God and I

Days pass like whispers in a dream.

Elara heads off to her apprenticeship each morning with a bounce in her step and ink stains on her fingertips. She’s been learning new spells—water manipulation, elemental binding, even minor healing techniques. I catch her practicing in the garden, weaving little droplets into dancing rings. That C-Rank water mage, Ravia Sel, turns out to be a diligent teacher—disciplined, no-nonsense, the kind that drills knowledge into bone. Elara responds to it well. Better than I expected. She's working harder than usual. Maybe it’s the thrill of learning, or maybe she’s trying to catch up to someone.

Me? I continue my swordsmanship under Darius whenever he finds time. His style is clean and efficient—built for survival, not flair. I absorb it all. Every step. Every stance. This body still has its limits. Its clumsiness. Its flaws. But I’ll burn through those imperfections, one wound at a time.

And on days when the blade rests, I retreat to silence. The deep kind. Where you can hear your own mana heartbeat.

My training room is just an abandoned shed behind the house—rotting wood, rusted nails, and a broken window that lets in the silver light of dawn. I sit there, shirt soaked in sweat, spine straight, fists pressed together in my lap.

I’ve condensed my mana. Carefully. Painfully. Each time the circle folds tighter, it feels like needles sinking into my chest. But finally, I’ve become a First Circle Mage.

It’s nothing to boast about. The First Circle is where the rest start. Where they dream and fail. I can’t cast fancy explosions or summon winds that cut mountains. But I’m not here for spectacle.

I’m here for control.

You see, they all think magic is reserved for the blessed—those chosen by the gods, branded with crests and kissed by starlight. They worship circles. Rank. Lineage.

But energy…

Mana is just energy.

It’s in the dirt. In the sky. In the weak. In the forgotten corners of the world no one bothers to look at.

And it listens—to those who know how to take.

They’re blind. All of them.

A small vine clings to the base of the shed wall beside me, snaking its way up through a crack in the stone—fragile, vibrant. Its leaves shimmer softly in the slant of early light, like jade brushed with silver.

So small. So innocent.

I reach out.

My palm hovers above it for a moment, feeling the warmth of life pulsing in its stem. Then I lower it—firm, slow—until skin touches leaf. A whisper in my chest. I close my eyes.

Speak to the root.

Mana seeps from me, threads of will wrapping around its core like a velvet noose. The connection is faint at first. Shy.

But I pull.

The vine shivers. Its green flush drains to ash in seconds. The leaves blacken at the edges, curl inward like claws. The stem convulses, cracks, then folds in on itself—dry, brittle, dead.

I absorb it all.

The pulse of its fading life drips into my core like warm venom. My heart slows. The world sharpens. Every breath tastes clearer. The silence settles heavy again.

I stare at the husk.

Just dust and a memory now.

A smile curves across my lips—not wide, not cruel. Just knowing.

“If something can live…” I murmur, voice low, “then it can die.”

My fingers flex. Ash flakes fall from my palm like snow.

“If something can grow…” I step back, letting the remains drift into the soil, “then it can be harvested.”

The breeze shifts. Cold air sighs in through the shattered window, rustling a swirl of dead leaves across the warped floor. It almost sounds like a whisper. Like something listening.

I turn toward the light, golden eyes half-lidded, focused.

“And if it breaks in my hands…” I finish, voice barely a breath, “then it was never strong enough to matter.”

Power hums inside me. Not loud. Not violent. Just... ready. Waiting.

I brush the last crumble of dried root from my palm. It floats down, joins the others. Gone.

“That’s enough for today,” I say, rolling my shoulders once, letting the tension slide away. The weight in my veins is pleasant—dense, slow-burning. “There are bigger fish to fry.”

I step out of the garden’s shade and walk toward the house.

Not rushed.

Not tired.

Just ready.

Inside, light spills through the windows in soft ribbons, painting the wooden floor in gold. Dust dances in the glow like forgotten memories. It’s peaceful. Temporary.

Anara’s in the middle of adjusting Elara’s cloak, tying the hood with a practiced efficiency that only comes from raising someone alone for too long. Her fingers move fast, brisk—but gentle.

Elara stretches her arms out like wings. “Caw!” she grins. “Bird mode engaged.”

