The man in black stood atop the bell tower with his arms crossed, gazing down upon the city below. On the distant horizon, the sun had just leapt forth, completely dispelling the darkness that shrouded the land.
"Look at these foolish mortals," he sneered while watching the people on the streets.
"Yes, foolish mortals," the parrot on his shoulder imitated.
"Boss, stop blowing cold air up there, come down for some grub," a subordinate below called out.
So the man descended from the top of the bell tower, sat down at the small round table, and frowned at the bowl of insects: "Have our funds run low recently?"
"Yeah, we were planning to rob a merchant caravan, but someone beat us to it, so we’re stuck with empty stomachs," the half-human said while serving a small bowl of insects to his boss: "Eat up, boss. In my homeland, these insects would cost you some gold."
"That’s your homeland, not mine," the man in black retorted, but he couldn’t help accepting the bowl.
As a small-scale cult, Father’s Love consisted only of the man in black who served as a priest, the half-human as a follower, and two others who were gnomes, ranking as mid-levels within the organization.
There were also some insignificant minions, not worth mentioning.
Half a month ago, two gnome brothers had been overwhelmed by hunger and despair—one hanged himself, the other left.
Of course, that was the story told to the half-human follower. In reality, one had been sold by the man in black to the Church of Justice, the other to the Church of the War God.
... That’s right, the man in black, Sydney, was an operative from the Union intelligence headquarters, a deceiver of the Sequence, a tier-four puppet master.
Since he entered the cult as an undercover agent thirteen years ago, he had never once thought he’d become the leader of this small organization.
Three years ago, he’d intentionally had a brief exchange with his old intelligence superior at Sydney Union headquarters, who had originally assigned him to infiltrate the group.
"It was supposed to be three years, then after three years, another three, and yet another three. Look at me now, I’m the cursed priest of this damn organization! If nothing changes, next time you see me, you’ll have to call me Bishop!"
"You see, if you become a bishop, you can baptize me then," the old man scoffed, seemingly proud that his subordinate might become a bishop.
Oh, come on! This is a genuine Evil God we’re talking about! Although the god they worship doesn’t even exist, who knows if one day some lunatic from Subspace will hear their prayers... That’d be quite a spectacle.
"Boss, today is prayer day; remember to come back early tonight, everyone’s waiting for your sermon," the follower reminded him.
"I know. I’m not out in the daytime for my amusement. If we don’t find some easy targets soon, we’ll be out of luck next month!"
After finishing the insects, the man in black stood up, leaving the subordinate’s bell tower residence.
This small attic was the bell tower keeper’s living quarters. As the keeper, the half-human resided there. Fifty years ago, with the invention of arrays, bell tower keepers were no longer deaf.
Thank goodness for Spell Formations.
Descending the bell tower, he glanced at his pocket watch—0745 in the morning.
Dressed in a top hat he’d smoothly acquired from some poor victim’s head, Casaman adjusted his collar, stepped over a filthy gutter, and walked through an alley to rejoin the street.
Today was the monthly meeting day. That old geezer would be waiting for him at the coffeehouse downtown—him, who’d risen to the rank of priest.
It was infuriating that he hadn’t managed to beat his rival last year to become bishop; otherwise, he could have mockingly taunted that old rascal today.
"Good day, Mr. Casaman." A familiar neighbor tipped his hat to the man in black, "Taking a day off, are we? My child is really indebted to you for your hard work."
The man in black smiled and tipped his hat in return: "Hello, Mr. Elder, the school’s closed today. I hope your child is doing well."
"When I left, he was still in bed, sleeping in," Mr. Elder, looking dapper, replied with a nod: "I won’t disturb you any longer, I have matters to attend to."
"Godspeed, Mr. Elder," he said, watching the man depart before Casaman moved on.
Passing the Church of the Goddess of Harvest, Casaman paused—born in the Northern Province of Sydney, conditions were harsher in the North compared to the South. Ever since he could remember, his family often faced food shortages.
With not enough to eat and unable to satisfy hunger, starvation had claimed both his sister and brother. Casaman had learned to dig out rats from their burrows to survive until his fifth year.
That year, a priest from the Church of the Goddess of Harvest arrived at his village with his team, building irrigation channels and repairing mills, educating the villagers on how to use fertilizers and deal with weeds and pests. That autumn, the harvest was plentiful, and for the first time, Casaman managed to eat his fill each day during the winter.
Thus, he became a devotee of the Goddess of Harvest.
Regrettably, it had been thirteen years since he last worshipped or sang praises to her name, and now he didn’t even have the chance to spare her a second glance.
Casaman had once resented that old man for that, the one who had made him an undercover agent, a preacher of lies.
But Casaman also understood that the world was too perilous; someone had to make sacrifices. And since his fifth year, he had sworn, whatever happened, no more brothers or sisters would die.
For that, he was willing to enter this hell.