I may not have been their god, but it seemed they liked me well enough.

The man who called himself Hieronymus escorted me to a stone chair, seated me there, and bowed deeply, declaring that their answer had come.

The surrounding cultists, who had been scurrying about in confusion, followed suit, bowing in unison.

With their faces hidden as they bowed, it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. However, I licked the fallen "warriors of faith"—both the boy and the girl—and managed to get a general sense of the situation.

While I absorbed warmth from the corpses below, they were already so cold that little remained of their memories.

It was like watching a buffering video: unbearably choppy, skipping entire moments and jumping around. Every ten seconds, something would appear, but piecing together any context was impossible.

So, I only took their warmth.

But those two were different.

From their memories, I managed to learn the name of this cult.

Future Hope Sect.

What a straightforward name. It wasn’t so much a cult that worshipped a unique deity as it was a pseudo-religion created for personal gain.

I’d heard that as cults evolve, they tend to separate their deity from their leader. In essence, the "god" becomes a figurehead, while the leader reaps the actual benefits.

This division prevents the cult from collapsing with the leader, addressing the so-called "owner risk."

By splitting the object of worship from the source of wealth, it also becomes easier to pass the cult down through generations, as one might with a family business.

Here, the mysterious phenomenon was positioned as their "god," and they used it to attract followers.

They demanded exorbitant donations, exaggerated their proselytizing efforts to isolate followers socially, and crushed any sense of independence through repeated failure.

Once branded as a member of the cult, escape became impossible. The masks they wore to cover their faces also served to suppress horizontal relationships among the members.

Every relationship had to flow vertically—from the top down. This structure was incredibly effective.

Psychologically tormenting individuals, severing their connections with others, and forcing them to look only to those above them—this was no different from the work of skilled torturers.

But I disliked it.

Stripping people down like this robbed their light of its warmth.

From my experience, light brimming with hope carried warmth akin to heat. How could I make it shine brighter?

Even with their faces obscured by cloth and masks, if their eyes were turned toward me, I could see their expressions clearly.

Roughly half of them harbored discontent. Yet, none openly voiced it, likely due to the commanding charisma of Hieronymus.

He must have been quite capable.

I was curious about how he would use the abilities I offered him.

Surely, someone with deeper knowledge and expertise than me could come up with more elaborate plans.

While I considered injecting my power into him directly, I dismissed the idea.

A goose that lays golden eggs must be nurtured patiently, not butchered in haste.

So, I followed Hieronymus obediently.

He declared the ceremony complete, proclaiming that their savior had arrived—a shallow lie he didn’t even believe himself.

As a result, not many people seemed fooled.

The ultimate skill of a liar is believing their own lies, but Hieronymus hadn’t reached that level yet.

He led me to a place unknown even to the so-called warriors of faith.

Warriors of faith.

As we passed by, I examined them carefully.

To taste warriors who would lay down their lives for their god—how unexpectedly abundant their warmth was.

The cold core within me still hadn’t thawed, but perhaps with enough warmth, I could melt it away.

When Hieronymus brought me to a room at the heart of the underground complex, I wasn’t surprised at all.

“Rebecca Rolf, will you truly use that name?”
“Names are necessary to designate individuals, are they not?”
“I thought gods valued names greatly.”

Do names hold importance?

Perhaps they do. Many of the major religions I’d observed had prohibitions against speaking their gods’ names carelessly or attributed power to names.

So I replied:

“I am not a god. I’m simply colder than others and need warmth. That’s all I require.”

I didn’t even need a name. I’d only taken this body’s name because it would’ve been inconvenient otherwise. Unlike consuming light, I could recall memories from this body through my mind.

Might as well use it properly.

Emotions?

I could think of the person before me as hateful or frightening, but such feelings paled in comparison to the cold.

In essence, they didn’t matter.

“So, Hieronymus. Do you want me to play god?”

Before doing anything else, I wanted to clarify my next steps, so I asked him directly. He pondered for a long time before answering.

“No. You’ve already revealed your name. If we start calling you Krssaksshibal now, no one will believe it.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Do as you please.”

With those words, Hieronymus appeared deep in thought. Though outwardly his expression seemed stoic, I could see through him.

Light cannot be concealed.

“Do as you wish. Lend us your strength when necessary.”

When necessary.

That meant when he needed me, not when I needed him. I had to make my terms clear.

“Bring me those with strong faith. I need warmth.”

It was unbearably cold.

Even though I had restrained myself and accumulated far more warmth than ever before, my heart still felt frozen.

A fleeting question passed through my mind—whether this endless quest for warmth would ever truly satisfy me. I ignored it.

Better to keep seeking warmth than to sink into the depths of that void, feeling the unending chill grow ever colder.

“Please wait. I’ll bring someone shortly,” Hieronymus replied, his voice betraying faint traces of disgust and fear.

He left the room, leaving me alone.

Left alone, I surveyed the room. Numerous extinguished candlesticks lined the walls, their wax dripping onto wooden furniture. At the center, arranged in a radial pattern, stood a platform that drew all focus toward a single point.

Or perhaps it was more appropriate to call it an altar.

A prayer room, it seemed, but an incredibly small one.

This didn’t appear to be a place where the entire congregation gathered to pray. It was likely a space reserved for someone special.