Anara sighs, lips twitching. “Elara. Stop flapping like a bird, or you’ll rip the seams.”

“But birds fly,” Elara insists, spinning on one foot. “And today’s boring. Can’t I fly away instead of going to church?”

Her words make Anara snort as she tucks a wild curl behind Elara’s ear. “If I had a coin for every time you said that…” Her voice softens. “Yes, it’s boring. And yes, you’re still going. You’ll survive.”

She turns to me next. Her expression sharpens—big-sister mode, always half a heartbeat away. “Orii, get your cloak. We’re leaving soon.”

I nod once. “Sure.” My voice is smooth. Controlled.

But my mind? Already elsewhere. It’s never really here—not in this house, not in this moment. It swims deeper. Beyond the smell of herbs in the rafters. Beyond this old black cloak hanging from a rusted nail.

I walk to the room. The air inside is cooler. Quieter. The cloak feels rough under my fingers—familiar in the way a dull knife feels familiar. Still sharp enough if you hold it right.

Frayed edge. I make a mental note: I’ll get a new one soon. Better. Something noble. Something fitting.

Outside, the church bells toll. Three long notes. A summons.

The Church.

I stare out the small window for a second. The village paths begin to fill—mothers tightening shawls, children chasing dragonflies in-between steps, old men leaning on canes with carved wolf heads. The sound of leather boots and hushed conversation hums like a ritual.

To them, it’s sacred.

To me? It’s a theater.

I return to the main room, pulling the cloak over my shoulders. The fabric settles across my back like shadow.

“Ready.”

Elara twirls again, hood bouncing wildly. “Look! I’m a forest fairy now!”

Anara laughs. “More like a muddy goblin if you keep spinning like that.”

I walk beside them. No, slightly behind. Watching. Calculating. One hand tucked into my cloak, the other brushing against the hilt of thought. I’m not here for fairy tales.

Elara skips, catching sunbeams like fireflies. One hand in Anara’s, the other stretched into gold.

The village road tightens as we approach the chapel. People bunch together. The scent of sweat, dust, and pine wafts through the air. Conversations blur into murmurs. Words like “blessings,” “sermon,” “Father Eldric,” and “the goddess” float between the crowd.

I see Sister Lili ahead. Her presence is calm, a fixed point. She’s already forming the kids into neat little rows. Her voice cuts through the mess—not loud, just disciplined.

The church looms ahead now. Stone pillars rise into the light, moss curling like fingers around their base. The stained-glass windows shimmer with sunlight—reds, blues, purples—casting divine illusions onto the grass. From the outside, it looks holy.

Inside?

I know better.

Elara tugs my sleeve. “Do you think they’ll tell the story about the moon goddess again?”

Anara scoffs before I can answer. “If they do, you better stay awake this time.”

“I only fell asleep once!” Elara defends, puffing her cheeks.

I smirk. Just slightly. Not for the joke—just for the rhythm of it. The music of routine.

Let them talk about goddesses and heroes.

Let them sing hymns and kiss symbols, hold their palms to the sky and whisper thanks to invisible thrones. Let them worship what they don’t understand.

Because today…

“Orion, Elara!” Sister Lili’s voice slices through the slow rustle of the chapel. She waves us over with one flour-dusted hand, the other smoothing down her apron. “Oliver and the others saved spots for you right up front.”

Elara beams instantly. “Thanks, Sister Lili!”

I give a polite nod. “We’ll head there,” I say, then tug lightly on Anara’s wrist. “Come. Let’s not make them wait.”

She narrows her eyes at me, sharp and assessing. But she doesn’t question. Doesn’t pull away. Just follows, silent and watchful.

The crowd parts like warm butter as I move through. Whispering villagers on wooden benches, all packed into this chapel like sheep under a glass sky. The stained-glass windows above cast long trails of gold, crimson, and sapphire across the pews—holy lies dressed in pretty colors. Incense hangs thick in the air, clinging to skin and memory. Old wood. Polished floors. Stories trapped in scent.

And there they are. The gang. My pawns. My mirrors.

Oliver waves both arms like he’s guiding a caravan. “Over here, you late snails!”

Callen lounges with his boots kicked forward, smug like a prince in exile. “Took you long enough. We nearly sold your seats to the baker’s twins.”

