The temples were growing restless.
Adrian's Internet had spread across kingdoms, reshaped education, revolutionized communication, and redefined divine engagement. But it had done so without altars, sermons, or sacred rituals. For the old gods, this was heresy.
In Arcantor's capital, the High Temple convened an emergency council. Priests from every major faith gathered to discuss the growing crisis. Attendance was high—but so was tension.
"He's siphoning prayers," said the High Priest of Light. "Our offerings have dropped by half."
"He's replacing doctrine with apps," added the Oracle of Flame. "People no longer ask for guidance. They ask for updates."
The debate raged for hours.
Some called for resistance—ban the Internet, declare it blasphemy, warn the people of divine punishment. Others argued for adaptation—collaborate with Adrian, integrate temple teachings into the App Store, preserve relevance.
A few proposed a third path: competition.
Temples would launch their own divine systems, their own apps, their own coin economies. But none had Adrian's infrastructure, his AI, or his user base. They were trying to build castles in the shadow of a skyscraper.
Meanwhile, Adrian watched from his cabin.
He didn't interfere. He didn't respond. He simply updated the system.
He added a new feature: [Faith Sync].
It allowed users to link their Internet account to any temple they still supported. Prayers would be split—80% to Adrian, 20% to the temple. In return, users received hybrid blessings and access to temple-specific content.
It was a peace offering.
Some temples accepted. They launched apps, submitted blessing packs, and joined the Divine App Store. Others refused, declaring Adrian a false god. But their influence continued to wane.
The people had made their choice.
They didn't want sermons.
They wanted systems.
And Adrian's Internet was the only divine infrastructure that delivered.