That seemed reasonable enough. While I understood the general structure of pseudo-religious cults, I didn’t know every detail. Still, I assumed the upper echelons were more focused on wealth accumulation than on worship. Yet, seeing this space made me reconsider.

Then again, I was reminded of a certain cult in a comic where their white-hooded leaders loved inscribing repetitive symbols before being obliterated by the story’s hero.

Obsession is something anyone can fall into.

However, Hieronymus wasn’t the kind of person to lose himself in blind devotion. As the leader of this cult, he regarded it with cold detachment.

He used it only because it was useful to him.

In that sense, it seemed like the cult’s system suited someone like him—a system built for exploitation.

As I pondered, thoughts continued swirling in my mind.

This was new.

In the past, I’d simply reached out to lights, bursting them to absorb their warmth as they sank into the void. It was like an archerfish spitting water to knock prey from above.

Compared to the days when I could do nothing but observe from below, this was monumental progress.

And yet, if I missed this opportunity, I didn’t know if I’d ever manage to exist in a corporeal form again, let alone set foot in this world.

This could be my one and only chance.

So I had to use it well—ideally, forever.

Though I had no desire to play at being a god, I realized it might be a necessary part of my strategy moving forward.

I thought about the gods who remained silent while I screamed in the dark. If they truly existed, I’d like to see their faces one day.

But compared to my need for warmth, such desires were a low priority. I pushed them aside for a later time—once I had the stability to consider them.

As I carefully outlined my plans for the future, a knock echoed through the room.

Then, a man’s voice.

It was Hieronymus. He had returned.

When I called out for him to enter, he walked in, accompanied by an elderly woman draped in plain, worn cloth.

Compared to the warriors of faith in the third circle I had seen earlier, this woman seemed of even lower rank. Even they had symbols embroidered on their robes. While she had removed her mask to look at me, the sheer number of followers in this cult seemed larger than I’d expected.

It was a far bigger organization than I had anticipated.

“Oh, Krssaksshibal…!”

The moment she saw me, the woman dropped to her knees and bowed so deeply her head touched the floor.

Ah.

So Hieronymus had deceived her into thinking I was a god.

But her light was small, her warmth faint. She was a person utterly consumed by despair.

A person whose hope was so fragile that clinging to the idea of a god was all she had left.

Her body bore no signs of health. She was missing fingers, and her skin was swollen with edema. As I examined her, I noticed Hieronymus observing me carefully, his gaze appraising.

The look of a man watching an animal he intended to raise.

An old, sickly woman. But she had faith. His gaze seemed to ask: Would this creature be worth feeding to their god? If this offering could sustain me, it would make for a cheap and easy way to maintain me.

How amusing.

Hmm…

What to do?

This felt like neglect. The light was too dim.

But it might be worth experimenting. Until now, when I reached out from below, lights had always burst instantly. However, now that the light was right in front of me, and I could speak to it, perhaps another path existed.

I approached the elderly woman and took her hand.

“I am not Krssaksshibal,” I said.

First, I wanted to break her assumptions.

The moment I grasped her hand, her body flinched, and despair spread across her face. Next came confusion—doubt directed at me.

“I am a cold ocean, longing for warmth from the depths below.”

In truth, sincerity came effortlessly to me, even when I didn’t mean it.

“I have no power to grant wishes.”

Yes, the only thing here was me. If I had such power, I might have run around declaring myself the protagonist of some fantastical reincarnation tale. Or perhaps I could have been like those novels where a monster becomes the hero.

But I wasn’t that type. I wasn’t high quality.

“All I can offer is myself, so I give myself to you.”

A faint tendril of dark purple mist—no, my very being—extended from my hand, touching her.

The moment it came into contact with her light, I resisted the urge to devour it for its warmth.

Sowing seeds required patience and effort.

I pushed myself into her. Having done something similar earlier, I felt more confident now.

“In return, when you complete all your tasks, I will take everything you have,” I said.

The woman, her expression blank and dazed, slowly nodded. As she agreed, the dark purple mist began to seep into her.

Agreement enabled absorption. Yet, until now, every attempt had ended with my hosts bursting apart.

Please don’t burst.

Please, just hold together.

Be my tenant.

Crack.

What? Is she breaking apart?

A crack appeared on the woman’s face. But instead of shattering completely, a new layer of smooth, white skin emerged beneath.

Her name flickered clearly in my mind: Joanna Smith.

Born the daughter of a landlord, she married into a prestigious family. But her husband turned out to be abusive, and after losing her child to a miscarriage, she was abandoned. Broken and homeless, she drifted until joining the Future Hope Sect thirty years ago, where overwork and exploitation ravaged her body.

Clatter.

Fragments of her old, cracked skin fell to the ground, revealing a younger, revitalized body.

It was as if she’d shed a plaster cast, emerging as a rejuvenated woman. Her skin was unnaturally pale, but she had clearly not only healed but grown younger.

Her light, now tinged with a dark hue, still carried warmth.

Good. The seed has been planted.

The next step would be to nurture it.

“Joanna Smith. How do you feel?” I asked.

She touched her newly transformed skin with trembling hands before prostrating herself on the ground, her forehead pressed firmly to the floor.

Even before she spoke, I knew what her answer would be.

“I will follow and serve you for the rest of my life.”

Heh.

I’d gained a tenant.