Breakfast was of no fanfare, and so was service. Anton had appeared to like the food that Y/n had made—but of course, there was the unpleasant matter of saying grace. Lucas had clutched both of their hands, his eyes gleaming with happiness—with a slight tug in Y/n's heart, he had wondered if this was the closest to a family Lucas had ever gotten.

For in the child's eyes, Y/n knew what Anton was like to him— the gentlemanly, sweet priest who was becoming another father figure for him. Y/n fervently wished that for Lucas's own sake, he would never grow to learn the devoid and horrible person Anton truly was.

And then there was service. Anton had dragged Lucas along as well, and Y/n was horrified to see the scandalized looks directed at him with hot, fiery contempt. Then there had been Lady Freya—and fuck.

Fuck. She looked so utterly...

So utterly wrong. Y/n assumed the whole organ-donation thing was simply a cruel joke. But no. Her skin had grown pale, her lips had cracked—and her whole body was like a wilted flower. Once plucked, but now its radiance was gone. Even the ladies seemed horrified by her appearance, and shunned her. She did not care, or perhaps it was because her face was so horribly twisted that Y/n could not read any of her emotions.

And Anton.

Father Anton.

Lucas had clutched Y/n's hand tightly and his eyes had shone with reverence when listening to him. Smooth, honeyed words had glided off his tongue—and Y/n could see how people could be easily charmed by him and even led to believing in him blindly. Charisma was undoubtedly the strongest weapon he had in the book.

Y/n was thankful Lucas did not understand his words.

"—And that is the end of service," Anton closed his book, nodding to the mass that had grown and grown and grown—like his voice was a spell that entranced simply everyone—"unfortunately, I have matters to attend to. So confessions are to be made towards the sisters and brothers that have so kindly volunteered."

Belatedly, Y/n realized Lady Freya was one that had volunteered. Yet no one flocked to her, and she didn't even seem to notice. She wobbled on her feet.

"We are going," Y/n said sharply to Lucas.

"Aren't we going to wait for Father Anton?" Disappointment was evident in the little boy's tone.

"You heard him. He's busy. I'll read you a story when I go back," Y/n softened.

"It's alright," Lucas shook his head, "I'm feeling tired. I read too much last night. The books you gave me were really interesting, Father Y/n."

"I'm glad to hear that, don't stay up too late next time, alright?" Y/n's tone softened, and he ruffled Lucas's hair gently.

"Mhm."

It was all settled. To begin with, there were some things Y/n needed to pick up from the town nearby, within the empire's vicinity. So he would drop Lucas off at home, tuck him in to sleep (with all the doors locked, of course) and he would head towards the town. And it would also be good to gauge the reactions of those who weren't affiliated with the church—how did they see them? Lucky? Delusional?

Y/n sighed. He was thankful that the church wasn't that far from his home, so he grabbed Lucas's hand and headed towards the house. When they had arrived, Y/n had kissed Lucas on the forehead, tucked him in bed, and had firmly locked the door shut. The keys were in his pocket—and wasn't it lucky that he hadn't bumped into Anton on the way home?

Lucas was at an impressionable age. He desperately wanted parents. Plural, not singular. And if he seemed some sort of validation or solidarity from Anton...

Y/n pinched the bridge of his nose. That simply wouldn't do. Y/n had many things to do—figure out just what the deal was with Anton and why he seemingly harbored some sort of affection for him even though Y/n had technically done nothing—figure out the oracle, and why Helen's old name, Nora, had popped up on a game forum. Did that mean she had transmigrated into the game, like Y/n did, or—

His head hurt. Y/n wasn't sure how he was still clinging on to the last bits of his sanity: it was growing hard. The horror he had already experienced were beyond horrible, from the fires, and the casual murders, Lady Freya, the donations...

Anton. Father Anton was terrifying. When Y/n was in his home, he had imagined a blade slipping through his throat, cutting through it like paper. Humans were fragile beings. They could die easily, and if a self proclaimed god like Anton wanted to kill him, it would have been easy. Extremely easy to purge the world of a sinner.

But Anton was keeping him alive. For what? What for? What was Y/n's purpose in the world? Survive? Survive to return to the dastardly world called home where his mother and father hated and loved with a passion, where they relied on religion as some sort of lifeline to excuse themselves from their actions?

"Ugh..." Y/n grimaced, "all this thinking...all this thinking just to survive..." Now that he pondered over it, wasn't this ridiculous? Fighting tooth and nail just to survive in such a blasphemous place? Wasn't death more inviting right now? Couldn't Goddess Death just open her arms and welcome him into her embrace? Why—why—

Lucas. He still lived. As long as that child was alive, Y/n would remain alive.

All he had to do was persevere and push forward. It would all be over—

What about Lucas? If Y/n succeeded, how would he succeed in bringing Lucas over to his world—how would he explain everything, the loss of his 'parent' (Anton)—would he look at Y/n like he was a damned traitor? Someone who broke the family apart? Someone who—

"Oh, look who we have here. Someone from the church."

Y/n turned around, realizing he was face to face with an Imperial Knight. Regal and tall and so awfully normal, Y/n realized it was refreshing. A weight had rolled off his shoulders when he realized he was away. Away from the church, away from everyone. If running away was an option, he would have done so long ago. But then he wouldn't be able to complete his quests—and he would remain stuck here, with the church on his back all the time...

