Chapter 2: Cornerstone of Faith

Chapter 2: The Foundation of Faith

The moment he finished reading the last word, light appeared in Lyman's hand once more. This time, the glow was not as intense as before—it was a soft, faint luminescence. Countless specks of light gathered in his palm, forming a gray card.

The card was about the size of a tarot card. The back had symmetrical patterns, while the front was completely blank except for two words at the top—"Apostle."

Lyman didn't think much of this Apostle Card. What caught his interest was the quest reward from the Book of the Evil God.

—Supernatural Ability!

So supernatural powers really did exist in this world. Once he got a supernatural ability, could a small prison like Cape Prison even hold him?

However, the quest reward said he could pick one ability "from the pool," which was kind of like roguelike games back on Earth—he had to choose from a few random options, and couldn't just get whatever he wanted.

In other words, if none of the supernatural abilities on offer were good for escaping prison, he'd be in trouble.

Besides, his first priority was dealing with the Inquisitor of Heresy who was arriving tomorrow. When picking a supernatural ability, he had to think about getting past that hurdle first, then worry about escaping.

Luckily, the Book of the Evil God offered another option.

Lyman turned his gaze to the card.

Since he could make apostles, could he order one to bust him out of prison?

Of course, he couldn't just say, "Hey, the Evil God himself is stuck in jail—come save me!" That would be way too embarrassing. He couldn't afford to lose face as the Evil God.

But he could order an apostle to rescue a brother in faith captured by the Dawn Church (that "brother" naturally referring to Lyman himself). If he framed it as a test of the apostle's ability and loyalty, wouldn't that make perfect sense? Don't gods love putting their followers through all kinds of trials?

The more Lyman thought about it, the more he liked the plan. He waited a bit, hoping the Book of the Evil God would give him more hints, but... nothing happened.

"Where's my apostle? Come on, let me make one already!"

Lyman flipped through the pages, but they were all blank. He went back to the earlier pages and reread the original text.

"Listen to the prayers of all the mortals in this world... Is that a hint? Your tutorial for newbies seriously sucks!"

Grumbling aside, Lyman still tried to "listen." He closed his eyes and focused on his sense of hearing.

At first, all he could hear was his own breathing and rats squeaking in the wall cracks. But gradually, he really did start to hear a faint call coming from somewhere far, far away.

The more he focused, the clearer the voice got.

"Oh god, please let me get rich! Once I'm rich, I swear I'll build you a temple!"

"Great Evil God, can you off my boss? That way I'll get promoted!"

"God! Curse my enemy—let him get hit by a carriage when he steps outside!"

"Oh deity, can you make the person I love fall for me too?"

Prayers rose and fell, echoing in Lyman's ears.

It seemed people in this other world weren't all that different from people back on Earth. Everyone was human, with the same basic wants.

So he had to pick one of them, make a contract, and help them get their wish?

Lyman remembered plenty of similar tropes from the fantasy novels he'd read in his past life: someone makes a wish to an evil god, the god grants it, but charges a hefty price—sometimes even the person's soul.

Lyman wasn't like those cheap evil gods. He didn't want souls. He just wanted his freedom.

That meant he had to pick his apostle carefully. After all, busting someone out of prison was a tricky job, and it might even get bloody. So the apostle had to be smart, loyal, and willing to risk their life.

None of the voices he'd heard earlier fit the bill. Would they go through hell and high water for an "evil god"? Would they be willing to take on the Dawn Church and save a total stranger?

Lyman tuned those people out and tried to listen for voices farther away.

Soon, a broken but incredibly intense prayer reached his mind.

"Oh god, save me, I don't want to die... I can't die! I have to live—there's someone waiting for me!"

The voice was young, clearly that of a boy, choked with sobs and filled with extreme terror and unwillingness.

He must be in mortal danger, Lyman thought. We're kindred spirits in that regard.

Compared to those obsessed with wine, women, wealth, and petty schemes, Lyman was more willing to help this person.

He focused his mind on the boy's cry for help.

Suddenly, his body felt weightless, and he floated upward.

Lyman opened his eyes and found himself—astonishingly—already out of the prison, floating in the sky. Above him was the dim yellow sky lit by the setting sun, and below him stretched endless forests.

He... escaped?

No.

Lyman looked at his body—it was translucent.

Astral projection? Where had the Book of the Evil God sent him? Was this still Cape Prison?

The sound of prayers had inexplicably vanished. Lyman looked around, and through the green branches, he spotted someone sprinting.

With a thought, his spiritual form rapidly descended, passing straight through the trees, drifting toward where he intended to go.

As he drew closer, he saw it was a grown man—clearly not the one who had made the prayer.