Ethan gives a quiet nod—cool as always. His gaze doesn’t even touch me. It finds Elara first. Every time. “We kept the middle clear. Sit here.”

Mina bounces so hard she nearly falls over. “Ori! Ori!” she squeals, tugging my cloak. “Guess what? Lila’s gonna show her painting today!”

Lila, already blushing, pulls out her slate. Chalk scrapes faintly as she writes:

"Giving it to Father at the end of prayers."

I glance at the clean script. Sharp. Measured. Not a stroke wasted.

I look up at her. She’s glowing at the edges—nervous but excited. The kind of softness people overlook. But I don’t. Quiet, intelligent, emotionally aware. A rare kind of leverage.

I raise my fingers, casually flashing a slow sign:

All the best.

Her eyes go wide. She blinks. Then smiles—soft, grateful, bright. Like I just handed her the moon.

Next to me, Anara suddenly stiffens. “Wait.” Her voice is low but pointed. “Since when do you know sign language?”

I smirk, not even glancing at her. “I just remember the most used ones. Eventually, my hands do the talking on their own.”

She mutters under her breath, half impressed, half unsettled. “Gods, you’re weird.”

Callen, of course, is watching again. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure out what I am under the skin.

I don’t give him the chance.

Because at that moment, a voice rises—deep, sonorous, designed to echo.

“We begin, children of the gods,” Father Eldric intones from the altar. His robes billow slightly as he lifts both hands in prayer. “Let us cast aside sin and open our hearts to the story of light.”

The crowd stills. Chatter fades. Even Oliver hushes—barely.

Colored light spills across the children’s faces. Shards of crimson, gold, and sky-blue. They look up at the altar like it’s a door to heaven.

But me?

I sit back.

Eyes half-lidded. Mind wide open.

Father Eldric walks to the front of the chapel, his robes catching the sunlight pouring through the stained glass, casting gentle halos of color across the gathered children. His voice is soft, almost reverent, like each word carries weight carved from ancient stone.

"Children," he begins, folding his hands, "today, I will tell you the story of the Two Seeds."

A hush falls over the pews. Even the birds outside seem to pause.

"There was once a garden. Not just any garden, but the first garden—the kind planted by the gods before there were kings or coins or wars. In that garden, they planted two seeds. Both were divine. Both held power beyond comprehension."

His gaze moves across the orphans, resting on each one for a breath longer than needed. He does not look at you, Orion, but the pause before his next words feels deliberate.

"One seed was called Mercy. The other, Dominion."

Mina leans forward. Lila sits still, eyes wide, slate resting untouched.

"The gods told the seeds this: You will grow as you choose. But know this: how you grow will shape the fate of the world."

He raises a finger. "Mercy grew slow. Its roots dug deep. It reached toward other plants, feeding their roots, shielding their leaves from wind. It let itself wither in winter, so the soil could rest. It fed worms. It let children pluck its fruit and never once complained."

A beat.

"Dominion... grew fast. Its vines coiled around others, draining them. It stretched tall and wide, taking the light for itself. It bore fruit, yes, but poisoned fruit—fruit that made those who ate it want more and more until they starved beside full plates."

He lets the silence linger.

"In time, Dominion’s vines reached Mercy. It choked her roots. Drank her water. And still, Mercy said, I forgive you. She didn’t fight back. She opened her last flower and gave it to a dying child."

His voice drops to a whisper.

"And that child… became the last hope of the world."

He straightens.

"You see, children—true power is not what you take. It is what you choose to give, even when no one sees. Dominion thought it won. But it died alone, twisted, forgotten. While Mercy lives on… in every hand that heals instead of harms."

He turns slowly to the altar.

"The gods test us not by asking, 'How much can you gain?' but, 'What are you willing to lose to make others whole?'"

He kneels.

"Be the hand that heals. Be the root that shares. Be the one who chooses Mercy, even when the world tempts you with Dominion."

A child sniffles. Someone wipes tears.

But not me.

I sit still.

Because I already know which seed I am are.

And I have no intention of being anything else.

As Father Eldric’s final words echo from the altar below, I slip away. Quiet. Focused. Just like I planned.

Sister Lili moves toward the back hall, clutching her apron as she hurries toward the old staircase leading up to the belfry. Her steps are brisk—ritual muscle memory. She does this every week. Right before the last prayer ends.