"Hey so you're going to get burned at stake?" The knight chuckled, "how pathetic. Say hi to God for me, alright?" His tone was mocking.

Right. Another element of the game. The church and the imperial family constantly clashed with each other over the most trivial matters. But Y/n let the insult slide over his shoulders, and he managed a small smile.

"I longed to be free of its constraints," Y/n said lightly, "you are lucky."

The knight stopped. A puzzled expression came over his face.

"You don't believe in—" His voice was soft and confused.

"I don't," Y/n shook his head, "I was simply born in unpleasant circumstances. Like you say, the church is absolute hell. It is a dystopian paradise. You are lucky not to witness the horrors of it."

Yes. This was strangely relaxing. Here was someone standing before him— someone who wasn't towards the church or biased against him. He was a person of free will.

"My friends and I—the people within the Imperial Palace, we hear of the church as a nightmare."

"It is."

"The burning—is it—is it real?"

Y/n thought of the beautiful, cruel fire that had torn people apart with such a violent hunger—with such a crazed delight with the way it licked mighty buildings down and burnt it to nothing but ashes.

"It's real. But sometimes it feels like a feverish nightmare I hope to wake up from."

Sometimes it felt too much. Sometimes Y/n longed to burn a hole into his ribs and burrow there. Sometimes he longed to make a home on the gaps of his burdened soul, and wallow in there. Sometimes he longed for the sweet release of death to god forbid, finally save him from the hell he was held in.

He wanted to escape.

"...Are you alright? My name is Peter," The knight asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "If you want, my wife can help fix you a meal. You look awfully tired."

A warm meal. Yes. That sounded so tempting.

"I suppose so," Y/n said tiredly, "but I have matters to do."

"You can find me later. I'm training until late." Peter offered, "What's your name?"

"Y/n." The name slipped easily from his lips.

"I'll see you later," Peter waved goodbye, a pitying smile on his lips, "come join us. Laura will be glad to have you over! The church is full of creepy people, you know?"

Y/n nodded his head gratefully.

At least he had something to look forward to.

—

Collecting the items has taken longer than he had expected. Spices Y/n had wanted to buy with the intention of making some sort of flavored broth for dinner had run out, and the lady had told Y/n to find another store. He noticed that people around him stared—was it because he had the symbol of the church on the bag he carried? Y/n had nothing else—in fact, the church seemed to rip everything out of your hands, repaying you back in supposedly better items that all had the church symbol somewhere.

But he felt a light spring to his step. None of these people were mad. None of these people would condemn him over the slightest issues—they wouldn't look at him with wild eyes and piercing stares, they wouldn't—they wouldn't seek their organs to please a priest with a god complex. They wouldn't...

Yes. This was normal. There had been lunacy.

Y/n rounded around the bend, a smile fixed on his face. If possible, he could first get Lucas and allow the little child to experience a taste of normalcy—a taste of a semblance of people who weren't from the Church.

He could sneak to the Imperial Empire whenever he needed a break. Whenever he needed to rest his mind.

With this, Y/n would be able to clear the game without losing his fucking mind—

Y/n had remembered what the roses smelt like. Unpleasant, the pungent taste of iron and the smell of death. It had imprinted in his mind.

And now it was back tenfold.

"No...." It first slid from Y/n's mouth in a soft voice, filled with disbelief and such fervent horror that it would have killed someone to hear the despair in his tone—"No!" This time, he was pleading. The singular word had ripped out of his throat with such forcefulness that he could taste blood—the fucking, goddamn blood in his mouth. Spots swam in his peripheral vision; his throat felt choked up and his lungs stung.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Since when has breathing become so hard, so labored? All the oxygen seemed to have disappeared from his lungs.

No, no. No.

His worst nightmare came true. Rotting flesh. Another spiral of crimson and gold illuminated the sky. The crackling inferno casted majestic shadows that danced upon the canvas, and the vibrant tongues of the fire reached upwards. It was so horribly, unfairly pretty—there was something so nerve wracking about the primal beauty of it. Like it was divine punishment, a blessing from the gods to condemn the sinners.

The heat was second. With it was the unmistakable scent of burning wood, the unmistakable scent of dead bodies. After a while, it surrendered to the call of dawn.

It didn't take a genius to know what had happened. The fire had consumed the knights. Someone had murdered them.

Anton. It was Anton.

It had to be Anton...but why? Why was so adamant on causing him to suffer? Despair made its descent upon Y/n, and it felt like he was caught in a dizzying whirlwind—each turn tightening its vicious grip, dragging him down into a dark void.

Someone.

No words could be formed.

Y/n stumbled back, falling onto his knees. Every movement felt like falling. Falling deeper, and deeper...

Spiraling into the abyss.

How? How did Anton know where he went? How did Anton do this? He was incorrigible, horrible, and twisted in every aspect of the world. Yet this was betrayal, all over again. This was a direct attack—a warning.

It was a disorienting, suffocating realization.

Y/n's mind slipped.

Hah! Maybe God was real. Maybe this was God punishing him for all the times Y/n had condemned him...

"Hah. Hahaha..." Y/n buried his head in his hands.

A hand stroked his cheek, with such gentleness and tenderness one could marvel at it. Y/n knew who it was—he longed to slap it away. To lunge at him. To kill him. The plan. The stupid plan...

Was—was god really real in this universe?

It seemed so.