The church smelled of old wood and burnt wax.
It wasn’t grand, nothing like the towering cathedrals I’d been to before with my mother in the Western Safe-Zone.
This was a simple place, tucked into the quieter edge of the city.
Yes, I was in a church.
The church of the Mother of Mercy.
And yes, I had snuck out of that party to be here.
I could say I left because of my hangover headache.
I could say I wandered the streets aimlessly until I found a quieter spot.
I could say I stumbled upon this church by chance and stepped inside its large wooden gates out of curiosity.
But those would all be lies.
I came here intentionally.
I knew I had to be here, so I purposefully searched for this place and entered it.
I sat on one of the pews near the back, elbows resting on my knees, chin cradled in my hands.
The wood beneath me creaked slightly, smoothed over years by countless hands and bodies leaning on it to seek solace or forgiveness.
The room wasn’t crowded.
I could spot a few figures sitting in the front rows, their heads bowed and shoulders hunched.
Their faith wasn’t loud or performative.
It was quiet, heavy, deeply personal — like they were clinging to the last thread of something they weren’t even sure they believed in anymore but couldn’t bring themselves to let go of either.
In this era, religion wasn’t exactly thriving.
Not many people believed in Gods like they used to anymore.
Don’t be mistaken — people knew gods existed.
There had to be.
There was evidence of them scattered all across the Spirit Realm — legendary artifacts, ancient ruins, and the remnants of mythical beings powerful enough to shape worlds.
And as someone who knew more about this world than most, I could definitely say that Gods were real.
In fact, during the early years of Spirit Realm exploration, humanity had unearthed proof of these divine entities.
Those discoveries drove them to create new religions.
The more they explored, the more remnants of old Gods they discovered, and the more fervently people worshiped.
But it didn’t last.
Humanity eventually realized that just because Gods existed didn’t mean they cared. They didn’t grant prayers, answer pleas, or even acknowledge their worshippers.
That realization broke the faith of many.
And as humanity advanced, achieving feats once thought godlike, we shifted our devotion.
We started worshiping our own heroes.
Our own Gods.
Like the current Monarchs — the five individuals who stood at the apex of humanity, protecting the rest of us as though they truly were divine.
But that didn’t mean no one followed religion in this day and age.
Take this one, for example — the faith of the Mother of Mercy.
It wasn’t a particularly popular religion because not much was known about the Mother.
Well, not much aside from her supposed title as the Goddess of the Oldest Death — whatever that meant — and that she was said to be the origin of everything.
And yet, she had her followers, even in this part of the world.
“In the silence before the first breath, she watched. In the stillness after the last sigh, she waits.”
My attention was drawn to the woman standing on the chancel, her voice steady as she recited the prayer.
She wasn’t dressed in anything ostentatious — just a plain gray habit, the hem frayed where it brushed the stone floor.
Sister Alvara, they called her. Or High Sister, maybe? Titles didn’t matter much here anymore.
She was the one who kept things going, lighting the candles, tending to the altar, and reciting the prayers. I knew all that because I came here before the prayer time and saw her do those things.
Her voice carried softly through the stillness, comforting to the ear, like the sound of rain on a summer morning.
“From nothing, we were made. To nothing, we return. Yet in the embrace of our Mother, we find neither sorrow nor joy, only rest. May her silence temper our fears and her stillness guide our hearts. In her arms, there is mercy. In her mercy, there is peace.”
I’d heard this prayer before.
My mother was a devotee.
I’d heard it from her maybe a hundred times, but it never stopped being strange to me.
An unknown goddess who wasn’t there to listen, who didn’t promise miracles or salvation — only a quiet end.
It wasn’t comforting, not really.
Who would worship someone like that?
But maybe that was the point.
Sister Alvara lowered her head, her hands clasped in front of her.
The others followed suit, murmuring their own private words or simply sitting in the silence.
I stayed where I was, watching the faint flicker of the candles on the altar. Their light barely reached the vaulted ceiling, which was dark with age and soot.
Soon, the prayer was over and everyone started leaving one by one… until only I was left sitting.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, going over everything I needed to do in this city so we could complete this mission and get the outcome I wanted.
•••
“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted my thoughts after a few minutes.
I glanced up to see the woman from the chancel approaching. Sister Alvara.
She stopped a respectful distance away, hands folded in front of her. Her gray habit seemed even simpler up close.
“You’ve been sitting here for quite some time,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”
I straightened slightly, rolling my shoulders to loosen the stiffness that had crept in. “Yeah. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.”
She nodded, her expression calm and patient with a motherly warmth to it. “That is what this place is for.”
I stood, brushing off my cheap clothes. “Actually, I was also hoping to meet the High Priest.”
Her brow furrowed slightly and she tilted her head. “The High Priest is currently away. He won’t return until tomorrow morning, I’m afraid.”
I nodded in acknowledgment and began turning to leave.
But before I could even take a step…
“Wait,” she called out softly.
I paused, glancing over my shoulder.
“Do you… have faith?” she asked hesitantly, her voice careful, as though treading a fragile line.
I turned to face her fully. There was no accusation in her tone, no condescension.
Just genuine curiosity.
