Chapter 5

I wasn’t their god, but it seemed like I was somewhat to their liking.

Hieronymus, a man, took me and led me to a stone chair where he made me sit. Then he bowed his head, declaring that our answer had come down.

The surrounding heretics, who had been restless, followed suit and bowed as well.

With their heads bowed, I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. Still, by licking the memories of the boy and girl warriors of faith—what an absurd title—I roughly grasped the situation around me.

I gained some warmth from the corpse below, but it was already quite cold, so while there was warmth, there weren’t any clear memories.

It’s like watching a video that hasn’t fully loaded; it lagged horribly, with parts jumping around. Every ten seconds, something new would appear, making it impossible to follow the context.

So, I just ended up taking the warmth.

But these two were different.

From their memories, I barely managed to figure out the name of this heretical sect.

Future Hope Church.

What a straightforward name. It’s less about believing in a special deity and more like a cult created for personal use.

Originally, as cults develop, they tend to separate the deity from the leader. In other words, they appoint a figurehead while the leader takes the most important things.

Because if everything focuses on the leader, the cult can easily falter when the leader changes—commonly known as “owner risk.”

But separating the object of belief from the source of benefits makes things convenient later on, like when passing the cult down through generations.

Here, they’ve kept a mysterious entity as their deity while gaining followers.

They demand excessive amounts of money, push exaggerated proselytizing that ruins people’s social lives, and break their independence through continuous failures.

Once labeled as part of a cult, stepping outside becomes nearly impossible. And wearing masks over their faces is also effective—it prevents horizontal relationships among believers. Relationships must flow vertically, top-down, which is far more effective.

They mentally torment and isolate members, making them only look up to those above them.

These tactics are exactly like torturers.

I don’t like it.

When you strip someone down like that, the light loses its warmth.

Based on my experience licking light, hope brings warmth closer to heat. How do you amplify that?

Even if someone wears a robe or a mask, if their gaze is directed here, I can read their expressions completely.

About half seem dissatisfied, but thanks to Hieronymus’ strong charisma, they don’t show it outwardly.

He must be competent.

I wonder how this man plans to use the abilities I possess. He likely knows much more specialized knowledge than someone like me with shallow understanding, allowing him to devise more meticulous plans.

Of course, I considered directly infusing my power into him, but decided against it.

You don’t cut open the goose that lays golden eggs—you nurture it patiently.

So, I obediently followed Hieronymus.

At the end of the ritual, Hieronymus delivered a cheap lie about our savior arriving. He said it calmly, even though he didn’t believe it himself.

Not many fall for it.

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

He took me somewhere unknown to the warriors of faith.

Warriors of faith…

As I passed by, I carefully observed them. I never expected to encounter such zealots willing to die for their deity, but they have a surprising amount of warmth.

It’ll be warm going forward!

My body still feels frozen to the core, but if I can gain more warmth, maybe I can ease this chill.

That’s why I wasn’t surprised when Hieronymus brought me to a room at the center of an underground cavern.

“Rebecca Rolfe. Are you really going to use that name?”

“A name is necessary to refer to the subject.”

“I thought gods valued names highly.”

Do names matter?

Maybe they do. Many large religions I know discourage calling deities by their names lightly, claiming names hold power.

So…

“I’m not a god. I’m just colder than others and need warmth. Nothing else matters to me.”

Names aren’t necessary either. I just borrowed one to avoid inconvenience when called. It’s different from licking light, but it helps my brain recall memories.

Use it wisely.

Feelings?

You might feel hatred or fear toward the person in front of you, but compared to the cold, it’s nothing.

Might as well consider it nonexistent.

“Hieronymus, do you want me to pretend to be a god?”

Before deciding what to do next, I asked Hieronymus. After pondering for a while, he spoke.

“No. You’ve already revealed your name. If we start calling you Cruxshibal now, no one will believe it.”

“So, what should we do?”

“Whatever you want.”

After saying that, Hieronymus looked deep in thought. Of course, to outsiders, his expression appeared rigid, and back when I was human, I’d have thought it was blank.

But now, I see through it.

Light isn’t obscured.

“Do whatever you wish. Just lend me your power whenever needed.”

Whenever needed…

That’s not when I need it, but when Hieronymus does. So, I need to say this:

“Bring someone with deep faith. I need warmth.”

I’m freezing.

I’m holding back, but enduring this cold is unbearable. Even after gaining more warmth than before, my heart remains icy.

A fundamental question arises: Will obtaining warmth make my heart warm? But I ignore it.

Rather than losing this and sinking into eternal, increasing coldness, I prefer gaining even a little more warmth.

“Please wait a moment. I’ll bring someone right away.”

