In the gaudy, lamplit districts, I even spot minor nobles mingling with common women, shedding their titles for the night.
This place alone could be the script for a surreal cinematic masterpiece.
But after a brief glance, I grow bored. Tapping my cane, I rely on my true form's cosmic vision to locate a tightly sealed basement. I knock on the door, and a gruff voice snaps from within.
"Stop knocking! Get lost!"
"Épaine ton Kýrion (Praise the Lord)."
"…A new brethren?"
"Ho pantognōstēs, pantodýnamos Theós, ho Poiētḗs tōn pántōn (The all-knowing, all-powerful God, Creator of all.)" I mask my outer god characteristics, cloaking them with the Secret Supplicant's aura to pass as one of them. The True Creator responds with ravings, causing the flesh of this mortal body to writhe faintly, an eerie sight.
"…" The voice behind the door falls silent. "Wait, I'll consult the others."
Moments later, the door creaks open. A face, delicate yet undeniably handsome, peers out. The man sizes me up, then pulls me inside.
The dark basement flickers with sparse candlelight. Faces shrouded in shadow pray silently before the flames, their flesh writhing, squirming across the hard floor. The scene could drive even the staunchest mind to madness, but I listen to the True Creator's ravings with fascination, deciphering His words while watching weaker devotees collapse, vomiting blood and wailing.
"This is Mr. Z, the divine envoy. He wants to see you," the man who brought me in whispers before hurrying to an empty spot to resume his prayers. I study Mr. Z, kneeling at the forefront, praying in silence. My eyes hold no fear, only admiration.
To remain half-sane under the ravings of a mad god—truly a devout follower. Even the Inextinguishable Ravings would struggle to corrupt the True Creator's envoy. I nod silently, marveling at humanity's resilience. Such fragile minds, yet they endure, revealing why the True Creator favors them so.
As I observe Mr. Z, he studies me in return. He's perplexed by this new "Secret Supplicant." Most newcomers, even those already initiated, would be terrified by their sacred rituals, unable to fully praise the Lord's might or receive His grace. But this seemingly frail merchant before him shifts from indifference to surprise, then to admiration, making Mr. Z wonder if he's unhinged.
"What are you thinking?" Mr. Z asks, unable to contain his curiosity.
"I hadn't expected the Lord to have such devout followers as you," I say, my tone reverent. "Mr. Z, you are the Lord's faithful lamb."
Several devotees near Mr. Z glance up, stunned by my audacity. Though Mr. Z agrees with my words, he finds my tone faintly offensive and replies coldly, "Everyone in the Aurora Order is the Lord's most loyal follower."
"My apologies, I misspoke." I trace an inverted cross over my chest. "ainô Se, pantognôsta, pantodýname Theé, Poiētà tōn pántōn; Déspota ópisthen tou skieroû katapetásmatos; tēs peptōkuyías phýseōs pántōn tōn óntōn.(Praise You, all-knowing, all-powerful God, Creator of all; Master behind the shadowed veil; the fallen nature of all beings!)"
As my flesh writhes, muscles squirming like earthworms beneath my skin, Mr. Z's intended retort catches in his throat. He stares at me, my eyes brimming with sincerity, and finds himself speechless. What can he say to a devotee so wholly immersed in praising the Lord? After a pause, he mutters, "Go find a place to pray."
"Very well." I sit before a candle, communing with the True Creator. The sensation is novel, and my High-Dimensional Observer form subtly extends a thread of power toward the True Creator, toward the Forsaken Land of the Gods, initiating a dialogue—
Klein jolts awake, sensing gray fog coiling around him. Careful not to wake Benson or Melissa, he slips into the bathroom in a panic. Reversing four steps, he ascends above the gray fog, where he sees the mist surging toward a distant point. Peering closer, he glimpses an enormous, cold eye staring back!
Klein wrenches himself from the fog, his head throbbing. But then he hears Dunn Smith's voice: "Someone's broken into your room. Grab your revolver, force them into the hallway, and leave the rest to us."
In the basement, layered ravings echo. Mr. Z snaps out of his prayer, stunned as shadows around him erupt. Secret Supplicants and Listeners collapse, vomiting blood, their bodies sprouting inhuman traits. As the ravings intensify, Mr. Z's form begins to shift, but he spreads his arms ecstatically, praising the True Creator's "blessing."
"Praise the Lord, praise the Lord! You've finally answered us, You've finally sent Your oracle!"
Mr. Z presses his right ear to the ground. After enduring endless ravings, he pieces together the True Creator's oracle from his mind:
"Take… the Painter… My favored one. Aid… his actions… I, awaken."
Mr. Z scans the room, spotting me painting with the blood of others, unperturbed. I smear the floor, crafting an inverted figure bathed in endless light. Though the bloodlines lend the icon a sinister air, Mr. Z instantly recognizes it as our Lord.
"I'll take you out. Follow me," Mr. Z says, transforming into a shadow and flashing to my side, his eyes glinting with ruthlessness. He grabs me, flips a hidden switch, and drags me out. As we escape the basement, he tosses a lit match inside.
Boom!
"I'll draw the heretics away. Favored one, you run!"
Mr. Z unfurls his writhing flesh, luring the approaching Punishers.
(End of Chapter)