To the followers of the cult, the god Krssaksshibal was believed to dwell in dark and gloomy places, making it a merciful deity in their eyes, as it cared for them despite its grim nature.

However, the manifestation of this god appeared as an uncontrollable, powerful explosion. Because of this, the cultists envisioned their god as a mighty avenger.

This image allowed a man named Yasle to easily rise to the position of leader within the cult. His very appearance mirrored the image of the god they believed in.

A towering man filled with thoughts of vengeance. Despite the grotesque tattoos on his face, his demeanor was not violent; rather, he exuded an air of intellect.

Having once been the leader of a religious nation, Yasle knew how to become the idol of people who believed in an intangible god.

Thus, he carefully aligned the image of the god with himself, seamlessly ascending to the leadership of the cult.

Because of this intermingled image, many believed that the form of the god who descended into the world by borrowing the body of a girl would resemble Yasle.

At the very least, they expected it to be just as powerful.

But when the entity spoke, it was entirely different from what they had anticipated.

The words carried the tone of a very young child.

The small doubts that began to arise turned into suspicion when its speech resembled that of a whining child, and eventually, most were convinced.

This was not the god they had hoped for. Moreover, the being that rose from its seat descended to where the offerings were placed and began playing with them.

Smiling innocently, the girl’s naked form leapt atop the offerings—corpses—and stomped on them as she laughed. Bounding from one offering to another, she left footprints on all of them before returning to her original seat.

From start to finish, her face bore a radiant smile. Some began to think:

Did we summon something else?

Perhaps a demon, for instance.

At the very least, they were certain it wasn’t the god they had prayed for. Yet, because this being seemed powerful, they held their breath.

But the girl’s question was devastating.

It shattered their faith entirely.

“What do I do now?”

This simple question led over half of the gathered followers to reject the being before them. Fearing that something dangerous had been summoned, a warrior of faith, prepared in case of emergencies, fired a weapon imbued with curses.

Thunk.

With a sickening sound, the girl’s head was torn apart.

Though the projectile hadn’t struck dead center, the arrow was so large and thick that it shattered half of her skull, scattering fragments of her head across the ground.

And yet, it wasn’t over.

At the very least, the girl, serving as the vessel for the god, should have died. Whatever had entered her body would have returned to where it came from. If luck was on their side, the intruding entity itself might have perished.

Of course, the entity had no intention of impersonating a god in the first place.

The problem was that the being still stood in place.

With only half a face remaining, it smiled brightly as though it felt no pain, extending its right hand toward the one who had fired the projectile.

Following the path of the arrow, a dark, purplish-black smoke materialized. It appeared to trace the arrow’s trajectory in reverse. Keen-eyed onlookers noticed that fine threads of smoke had already connected the two before the main strand reached the attacker.

In other words, there was no escape.

The dark smoke slowly began to seep into the attacker—a member of the cult’s special warrior division, trained for combat.

This “warrior of faith” was, in reality, only a 16-year-old boy. An orphan who had lost his parents and been left to fend for himself on the streets, he had joined the cult as it was the only place that offered him help.

As he underwent the cult’s indoctrination, he grew into a devout follower.

The image of the god taught during his education was not what stood before him now. It was supposed to be grand and mighty, like their leader. Determining that the summoning had failed, the boy fired the crossbow to protect the leader.

But immediately after, he was consumed by a bone-deep cold pain.

Simultaneously, his fingers became stuck to the crossbow, unable to move. Not simply immobile—the boy’s fingers were fused to the weapon.

Beneath his armor, he could see the dark purple smoke invading his body, seeping into his muscles, his bones, and even deeper.

Although his body trembled with cold, his fear was greater than any sensation of freezing.

Down below, he could sense the being that had taken the form of the girl.

Opposite of light.
Endless darkness.
An eternally ravenous void.
The entity beneath despair.

Every description from their scriptures about the god Krssaksshibal came to mind, but they all seemed woefully inadequate.

As his mind was overwhelmed with memories of all his training, joys, sorrows, and anger, even his faintest hope was drawn down into the abyss below.

It was terrifying to witness the theft of everything he held dear.

And then…

It was unbearably cold.

He felt as though he were submerged in water, unable to hear or see anything but darkness. The warmth that had once been his was gone.

I need to find it.

He thought instinctively.

Even as his head was blown off, leaving his body frozen, his mind remained focused on a single emotion.

And he slowly raised his crossbow, aiming it at another person.

The crossbow, now fused with his body, moved slowly. He aimed at the opposite side, ensuring the person across from him wouldn’t notice his intentions.

He needed to distance himself from the entity below. It was too cold, too terrifying. Just looking at it felt like being trapped at the edge of a moonless lake, unable to escape.

