The smell of cooking meat drifted from the two cauldrons set up outside the church. You couldn't quite tell what was in them, but the pile of blood-stained rags nearby told you everything you needed to know.

  The scent drew a crowd. Ragged beggars clustered around, drawn by something they hadn't smelled in weeks. Maybe months.

  The food wasn't for them.

  Mass day meant the church got a feast. Norton had always liked Sundays for that reason. One day a week, he got meat instead of the usual black bread and watery porridge.

  He didn't think he'd like Sundays anymore.

  "Let us give thanks to God's children, who bask in His eternal light..."

  Father Mia's voice rang out from the church steps, addressing the crowd of poor who'd gathered. They listened with faces full of devotion and reverence, like they were truly experiencing divine grace.

  Hard to say whether they actually believed, or just wanted whatever God might give them. Their eyes burned brighter than Father Mia's. Maybe because they had nothing left to hope for except Him.

  Norton stood behind Father Mia with the other missionaries, mechanically murmuring passages from Baptism under his breath, waiting to receive God's blessing. His eyes were glazed over. Lost in his own head again.

  "This is impossible. This whole system treats people like cattle."

  His thoughts churned while his body stood still. Twenty years locked up. The cauldrons outside. The rules that could get you killed for one wrong step. All of it wrapped around his throat like a rope, waiting to tighten.

  He couldn't see any way out.

  Maybe he could pull a Zhang Jiao? Declare God dead and Norton the new ruler?

  He knew he couldn't pull that off. He had no skills. Twenty years in here had taught him nothing. His memories from before were fading. He was as useless as every other missionary they'd raised.

  Something clicked in his head. Now he understood why they raised them this way. Keep them ignorant. Keep them useless. Keep them loyal.

  The people running this church weren't as stupid as they seemed. Or maybe they just passed down the knowledge generation to generation, unlike the ones they kept penned up like animals.

  Norton's eyes drifted to Father Mia, still preaching to the crowd. That confirmed it.

  When the last priest died of old age, they hadn't picked a replacement from inside St. Peter's. They'd sent someone new. Someone from outside.

  So the real knowledge, the real power, stayed with the ones at the top. People like this Father Mia. The rest of them? Just tools off an assembly line.

  Norton felt cold. He'd thought this church was all bluster. But they had systems. Rules that actually worked.

  Overthrowing them would be harder than he'd thought.

  The Mass reached its peak while he was still lost in thought.

  "O Father! May Your light shine upon us..."

  Father Mia's voice rose, growing passionate. The "Father" he invoked was God Caesar himself.

  When he finished, the missionaries moved. Bowls appeared. Ladies were passed around. They lined up to receive their portions from the cauldrons.

  As a newly ordained missionary, Norton got his share. He took his place at the end of the line, bowl in hand, stomach churning.

  He didn't want to eat this. The pile of rags nearby told him exactly what was in those cauldrons.

  But refusing wasn't an option. This was God's blessing. The knights standing nearby had cold eyes and sharp swords. Refuse the blessing, and you'd be judged an unbeliever. Dealt with on the spot.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Norton didn't want to be dealt with. So he'd take as little as possible.

  Mass meals had rules. You had to pray first.

  As the newest missionary, Norton stood at the back of the line. He prayed with the others, mouth moving automatically, eyes fixed on his bowl.

  Grease floated on top. The smell was rich. Meat-sweet.

  Skinny skeletons wouldn't produce broth this fatty.

  "We beseech Thee, O Lord..."

  The prayers droned on. Around him, faces shone with fervor. Hard to tell if it was real or not. After twenty years locked in here, maybe they really believed.

  By the time the prayers ended, the soup had gone cold.

  Father Mia raised his bowl. The others followed.

  Norton felt the knights' eyes on his back. Cold. Watching.

  He closed his eyes.

  Somewhere in his head, a thought surfaced: he wasn't so different from what was in that cauldron. Just labeled differently.

  Glug. Glug. Gag.

  The meat taste filled his mouth. Rich and greasy. His stomach, starved for protein and fat, grabbed it eagerly. His mind recoiled.

  Maybe that was the difference between him and what bubbled in those pots. He still had a soul that remembered another world.

  And that, apparently, was impure.

  He'd been eating this food for years. Never saw it prepared, but you got used to it eventually. If he took small portions, he could just about handle it.

  But the Church was thrifty. Their pre-meal prayers included verses about not wasting God's gifts. One bowl wasn't enough. They had to empty those cauldrons completely.

  No matter how little Norton ladled into his bowl, enough rounds meant a distended stomach and gut-wrenching fullness.

  He'd been fighting nausea all day. The stench in the air didn't help. But when he spotted the shit smeared on straw in the corner—that was the breaking point.

  The food in his stomach surged toward his throat.

  Norton bent over, staring at the feces stuck to those leaves. His bloated stomach clenched.

  "Urgh... huuurk..."

  The sound of vomiting echoed off the walls.

  "Ah, I rather liked him."

  "Norton? To still harbor impure thoughts after being contained this long... his previous demeanor must have been an act."