Disgust, fear, and faint hatred rose briefly, then Hieronymus left me alone in the room.

Looking around, there were several extinguished candle stands, wooden chairs arranged radially focusing on a podium—or should I call it an altar?

It’s a prayer room, but it’s small.

It doesn’t seem like all the believers gather here. This place seems reserved for special individuals.

That seems reasonable. Though I knew the general structure of cults, I assumed the upper levels only celebrated accumulating wealth. But looking at this, it seems that’s not always the case.

Unless… thinking of a certain cult obsessed with white hoods evaporated by manga heroes, it might not always be like that.

Immersion can happen to anyone.

But Hieronymus isn’t someone who immerses himself. He views his own religion coldly, using it because it’s necessary.

Someone like that could utilize the system far better. A cult system.

I kept thinking.

This is the first time.

Previously, I extended my hands like a fish shooting water jets to knock down bugs and eat them, grabbing warmth as the light burst.

Compared to the days when I could only watch helplessly, this is great progress.

And missing this opportunity might mean never getting a physical form or stepping into this world again.

It could be a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

If necessary, I might have to include pretending to be a god in my plans, even though I don’t want to.

If the gods who ignored my screams exist, I’d like to see their faces someday.

But compared to warmth, that’s a lower priority, so I pushed it aside for now.

While carefully planning my rough direction for the future…

There was a knock on the door, followed by a male voice.

It’s Hieronymus.

He returned.

Answering to let him in, he entered with a woman.

The woman was covered in plain cloth—an old woman.

Were there ranks lower than the third circle? Even they had patterns on their clothes. Removing her mask upon seeing me, she still seemed older than expected.

This is a much larger cult than anticipated.

“Oh, Lord Cruxshibal…”

She immediately knelt and bowed upon seeing me.

Ah.

So, he tricked her into thinking I’m a god. The light is weak, and the warmth is minimal. A human utterly despairing.

Hope is so small that she clings entirely to her deity—a broken person.

Her body shows no signs of health—missing fingers, swollen skin.

Meanwhile, the man who brought her watched me with an observing gaze.

Like someone inspecting livestock.

An old, sick woman. But she has faith. Would this animal consume this poor offering well? Perhaps feeding it something relatively worthless would allow it to grow cheaply. Ha, hilarious.

Hmm.

Ugh.

What to do…

This is neglect. Too weak.

But it might be worth experimenting. Until now, whenever I reached out from below, it exploded instantly. But now, since I’m here and can speak…

I approached and grabbed her hand.

“I am not Cruxshibal.”

Let’s break it.

Her hand twitched, then a heavy despair spread across her face. Next came doubt about me.

“I am the cold ocean from the depths, seeking warmth.”

It’s actually a powerful weapon. Sounds casual, but it carries sincerity!

“I don’t have the power to grant wishes.”

Yeah, only I exist. If I had power, I might have shouted about harems like some fantasy reincarnation protagonist. There are novels with star-born monsters as protagonists, so maybe that could work too.

I’m on the low-quality side.

“All I can offer is myself.”

A faint purple mist escaped from my hand—not my flesh? It touched her. Despite wanting to snatch warmth upon contact with light, I restrained myself.

Effort is required to sow seeds.

I pushed myself in.

Just like before.

“In return, when you finish everything, I’ll take everything you have.”

Following my words, the old woman slowly nodded with a dazed expression. As I gave the same force, the purple mist was absorbed into her.

Agreement leads to absorption! Before, it just exploded.

Please don’t explode.

Please don’t explode.

Become my tenant!

Drip.

What? It’s exploding?

Cracks appeared on the woman’s face. Oh, I can see her name. No, I can see her gaze. I looked at her, and she looked at me.

Joanna Smith.

Born as the daughter of a landlord, she married into a good family, but her husband turned out to be cruel, abusing her until she miscarried and was abandoned. Her mind shattered, she wandered the streets and joined Future Hope Church thirty years ago.

Only one woman remains, worn out by hard labor in this cult.

Crack.

A piece of her face fell to the floor, revealing fresh white skin beneath. Joanna Smith felt invigorated. Her body fragmented like a statue, revealing a new form inside.

Like breaking a plaster statue, a young woman emerged from within. Except for slightly pale skin, she had rejuvenated beyond mere recovery.

Though her skin darkened like stained light, warmth remained.

Good. The seed planting seems successful.

Now, let’s grow it.

“Joanna Smith, how do you feel?”

She touched her now bluish skin hesitantly, then approached me and bowed deeply, almost touching her forehead to the ground.

But even before she bowed, I already knew her answer.

“I shall believe and follow for the rest of my life.”

Hehe.

I’ve got a tenant.

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