The Cleric’s First Move

For two glorious days, my life was exactly what it was supposed to be. My official, royally-decreed mission was to be a lazy, useless decoy, and I threw myself into the role with the passion of a true method actor. I spent one entire afternoon conducting a "sanitation inspection" at The Azure Dragon's Hoard, a mission which required me to personally test the cleanliness of their dice and the potability of their ale. For the good of the kingdom, of course.

Back in the office—our so-called "headquarters"—the atmosphere was thick with a seriousness that was cramping my style. Justus had finally departed for the Holy Kingdom, a grim and determined spy on a holy mission. Before he left, he tried to give me a formal blessing for my protection, which I awkwardly dodged, claiming I was allergic to piety. Eliza and Edgar, meanwhile, were so buried in Alistair's financial records that I was beginning to worry they were attempting to build a fortress out of parchment.

This! I thought, as I reclined in my chair, practicing my coin-flipping skills. This is how it always should be. Everyone has a job, and my job is to do nothing. We should keep it this way. No more energy-draining drama.

The universe, being a cruel and uncaring void, did not seem to get my memo.

I was in the middle of the town square, on my way to inspect the structural integrity of a meat-skewer stall, when it happened. The sky, a perfect, cloudless blue a moment before, suddenly darkened. A low hum filled the air, and the bustling crowd of the market fell silent, all looking up in confusion.

In the heavens above, a shimmering, golden circle of light appeared. It expanded rapidly, and from it, the image of a man resolved itself. It was a projection, a magical broadcast a hundred feet tall, looming over the city like a god. It was him. Grand Cleric Alistair.

He looked exactly as I remembered: severe, ancient, and with a face that looked like it had been carved from a particularly judgmental slab of granite.

“People of Lysvalde!” his voice boomed, magically amplified to echo through every street and alley. “I speak to you today not as a foreign dignitary, but as a humble servant of the faith, a guardian of the peace our ancestors fought and died for.”

He started with the usual political fluff, praising the long-standing alliance between the kingdoms and the importance of piety and tradition. It was boring. I was about to leave and get that skewer anyway, but then his tone shifted.

“But I have watched with a heavy heart,” he declared, his voice full of sorrowful gravitas, “as a creeping corruption, a secular rot, has begun to fester in the heart of your noble kingdom. Your king, Edward the Third, a good man but a frivolous ruler, has allowed your sacred traditions to erode, prioritizing spectacle over substance.”

The crowd began to murmur. Badmouthing the king, even one as goofy as Edward, was a bold move. But Alistair was just getting warmed up. His giant, projected eyes then seemed to sweep over the crowd and land directly on me.

“And now, this corruption has a face!” he thundered, his voice ringing with righteous fury. “You have been told to worship a false hero! A charlatan, summoned in a moment of royal incompetence, whose power is chaotic and uncontrolled! A man who calls himself a hero, yet spends his days in gambling dens and bathhouses! A man so shameless, he has brought shame to the old hero legacy, a fiend named Okina Sukebe—the Pervert Hero!”

My blood ran cold. That son of a bitch. He’s using my own branding against me.

“This man’s so-called ‘miracle cure’ is untested, blasphemous alchemy, brewed from filth and chaos!” Alistair’s voice reached a crescendo. “He is not your savior! He is a symptom of your kingdom’s sickness! A destabilizing force sent to poison you with his degeneracy and lead you away from the true path of righteousness!”

The projection faded, and the sky returned to normal. But the city was in an uproar. People were shouting, arguing, looking at me with a mixture of fear, confusion, and suspicion. Alistair had just dropped a bomb, and I was standing at ground zero.

I was immediately summoned back to the castle. The throne room was in chaos. Ministers were shouting. Guards were running around. King Edward was bright red with fury, sputtering about “diplomatic insults” and “slander.”

“We must issue a formal denouncement!” Prime Minister Vince insisted. “A strongly worded rebuttal, to be delivered to the Pontiff by royal courier at once!”

I watched them all run around like headless chickens, and my mind, finely honed by years of surviving online flame wars, saw their mistake.

These guys are trying to fight a PR war with a press release, I thought. Amateurs. This isn't a political debate; it's a flame war. You don’t respond to a viral hit piece with a sternly-worded letter to the editor. You respond with a better, funnier meme.

I stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” I said, my voice cutting through the panic. “A formal rebuttal is exactly what Alistair wants. It’s slow, it’s boring, and it makes you look defensive. You need to fight fire with fire. You need to fight his magic broadcast with one of our own.”

The King looked at me. “And what would you say?”

“Leave that to me,” I said with a grin. “I have some experience with… public relations.”

An hour later, I stood in the Royal Mages’ communication chamber. The sky above the capital darkened once more, and my own giant, projected face appeared for all to see. I looked tired. My hair was a mess. It was perfect.

“Good evening, people of Lysvalde. Okina Sukebe here,” I began, my voice calm and casual. “So, as you all saw earlier, a stuffy old cleric from another country, a guy named Alistair, appeared in the sky and said some pretty mean things about me. Let’s get right to it. He called me a lazy, lecherous fool with questionable morals who spends all his time in bathhouses and gambling dens.”

I paused, letting the silence hang in the air.

“He’s not wrong,” I said.

The entire kingdom seemed to hold its breath.

“But here’s the thing,” I continued, a slow, easy grin spreading across my giant, projected face. “I’m your lazy, lecherous fool. Alistair sits in his golden palace, surrounded by yes-men, talking about ‘sacred trials’ and how suffering is good for you. I’m down here with you, fighting cursed loofahs and making sure your pants get sewn straight. He wants to bring back an age of war and misery. I want to make sure the beer is cold and the drains are clean. So I ask you: who would you rather have on your side?”

I leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “And yeah, he called me the ‘Pervert Hero.’ He thinks that’s an insult. But I’m taking it back. If caring about the health, hygiene, and happiness of the fine, hard-working people in our hospitality district makes me a pervert, then yeah, I’m the Pervert Hero, and I’m damn proud of it!”

The first few laughs began to bubble up from the streets below.

“So, next time you hear some stuffy old bureaucrat from another country telling you that peace is a sickness and that you should be suffering more, just ask yourself one question: has he ever personally un-giggled a tailor for you? Did he invent a potion that can cure your hangover just by looking at it? No? Then maybe he should mind his own business.”

I gave the entire kingdom a lazy two-fingered salute. “Stay safe, stay clean, and don’t let anyone tell you that enjoying your peaceful life is a bad thing. Sukebe, out.”

The projection faded.

Back in the throne room, the Royal Council was in a state of stunned silence. The King looked utterly bewildered. Marie was hiding a very large, very satisfied smirk behind her fan.

Then, reports started flooding in from the city guards. The panic was gone. The confusion had vanished. The city wasn’t in an uproar anymore. It was laughing. Bards in the taverns were already composing a new, slightly obscene anthem for the "Pervert Hero." Alistair’s solemn, holy accusation had been utterly defeated, turned into a kingdom-wide inside joke in the span of five minutes.

I had won the first battle of the information war. Not with dignity, not with honor, but with the ancient, sacred art of the shitpost.

Never underestimate the power of a good meme, I thought, a feeling of deep satisfaction washing over me. Your move, you sanctimonious old bastard.