Anomaly

Chapter 363 – Worship of the true gods [9]

(POV – ???)

Dozens of eager, fever-bright eyes were fixed on a single point inside the church. Pale light filtered through the stained-glass windows, washing the worn marble in shades of red and gold, and fell upon the slightly raised altar where a priest, clad in unmistakably sacred garments, paced back and forth.

His steps were not hurried. They were deliberate. Every movement seemed rehearsed to project serenity. His hands remained clasped behind his back, fingers firmly interlaced, while a faint, almost imperceptible smile rested on his thin lips, a touch self-assured, nearly smug.

The white-and-gold fabric of his robes swayed gently with each step, in rhythm with the muted echo of his shoes against the wooden floor. The air carried the lingering scent of burned incense and melted wax. Some in attendance kept their heads bowed; others, unable to contain their anticipation, stared at him with desperate devotion.

Amid the silent tide of gazes, the priest stopped at the center of the altar. The pause stretched long. Then he lifted his face and cast his eyes over the dozens of souls who had come to meet him, a look that seemed to pierce through each of them individually, as though he knew their most intimate fears.

He drew his hands from behind his back and slowly raised them before his chest, opening them in a solemn gesture. To any observer, the scene was sacred. His upright posture, chin slightly lifted, the stained-glass light forming a faint halo around his silhouette, everything conspired to make him the living image of a divine messenger.

A messenger who had come to save them from the terror ravaging the world beyond the church walls. That was what they all believed. Or perhaps, more accurately, what they wanted to believe.

He took a deep breath: “My children...” His voice echoed firmly between the church columns: “You cry out for salvation... but tell me: is it truly possible to beg for something we barely understand? How can we long for what our own minds cannot fully comprehend?”

The priest closed his eyes for a moment: “Life is necessary! Without it, there is no beginning, no child’s laughter, no harvest, no sunrise. Life teaches us responsibility, for to create is to carry the weight of what has been created. Whoever despises Life despises the ongoing miracle of existence!”

His tone deepened: “But Death is necessary as well! Yes, necessary! For without an end, there is no purpose. Without farewell, there is no value in reunion. Death is not cruelty... it is a boundary. It keeps the world from rotting beneath the burden of eternity. It reminds mankind that our time is sacred!”

He raised a finger toward the heavens: “And Time! Ah, Time! It is the silent judge. The patient teacher who instructs through consequence. Time grants the opportunity for repentance and brings maturity to the soul. Without it, we would be trapped in a single instant, and what greater condemnation could there be?”

The priest took a few slow steps to the side. His hands, once gesturing with restraint, returned behind his back: “Chaos... many fear it. But without Chaos, there is no change. No surprise. No growth. Chaos shatters what is stagnant, challenges human pride, and reminds us that we do not control everything. It is proof that creation still breathes!”

His eyes lifted and settled upon the dozens of souls watching him in fevered silence: “And then comes Order! Blessed Order! It sustains what Chaos transforms. It gives form, structure, and law. Without Order, the universe collapses. Without discipline, man is lost within his own shadow!”

His voice softened: “And Fear... do not run from it. Fear protects. Fear warns. Fear keeps us from walking blindly into the abyss. When mastered, it becomes wisdom”

He slowly opened his arms. His eyes gleamed with fanatical intensity: “You ask for a savior... but the world has been sustained by these forces since the first breath of creation! Honor them! Understand them! For to deny any one of them is the greatest sin we could commit!”

He lowered his hands: “And remember... it is not the world’s terror that will destroy you... but the ignorance of not knowing what truly keeps you whole”

Murmurs of devotion soon followed, rising like a chorus of low yet steady voices, filling every corner of the church with a hypnotic cadence. The words echoed between the stained glass and ancient columns, vibrating in the air like a living prayer. The priest closed his eyes briefly, and felt it.

He felt devotion pulsing like a collective heartbeat. He felt love, naive, fervent, blind. And above all, he felt power. Every word, every trembling prayer of faith, flowed toward him like an invisible river, wrapping him in a feverish, intoxicating sensation.

It was exhilarating, not in the body, but in the soul. Revitalizing. As though time itself were retreating beneath his skin. He felt young again, like an antique storefront slowly restored: cracks filled, glass polished, its shine returned.

The solemn smile never left his lips. It remained there, steady and serene, as he blessed the faithful with gestures and words. And it stayed until the final moment, until the last fervent believer crossed the church doors, carrying with them the faith they believed had been strengthened.

Now alone, the priest walked through the side aisles, his steps echoing softly against the cold wooden floor. He passed the altar, lightly brushing the carved wood, and made his way to the back of the sanctuary, where his private “office” stood, far too modest a word for what it truly was.

He calmly turned the doorknob. The moment he opened it, he was met with a spectacle: Photographs. Dozens. Hundreds. Plastered across the walls. Spread along the ceiling. Some even fixed to the floor, forming a chaotic mosaic that consumed the entire room. Each photograph depicted a different entity.