The man was ragged, barefoot, stumbling through the forest. He was gasping for breath but dared not stop for even a moment, as if being chased.

The rapid sound of hooves came from behind. The man's expression instantly turned panicked and desperate. He tried to speed up, but his strength was clearly failing.

A young man in a red hunting outfit rode through the trees on horseback. He held the reins in his left hand, drew a sword from his waist with his right, shouted "Hyah!" and urged his horse to gallop past the man.

The moment they were side by side, the red-clad youth leaned out from his saddle and swung his sword—

The man's head flew into the air.

His headless body ran a few more steps before collapsing with a thud. Blood gushed from the severed neck like a fountain, splattering all over the red-clad youth.

The red-clad youth paid no attention to the blood on his clothes and continued galloping forward.

Before long, another figure appeared ahead—a disheveled woman. She was running for her life, her bare feet cut and bleeding from the stones.

The red-clad youth caught up to the woman and swung his sword, but his aim was off—he only struck her shoulder.

The woman screamed and collapsed.

The red-clad youth reined in his horse, jumped down with a displeased expression, and walked over with his still-dripping sword, thrusting it through the woman's chest.

"Honestly, making me waste so much time."

The young man in red kicked the corpse aside and turned toward the depths of the forest, yelling, "Hey! Anthony! That's two for me! I'm one point ahead of you now!"

On the other side of the woods, another young man in blue hunting gear was also riding hard.

Hearing his buddy's gloating shout, he laughed and called back, "Lucky break, Will! But I'm not falling behind!"

Then he gave his whip a sharp crack, and his steed let out a long neigh, its hooves almost throwing sparks from the ground.

Lyman was horrified. Were these two treating murder like some kind of game or contest? Why else would they talk about being "one point ahead"?

From deeper in the woods, the pleading sound came again. Lyman focused and flew once more toward the source of the sound.

***

Sylen ran for dear life.

The soles of his bare feet were cut and bleeding on the rocks, his cheeks slashed by sharp branches. His legs screamed, every muscle protesting with each step. His chest was on fire, and each breath cut like a knife.

But he didn't dare stop. Stopping meant death.

He heard hounds baying in the distance. Those trained dogs could track him down easily. Unless he got lucky and found a river to wash away his scent. If the river was deep enough to swim in, he'd be free!

…Was it really that easy? Those two devils must have known there were no rivers in these woods—that's why they let them in. They were always that cunning—they got off on others' pain and struggle.

But even so, even knowing the odds were slim, Sylen had to try. He couldn't die here. Not like this.

"Ah!"

Sylen slammed hard into the ground. A gnarled tree root tripped him. He tried to get up, but the searing pain in his ankle made him scream and collapse again.

I'm dead, he thought in despair. I'll be caught, torn apart by the hounds, my heart ripped out while I'm still breathing...

Suddenly, a hand hauled Sylen to his feet.

"Shh, quiet, or they'll hear us."

Sylen looked up and saw a young man and woman. He didn't know their names—they were slaves that Young Master Will had brought.

The man slung Sylen's arm over his shoulder and helped him walk.

Thank God, someone's come to save me. For a moment, Sylen was overjoyed, feeling hope of survival.

But his heart sank again. With the man holding him up, none of them would escape.

Sylen pulled his arm away.

The man stared at him in surprise.

"I'll slow you down," Sylen said through gritted teeth. "Don't worry about me—just run!"

"Don't talk nonsense, kid! We're not leaving you!"

"My foot might be hurt. If you take me, none of us will make it. You two might still have a chance."

The woman shook her head firmly. "No talk like that. Listen—we'll draw them off. You just run."

"But..."

"Once you're out, find a place to hide and don't let them find you," she said. "You can't go home—even if you did, they'd catch you again. You've got to hide well."

The woman cupped Sylen's face and wiped firmly with her thumbs.

"Good boy, don't cry. You're going to live!"

Only then did Sylen realize he was crying. Back when he lived in the sea, he didn't know he could cry, because tears would just blend into the water. It was only on land that he learned tears were salty—they tasted of home.

The young man and woman ran off in the other direction. They deliberately snapped branches and made noise to lure the sharp-eared hounds toward them.

Sylen gritted his teeth, enduring the searing pain in his ankle, and limped on. Every step felt like walking on knives.

He didn't know how far he'd gone or how long he'd walked. Suddenly, he heard a woman's scream in the distance, then Young Master Will's triumphant shout: "Hey! Anthony! That's two for me! I'm one point ahead of you now!"

They're both dead. Sylen realized, his heart heavy. They were killed to draw that devil away.

He tried to speed up, but his injuries wouldn't let him run fast.

Hoofbeats sounded from behind like a death knell.

This time, no one was coming to save him. How could he survive those two devils?