After successfully establishing my "Nice Guy" persona, it was time to take things up a notch. Anybody can be kind; I wanted to be memorable in a special way. And for that, I would expand a little bit more upon the identity I had assumed in this world-that of the Human Saviour. I would become a disciple of a forgotten God, a Christian zealot in a world that had long discarded the name of Christ.
It began the next morning. Before the bland, nutrient-paste breakfast, I made the sign of the cross over my tray and bowed my head. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen." The words, spoken in a clear, steady voice, cut through the usual morning grumble. Hunters at my table froze, spoons halfway to their mouths, staring.
Within days, my routine was entrenched. I prayed before every meal, I recited the Lord's Prayer during moments of quiet, and I began using my free time outside the castle walls. I would offer a hand to the struggling, telling them, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," or assure a frightened child that, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." To the desperate inhabitants of the Outskirts, I became a strange but welcome beacon of an alien comfort. While I couldn't give much, at least one person got a meal that day.
Inside Bright Castle, I was a spectacle. The Host, in particular, found me hilarious. They'd cross themselves exaggeratedly as I passed, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" in mocking tones. They'd ask me to bless their weapons, snickering. I would just smile or sigh, never taking offense or rising to the bait. They never went particularly hard on me though, since my charity extended to them as well, plus Sasrir was a constant warning over my shoulder.
The reaction from Gemma was the most telling. He caught me on my way to a hunt, quietly murmuring a Psalm. "What in the hells are you on about now, kid?" he asked, his tone a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "Seeking strength in the Lord, sir," I replied calmly. "For He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him." Gemma stared for a second, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You're cracked. But as long as you kill monsters, pray to whatever rock you want." He walked off, shaking his head, and my "mission" was officially tolerated.
For most Hunters, I was free entertainment. They'd watch me as one would a peculiar animal, placing bets on which forgotten Bible verse I'd quote next. "Adam, my socks have a hole! Can your God fix that?" one would yell, and I would reply with utter seriousness, "Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." The laughter was a gift; it cemented their view of me as a harmless holy fool, blinding them to my true intentions.
And that was the difference between me and Nephis in our actions. When Changing Star did it, it was as an outsider, a foreign presence that was exerting influence over the rabble. But when it was me? I was a Hunter, one of Gunlaug's one, plus he probably didn't even know I existed at this point, maybe only as "the guy Sasrir hangs out with". My acts were smaller, my presence far less threatening and my prestige non-existent.
But I still made the difference where I wanted it.
The shift began, starting with the Artisans and Handmaidens. These were the people who mended broken bodies and broken tools, who understood suffering on a visceral level. They saw my actions not as comedy, but as compassion. When I helped an old Artisan, quoting, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me," I saw a flicker of genuine reflection in his eyes. When I assisted a Handmaiden, speaking of the Good Samaritan, her usual weary cynicism softened.
During a long trek, Finn, ever the pragmatist, asked the question on everyone's mind. "This 'God' of yours... you really think He's out there? Listening?" I met his gaze with what I hoped was a look of peaceful conviction. "I believe we are all made in His image, Finn, and that even here, in this darkness, His grace can find us. I have to believe that." It was the perfect, unassailable answer of faith—it required no proof and invited no further debate. He just grunted, and the subject was dropped.
Sasrir observed my performance with his usual silent intensity. One evening, as I returned from the Outskirts, his voice came from the shadows. "This is a dangerous fiction. You offer them a hope you yourself do not possess. The fall from such a height will be severe." His warning was valid, but it missed the point.
"The fall is not for me," I replied, my voice low and stripped of its pious affect. "It's for them. Right now, they see a shepherd. Let them. A shepherd can guide his flock anywhere."
And then there was the Acting side of things: I could feel it, a bubbling sensation that only ever grew stronger as the days passed. From Spectator to Hypnotist, Confession granted a great chance to use my powers and digest the Potion. Plus there was the fact that Sasrir, as a soon-to-be Rose Bishop, needed a religious organization to Act himself. In fact, I had guessed that the lack of one was the reason why he had failed to completely digest his current Sequence. An ascetic had religious connotations after all, not merely someone with temperance.
"I can also feel the change, yes, but it seems to have reached a bottleneck. To advance to Rose Bishop, and you to Psychiatrist, we need to clear the Crimson Spire and return to the Waking World. We have reached the limit as Dormants."
"Don't forget the Soul Cores" I reminded him. "You're only a few away from being a monster, while I'm only half to becoming a Devil. If we can both become Tyrants by the time the Cohort arrive, then we'll be the strongest Awakened on this planet once we wake up."
"Right. Well, good luck with your missionary work."
I would need it, no doubt, as the world of Shadow Slave was one with zero fervour or respect for the divine. It was hard to, I suppose, when it's already confirmed that the Gods are dead and buried, and all around you is a living hell. Still, that only meant I had to try harder.
'And the Curator did say that I could switch Pathways if I found the opportunity...'
Looking down at m chest, the Unshadowed Crucifix glowed softly with a golden light, revealing the small smile on my face. 'Since I already know all the Potion formula up to Dreamweaver, I can switch to Unshadowed and then back, and rely on a Boon from the Uniqueness in my soul to also get the powers of a Manipulator. Sigh, if only I had the Chaos Sea itself, then I could use all five Pathways...'