  Father Mia stood in the highest tower of the church, dressed in spotless white vestments, watching Norton retch in the corner below. Regret colored his wrinkled face.

  Beside him stood an older man in black bishop's robes—Bishop Rosen. His eyes, shaded and cold, fixed on the vomiting priest below.

  They occupied the church's highest chamber. More a circular fortress's rooftop terrace than a proper room. Thirty meters of empty air between them and Norton guaranteed their conversation would stay private.

  Bishop Rosen held low rank in the Papal States' hierarchy. Nobodies like him stood beneath high bishops, archbishops, cardinals. But inside St. Peter's Cathedral, he was the highest authority.

  Father Mia's regretful gaze lingered on Norton below.

  "Isn't burning Norton wasteful? The one upstairs prefers pretty things with some self-awareness. Offering him up there might serve better."

  "Norton grew up under my watch." Bishop Rosen's eyes stayed half-lidded, his face expressionless. But his tone allowed no argument.

  Truth be told, he retained some shred of humanity.

  Offering Norton to the one upstairs meant hellish torment. Rumors said no one ever walked out of that high bishop's chambers upright.

  Better the boy burned clean in an Ascension Ritual than suffer that fate.

  "Then prepare the Ascension Ritual for two days from now." Bishop Rosen's gloomy face turned away.

  The Ascension Ritual stood as the Church's most sacred, exalted ceremony. Its purpose: offering servants to God.

  To be chosen as the Ascension Ritual's sacrifice was the highest honor any Church member could imagine. Missionaries and nuns pursued this destiny their entire lives.

  If Norton had been raised properly—a missionary with no ideological defects—hearing of his selection would send him into ecstasy. Three days of fasting. Ritual bathing. New vestments. Burning incense. Even enemas to purge impurities. All to present himself in the purest state for ascension, to become a servant at God's side.

  But Norton, despite his mental quirks, possessed something they hadn't managed to kill: a truly free soul.

  Creak.

  The wooden door swung shut.

  Norton stumbled into his room after emptying his stomach, weak-legged, and collapsed onto his vaguely rank straw bed.

  His face had gone gray. Hunger played its part, but the day's spiritual violence had done real damage.

  Human life meant nothing here. Twenty years had taught him that lesson. Yet watching it happen still hit different.

  Because he didn't want to be one of those lives. Didn't want someone else deciding his fate, butchering him like livestock for some absurd reason.

  Some Church rule. Some ritual.

  But Norton was useless. Twenty years penned up hadn't just failed to teach him anything—it had eroded what he once knew. His old skills, old knowledge, dissolving like morning fog.

  If he ran, he'd starve. If he stayed and broke rules, beheading. If the Church caught him escaping... worse. Might as well stay put.

  Stay alert. Follow rules. Keep his head down. Live out his days as a missionary, producing nothing, consuming just enough.

  But a man needed contingency plans.

  "Start stashing food," he decided, fists clenching. "Quietly. If trouble comes for me, I run. Increase my odds."

  He stood, heading for the refectory to grab some black bread.

  Storage presented a problem. Missionary robes had no pockets. He couldn't carry anything out without the knights noticing.

  Strip searches happened every time. In or out.

  Norton considered his options, then decided his groin would have to suffer. Crotch-stored bread might acquire certain flavors, but survival mattered more.

  He opened his door.

  SHINK!

  A greatsword sliced through the air and slammed horizontally across his doorway, blocking exit completely.

  "What the—"

  Norton barely swallowed his curse. His eyes traveled up the blade to the expressionless face behind it.

  White steel armor. Intricate patterns carved into every plate. Delicate craftsmanship against the rough wooden doorframe—two worlds colliding.

  Church Knight!

  Norton's heart stopped.

  Had he muttered his thoughts aloud while drifting? Why else would a knight bother with a nobody missionary?

  He stared at the armor's cold gleam, at the blade as wide as his arm spanning his doorway, and felt any thought of resistance die.

  Before he could speak, another voice came from outside.

  "The Ascension Ritual happens the day after tomorrow. Father Mia sent these for you."

  Norton tore his gaze from the knight and noticed another missionary standing beside the doorway. The same one who'd delivered books days ago.

  Last time, this man's face showed nothing. Now it blazed with naked envy. His eyes scraped across Norton's features, jealousy and malice barely contained.

  "You're confined until then. No food. No leaving. Prepare for the Ritual." With each word, the missionary's jealous fire burned hotter. His expression suggested he'd happily eat Norton alive.

  What did I do to him?

  Norton took the books, his stomach sinking.

  He'd never heard of any Ascension Ritual. Must be something only ordained missionaries learned about.

  He didn't care about rituals. Didn't believe in their pathetic God. What bothered him was the fasting. He'd just emptied his stomach completely, and now they expected him to survive two days without food?

  He'd manage. That sword wasn't for show.

  Whoosh.

  Norton exhaled, pulling his attention away from the jealous missionary's face. He carried the books back inside and set them on his table.

  Time to study. Learn every rule of this ritual. One wrong step, and who knew what waited?

  Maybe he'd be the next one decorating the street with his head.