“Why do you ask?” I questioned.
Sister Alvara shrugged. “It’s just something my little brother said to me recently. And I don’t see many youngsters here, so I thought I’d ask. You don’t have to answer it, of course. I’m sorry for asking.”
I studied her face for a few seconds before finally heaving a sigh. “Faith is a complicated word. Do I believe there’s something more powerful than us? Sure. There are godlike beings. But faith in them? I don’t have that.”
Sister Alvara tilted her head, her hands still folded. “And why is that?”
I smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Because faith asks for absolute trust without any proof, for submission without clarity. And I think we should demand both.”
“Faith isn’t about proof,” Alvara countered. “It’s about connection. It’s about finding meaning beyond ourselves.”
“Is it, though?” I asked. “Or is it about filling a void we’re too afraid to face on our own?”
She blinked, her composure wavering for the briefest moment. “That void—”
“—is human nature,” I interrupted. “And religion? It’s our oldest tool for coping with it. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the appeal. Faith offers structure, purpose, community. It’s comforting.”
“…But?” she pressed, her voice quieter now.
“But it also limits us,” I said. “Because it demands certainty in things we can’t know. It’s a refusal to say, ‘I don’t know, and that’s okay.’ Instead, we make rules, create rituals, and declare them divine truth.”
She frowned, her brow knitting. “But… but without faith, how do you find purpose? What keeps you grounded?”
“Curiosity,” I nearly laughed. “The willingness to question, to seek, to never stop learning. Purpose doesn’t have to come from answers — it can come from the pursuit of them. That is the human nature. That is how we have survived so far!”
Her gaze dropped for a moment, as though grappling with the weight of my words. When she looked back up, her expression was resolute.
“Faith isn’t just about answers,” she stated. “It’s about hope. In a world full of uncertainty and chaos, isn’t it worth believing in something greater than ourselves, even if we don’t fully understand it?”
I regarded her for a long moment, letting her words hang in the air.
Then, at last, I gave her my answer. “People like you sicken me.”
Sister Alvara’s eyes shot wide and her mouth hung open.
“Wh-What?” She seemed at a loss for words to speak.
There was no change in my expression when I repeated myself. “I said, people like you sicken me. Who are you to decide there is something greater than us? To claim we should bend our lives to some unseen force because it makes you feel better about the chaos of existence?”
Sister Alvara flinched as though struck, and her warm demeanor cracked under the weight of my words.
“Do you know what worship is, Sister?” I asked, stepping closer. “It’s a declaration of surrender. A kneeling acceptance that you are lesser, weaker… insignificant. And worse — it’s a betrayal of everything we are.”
Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering in her eyes. “Betrayal? Of what?”
“Of humanity,” I snapped. “We clawed our way out of the dirt, fought tooth and nail to survive in a world designed to kill us. Every step of progress we’ve made — fire, language, cities, medicine — it wasn’t handed to us by some divine being. We earned it. We fought for it. And you want us to kneel? To grovel before some abstract idea of gods and call ourselves unworthy? Never.”
Sister Alvara’s lips tightened, but her eyes soon softened. “You speak of strength, of progress. But isn’t humility also part of what makes us human? The ability to recognize our limits and find strength in something greater?”
“Humility?” I spat, the word like poison on my tongue. “You confuse humility with self-doubt. Humans are not limited, Sister. We’re not pawns waiting for a god to push us across the board. We are the players. Every miracle you credit to faith — every cure, every invention, every triumph — it’s not divine intervention. It’s human ingenuity. That’s what deserves worship, not some unseen deity.”
She flinched but quickly recovered, her voice steady. “And yet, even the strongest fall. Even the brightest minds falter. What do you hold onto when that happens? When the weight of the world is too much?”
I leaned in, my eyes boring into hers.
“I hold onto myself,” I said coldly. “Because when you look to the heavens for salvation, you stop looking inward. You stop trusting your own strength, your own mind, your own will. And that’s the greatest betrayal of all — to yourself, to your species. Faith doesn’t make us stronger. It chains us to fear. It teaches us to look up instead of forward.”
Her hands trembled slightly now, though her voice remained calm. “But without faith, how do you face the unknown? The chaos, the suffering?”
“Head-on!” I shouted. “You face it with teeth bared and fists clenched, not bowed down and begging for mercy. Suffering isn’t a test from some higher power. It’s life! And you endure it because you’re human, because you’re strong enough to! Worship doesn’t make the pain go away. It just gives you someone else to blame when it doesn’t.”
She stared at me, her expression a storm of emotions — sorrow, defiance, pity.
“You sound angry,” she said finally.
“I’m not angry,” I replied, though the sharpness in my tone suggested otherwise. “I’m disgusted. Disgusted by the idea that after everything we’ve built, after everything we’ve overcome and survived, there are still people who would throw it all away for the comfort of worship. Who would call themselves small when we’ve proven time and time again that we are anything but.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence between us felt almost sacred.
She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came.
Whatever argument she had prepared seemed to slip away, leaving her standing there in silence.
I turned and walked toward the door.
“Thank you, Sister,” I said without looking back.
The old wooden gates groaned faintly as I pushed them open and stepped out into the night.