What he needed was warmth.

And the source of that warmth was in front of him.

Though he had no second arrow, even if he had one, the crossbow required special tools to reload; no human could pull back its massive bowstring manually.

Yet, the bowstring began to draw itself back, slowly but steadily. From underneath the crossbow, a dark purple arrow materialized, almost as if summoned by his will.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered how this was possible. But that thought was drowned out by the overwhelming expectation of reclaiming the warmth from the person before him.

Give me your light!

Thunk!

The arrow he fired wasn’t comparable to the first. This one, imbued with the dark purple energy, flew straight and pierced through the person across from him.

At the same time, seven other crossbows fired in unison, their bolts ripping through the boy’s body.

While the boy had been aiming at his target, others had been aiming at him. His erratic behavior had raised suspicions, and their fears proved correct.

The bolts should have sent his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless. Instead, his form hung unnaturally in the air, like a broken polygonal character in a malfunctioning game.

The bolts had completely severed the connection between his legs and torso, yet his body remained upright, suspended by an invisible force.

Where his mutilated parts should have been, dark purple mist filled the gaps, holding his form together.

A surge of unease rippled through the room, but it quickly subsided.

The boy’s body slowly descended to the ground, and a viscous, tar-like substance, black and oozing, began to cover him.

The source was the curse imbued in the bolts.

This curse wasn’t designed for ordinary beings. It was created to slay transcendent entities, gods, or deities.

While it wasn’t crafted for major gods like Zeus, Athena, Thor, or Odin, it was effective against minor, less-known deities—like those found in Japanese folklore.

This particular technique had been adapted and refined by Yasle, using knowledge from his previous religion.

It was more than sufficient to kill what remained of the boy.

Though his head was gone, his emotions were clear: relief. He no longer felt cold.

As his consciousness faded, the absence of the unbearable chill filled him with a sense of warmth.

Like someone who had leapt into icy water and then stumbled out, shivering but alive, his soul left his body, free of the torment.

But the incident didn’t end there.

On the other side of the room, another warrior of faith—a girl from the same specialized combat unit—underwent the exact same transformation.

She too began to morph in the same way, though she was swiftly cut down before she could attack.

And amidst the chaos, one individual was exceptionally pleased.

It was the being, now wearing the skin of the sacrificed girl, who skipped in circles around a stone throne.

The portion of her face that had been blown away earlier had fully regenerated, her expression one of pure, childlike joy.

The warmth she had consumed earlier, the light from the boy, was profoundly satisfying.

The difference in quality was stark—like the freshness of sashimi eaten at its source versus the stale taste of supermarket fish.

Compared to the warmth she had consumed from those who died abruptly, the boy’s light was far richer.

And to her delight, the light of the person he had attacked also rolled into her grasp.

Amazing!

Light can be copied!

A path to an infinite supply of warmth was beginning to take shape in her mind.

Still wearing the girl’s form, the entity speculated that injecting herself into someone with light could yield these results.

Her thoughts spun rapidly, driven by the desire to feed. For once, her mind was fully engaged, albeit solely to predict her next meal.

Stopping her gleeful skips, the girl-shaped being turned toward Yasle.

“I’m not Krssaksshibal,” she said.

Yasle felt a sense of grim satisfaction.

What he had suspected was now confirmed.

However, what was most interesting was that neither of them was entirely wrong.

In every world where light existed, an inherent rule dictated the existence of an opposing force.

Krssaksshibal was merely the name given to one such force, shaped into a story and worshiped in this world.

Yasle had succeeded in summoning something real.

But it was not the god of vengeance he had hoped for.

The being looked at him directly with glowing purple eyes, its long hair the same deep violet hue.

“What will you do with this?” she asked.

Her voice was like the whispered temptations of a demon from ancient scripture, Yasle thought.

But whether this was Krssaksshibal or something else didn’t matter to him anymore.

What mattered was whether this being could help him achieve his goal.

“Revenge,” Yasle replied.

The girl smiled brightly. To her, this was an opportunity to stay and gather more warmth.

She extended her hand.

“I am…”

She paused. Her lips moved as though she were about to speak, but her expression turned sour, and she shook her head.

Her name wouldn’t come out. She knew it in her mind and could even read the letters, but for some reason, it refused to be spoken.

Finally, she decided to use the name of the body she occupied.

“Rebecca. Rebecca Rolf.”

Yasle recognized it as the name belonging to the girl’s body.

He replied in kind.

“Hieronymus. That’s my name.”

It wasn’t his real name, but the alias he used within the cult.

The girl and the man shook hands, sealing a contract.

Though a contract built entirely on lies could hardly be called one, it still held power.

Thus, on this day, a cult gained its god.