Timing is everything.

I catch up with her just as she reaches the door.

“Sister,” I call softly. “Can I come see the bell today? Just once. I’ve never seen it up close.”

She pauses mid-step, frowning. “It’s not a place to play, Orion. It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “I’ll just look. I won’t touch anything.”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine. But stay close. And listen when I say stop.”

I nod, eyes wide, voice calm. “Of course.”

The stairs creak beneath our feet as I follow Sister Lili up the narrow spiral leading to the belfry. Dust dances in the slivers of golden light piercing through the cracks in the wooden slats. She’s in a hurry, her pace light, practiced.

"Stay close," she warns, her voice brisk but kind. "Don’t touch anything."

I nod. My breath is steady. My fingers twitch slightly.

The moment we step into the bell chamber, the air changes. It’s quiet—too quiet. The village's low chatter fades, replaced by the distant hum of the world below. The massive iron bell hangs from the rafters, swaying ever so gently. The thick rope dangles from its heart like a vein waiting to be tugged.

The bell is—massive, iron, ancient. Its surface is pitted and grim, painted in age and neglect. A thick, coiled rope dangles from its center like the spine of a dead god. The goddess’s symbol is etched faintly across the bronze—two curved wings surrounding a flickering flame.

She unties the coiled rope and pulls it gently. The mechanism groans.

I drift toward the center, eyes fixed on the underside of the bell. The metal is dark, speckled with rust and cobwebs. Its surface bears the engraving of the goddess’s symbol—two wings cupping a flame.

I step beneath it.

Sister Lili notices. "Orion!" she scolds, sharp now. "What are you doing down there? That’s dangerous!"

I tilt my head up innocently, raising a finger. "But Sister, there’s a bird's nest inside. Look."

She pauses. Her expression softens into confusion. "Nest?" she murmurs.

She hesitates. Then sighs and stoops to walk under the bell herself. Her blonde hair brushes the rim as she leans forward, squinting into the dark hollow of the great bell.

She never seen it.

She scold me and says go away form the bell

And she comes to check for it

She bends and couches and walk slowly in between

And she sees up

Suddenly she sense

A sickening crack—metal unshackled. The bell shifts, then plunges with a thunderous scream of steel.

She senses it too late.

Sister Lili jerks back with a gasp, arms raised to shield her face. But she’s still beneath its arc.

I move—too fast, too instinctive. My hand reaches up, trying to stop it.

CRASH.

The impact tears through my body.

The bell slams onto the floor with a boom that echoes across the belfry like divine wrath.

A wet snap splits the air. My arm—caught between metal and stone.

I don’t feel it. Not immediately.

The world tilts. I stare down.

One half of my hand lies limp beneath the edge of the bell, fingers crushed, curled like broken twigs.

The other half—still attached to me—trembles.

[Sister Lili’s Perspective]

The bell chamber smells of rust and dried prayers—like the ghosts of sermons echoing in old wood. It clings to my robes, my throat. I crouch low beneath the great bronze shape, the faint golden light casting halos through the dust. The edges of the bell stretch above me like the maw of a god.

“There’s nothing here,” I murmur, squinting into the shadows. “Orion, this isn’t—”

A sound.

A breath.

Not mine.

The rope groans above me—a deep, fibrous creak like bones being twisted out of alignment. I freeze. My heart skips.

Then comes the shift.

That scream of strained metal, ancient hinges twisting loose. A sudden, awful awareness blooms in my chest—

It’s falling.

My arms shoot up. I try to twist away. My feet skid on the stone.

Too late.

The world implodes.

A deafening CRASH devours the room.

My body slams into the floor, my ribs crack, the air ripped from my lungs. But I don’t feel the weight on my legs. I don’t feel anything below my ribs.

I blink—once, twice—and see it.

The bell.

Half my body beneath it. Crushed.

I try to move my legs.

Nothing.

Nothing.

A strangled sound escapes my throat. I gasp—but there’s no breath. Just cold. A biting, creeping cold spreading from my core.

And warmth.

Too much warmth.

My stomach… is wet.

My hand reaches out. Scraping against the floor like it’s trying to hold the world still. My mind can’t understand what my body already knows.

Then I see him.

Orion.

Kneeling by the bell, blood trailing down his arm, his hand shattered and trembling from the effort of trying to stop it.

Trying.

At least… that’s what I think.

Until I see his eyes.

He’s not in pain.

He’s delighted.

His mouth twitches.

He’s laughing.

No. No.

That’s not laughter. It’s something else—mockery. Something inhuman hiding behind a boy’s face. Behind his bruises and cuts and carefully placed concern.

That smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

It devours.

“Orion…?” I whisper. My voice is broken glass. “W-why…?”

He tilts his head. Curious. Calm. He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he places his remaining hand over my chest—fingers gentle, reverent even.

Too gentle.

And then I feel it.

My blood.

It’s… moving.

Not spilling.

Being pulled.

Drawn.

Harvested.

A slow, methodical siphoning of my life. Not magic. Not holy. Something older. Something darker.

I stare into his golden eyes and see nothing of the boy who once asked me how prayers work.

Only hunger.

Vast.

Endless.

Insatiable.

And in that moment, I understand.

He didn’t save me from the bell.

He placed me beneath it.

This wasn’t an accident.

This was a choice.

My chest rises once—twice. Then starts to stutter. My breath shallows. My vision fades at the edges like burnt paper.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes—not for me, but for the children. For Elara. For the village. For the world that still believes he’s human.

My blood. It’s not leaking out. It’s moving. Upward. Drawn.

Drawn into him.

The sensation is cold. Not physical, not magical. Something deeper. Like my soul is bleeding in reverse.

My heart pounds—not in rhythm. Not in panic. But from raw, helpless terror.

I try to lift my arms. They twitch. Weak. Boneless. My fingertips can’t even curl.

And yet… my eyes stay open.

So I see him.

Orion.

Kneeling beside me like a mourner at a grave he dug himself.

He watches with fascination. No malice. No hatred.

Just… interest.

He tilts his head slightly. Like he’s reading me. Measuring how long I’ll last. How much I’ll give. How far my body will stretch before it tears.

That smile—thin, curved, delicate—never touches his eyes.

His eyes burn gold.

And behind them?

Nothing but hunger.

Bottomless, silent hunger.

He isn't horrified by what he's doing. He isn’t even hiding it.

He’s enjoying it.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. Not to me. Not for me. Like a scholar examining an insect pinned under glass. “Even the holy ones break the same.”

My breath hitches.

I taste blood at the back of my throat.

My pulse flutters, fading.

He presses harder, the gesture now unmistakable—claiming. Not healing. Not helping. Harvesting.

The goddess’s bell stands behind him like a monument. The very symbol of purity.

And this thing kneels beneath it, draining what little I have left.

It’s not death that frightens me.

It’s him.

Orion is looking at me like I’m a puzzle… or worse—a tool.

My vision flickers. Colors bleach into gray. My chest no longer rises.

And still… he drinks it in.

Silent. Patient.

A boy, they’ll say.

A child, they’ll believe.

But I know the truth now.

This isn’t a child.

This is a demon dressed in skin and sweetness.

And he’s only just begun.

I want to scream. I need to scream. But no sound escapes.

So I do the only thing I have left.

I pray.

“Goddess,” I whisper in the hollow of my breaking mind, “please… not for me. For them. For the world. Please stop him. Please… stop this devil.”

And darkness takes me.

The warmth of her blood seeps into my hand.

It pulses—divine, radiant, sacred.

Holy magic. Sanctified essence.

It’s beautiful.

I exhale slowly as the last of her breath escapes. Her eyes are wide. Empty. And yet I can still see the ghost of realization in them.

She finally understood.
What I am.

Not a boy. Not a child. Not a sinner.

A devourer.

I rise slowly, hand drenched in red, then they step forward one by one.

Light appears first, draped in white robes, trembling, bathed in a failing glow. His voice is soft, weak, like the last flicker of a dying lantern.

Light (pleading, broken):
“Why… why did you do this, Orion? She trusted you. She prayed for you.”

I stare through him. The blood on my hand steams slightly in the morning light.

Mr. Average stumbles into view next. Dirt-smudged. Tearstained. The everyman in me, the guilt, the remnants of innocence. He drops to his knees beside her corpse and shakes, pressing his trembling fingers to her neck.

Mr. Average (sobbing):
“She called you her miracle! Her boy! You were supposed to protect them…”
“WHY, Orion?”

His voice cracks like splintering bone. I say nothing. I watch him crumble.

Fear creeps along the walls of my mind, eyes darting, voice a hiss.

Fear (panicked):
“They’re coming. They’re coming! They’ll see her. They’ll see YOU. You’ll burn. You’ll be buried—alive!”

He claws at the edges of the bell room, trying to flee from his own imagination. I can feel his terror leaking into my limbs, making my hands twitch.

But I don’t move.

Dark saunters into the circle. She’s barefoot, blood trailing from her lips as she giggles—a shadow in the shape of a girl.

Dark (delighted):
“Oh, darling… look at her. Crushed. Split. Beautifully ruined.”
“Do it again. Please.”

She licks her finger, dips it into the blood, and paints a smile across her cheek.

I smirk faintly. Dark always gets it.

Logic steps out next, precise and cold. No emotion. No judgment. Just conclusions.

Logic (measured):
“Impact radius confirms the bell’s fall trajectory. Rope failure was staged. Evidence buried beneath moral context.”
“Conclusion: Escape impossible. Fall is imminent. You have three seconds.”

He looks to the open shaft with mathematical certainty.

Hope floats above the corpse. Ethereal. Bruised. Wings broken.

She stares directly at me. Her voice is like ash.

Hope (whispers):
“You were supposed to be more. You were supposed to lead them—not destroy them.”
“You’re the killer. You did this.”

Her eyes shimmer with the pain of a dream slain in its sleep.

And then the final one descends.

Chaos.
Void-purple robes. A spiral crown. He dances on the tips of his fingers like gravity is a game.

Chaos (sing-song):
“Oooooh, Greed, you broke the toy again.”
“But it’s okay. Let’s play with the pieces, yes?”

He laughs, spinning, twirling in circles.
Then stops—suddenly still—and leans close.

Chaos (quiet):
“Orion... what if the next one fights back?”*

They’re all screaming now. Judging. Begging. Shrieking. Mocking. Praying.

A theater of fractured selves.

But I?

I just smile.

Because I am The Greed.

The moment Mr. Average lunges—when his fingers clutch my collar and his eyes scream betrayal—I don’t fight it.

I let him grab me.

I want him to look at me.

I want him to understand.

His face is soaked in grief. His hands shake.
He’s not strong enough to kill me.
But he wishes he was.

Mr. Average (voice breaking):
“Stop this! Why?!”

I tilt my head slowly, the air thick with tension.

My voice cuts through it like a blade.
Quiet. Cold. Final.

Greed (whispers):
“It was necessary.”

The words aren’t an excuse. They’re a verdict.

A sentence.

He reels back like I slapped him—but his grip holds. His fingers tremble. The others freeze behind him, like statues of judgment.

Their eyes burn into me.

All of them.

Fear's breath stutters.

Light clasps his hands like a mourning priest.

Hope falls to her knees.

Even Chaos, wide-eyed, mutters: “…you’re really going to do it.”

But I’m already stepping back.

One foot.

Then another.

The shaft is behind me now.
A mouth. Waiting.

Voices thunder outside.
Boots stomp against wooden stairs.
Screams. Confusion.

And then—he appears.

Father Eldric.

He shoves past the crowd like a boulder breaking tide.

His eyes—sharp, trembling, desperate—fall on Sister Lili’s lifeless body, crushed beneath bronze and blood.

Then on me.

Standing.

Swaying.

Blood running from my hands like ink down holy parchment.

He can’t breathe.

And that’s when I speak.

My voice isn't loud.

It doesn't need to be.

But it slices through the silence with a predator’s precision.

Greed (low, deliberate):
“Now it’s your turn, Eldric.”
“Will you run to the corpse?”
“Or save the monster?”

I smile—wide and wolfish.

Greed (final whisper):
“Let’s see what you choose.”

And I fall.

Backwards.

The wind rushes past my ears like a scream of judgment.

I hear them shout—my name, curses, prayers—none of it matters now.

My body twists in the air, limbs flailing like a marionette loosed from its strings.

And just before the impact rushes to meet me—

I think:

This is what freedom feels like.

Not salvation.

Not redemption.

But ruin.

And it's beautiful.