One bore an angelic appearance, as though sculpted from the light of dawn itself. Its golden eyes shone as if bathed in sunlight. Feathered wings, anchored at the base of its spine, unfolded in soft layers of ivory plumage.

Another entity displayed two spiraling horns, like those of a ram, sweeping backward with imposing, wild elegance. Its skin was a mesmerizing blend of pale and violet hues, tones intertwined like ink dissolving in water, working together in perfect harmony.

The third was an entity of incomprehensible beauty, difficult even to hold in one’s gaze. Her body, partially dark, did not seem to be made of ordinary matter, but of cosmic vastness itself, as if the very void of the universe had taken form. Tiny points of light appeared and vanished across her surface, like distant constellations humans could only ever dream of imagining.

The fourth carried a presence just as striking as the others. Her long hair was in constant flux, shifting between shades, at times glowing red like living embers, at times blue like the sky before a storm, at times silver like a full moon. The colors flowed as though obeying her mood, creating a hypnotic spectacle.

In another image stood an entity with a proud, commanding posture, her long silver hair falling in straight, rigid lines like strands of liquid crystal shimmering in the light. Every lock seemed perfectly aligned.

Finally, in the most recent photo, there was a being of completely unknown appearance. Its body was mostly dark, a silhouette almost without defined contours. Yet two small white eyes stood out in that blackness, two solitary beacons in the depths of the dark.

The priest fell to his knees before it all. His knees met the cold floor, and his fingers trembled slightly as they rested against them. When he discovered them... when “That man” revealed those figures, so beautiful, so distant, so unattainable, something inside him broke. And something else was born.

They were not merely beautiful, they were perfect. Their forms seemed carved from the very essence of the world; their gazes held the vastness of the heavens and the depth of the abyss. There was power in them, not the raw power of a warrior, but absolute dominance, as though reality itself bent to the mere fact of their existence.

The priest felt envy. Burning, suffocating envy. So much beauty. So much power. Such supremacy. He wanted it. Not as a devotee begging for scraps, but as someone who wished to claim the same throne. He wanted to be one of the figures. An equal. No longer a common man of fragile flesh and wavering faith, but something greater.

Then “That man” smiled. And he told him the method. Be worshiped as they are... but do not seek to become them. Be similar... but never a copy. Be revered... but not as one of the figures. Build your own altar. The words were soft and gentle, like invisible chains wrapping around the priest’s mind.

Following every step, and receiving constant guidance from that “man” the priest raised his church. He gathered followers, at first only a few, then dozens, then crowds. He preached about the beautiful figures, described their glory in vivid detail, painted with words what many had never seen, yet came to believe they had felt.

Some believers swore they had dreamed of them. Others claimed they had seen them. They spoke of visions of light, of voices echoing like distant choirs, of presences that crushed and comforted at the same time. The priest listened to everything. Memorized everything. And used everything.

He based his sermons on those experiences, shaped his doctrine around their accounts, refined the narrative until faith and imagination became indistinguishable. Every testimony was a piece. Every act of devotion, a step upward. And then his plan began to bear fruit.

Reverence began to turn toward him as well. His eyes started to shine differently during services. His voice carried an authority it had never held before. His presence felt denser, more imposing. He no longer felt merely human. He felt powerful.

The priest slowly raised his hand, long fingers trembling, not from weakness, but anticipation. His deep-set eyes, marked by sleepless nights, fixed on the fallen frame lying atop the dark wooden table.

The glass was shattered, and the photograph beneath it torn into countless jagged fragments, as if someone had tried to erase its existence with violence. With a single soft, careless gesture, something invisible moved through the air. The pieces began to shift.

First, a tiny fragment slid across the tabletop with a faint, dry scrape. Then another. And another. One by one, they lifted, hovering briefly before fitting into the exact places where they belonged. The torn edges touched... and fused. The marks vanished like scars that had never existed.

Within seconds, the photograph was whole. The priest stepped closer. His fingers hovered over the image, but he did not dare touch it. His lips parted in a reverent breath. It was a girl. Or at least... something that had taken the shape of one.

The priest’s mind struggled to grasp her in full. At first glance, her features seemed simple, eyes, nose, mouth, yet there was something that transcended human understanding. Her beauty was not merely aesthetic, it was structural, primordial.

It was as though every admirable quality ever seen in any entity had been carefully selected and gathered into that single being. Absolute harmony. Perfect proportions. A presence that seemed to pierce through the paper and seep into the room.

As the priest stared at the photo, the feeling came. Envy. Not small or petty envy, but something corrosive, burning, nearly devouring. He envied the beauty. He envied the power. He envied the purity of the existence captured in the image.

His chest tightened; his breathing grew uneven. He did not merely want to behold her. He wanted to be like her. No... he wanted to be her.

The idea took shape in his mind like a profane revelation. His fingers finally pressed against the photograph, clutching it to his chest as if he could absorb something through the paper.

There was desperation in his eyes, deep, raw, almost childlike desperation. He was willing to do anything. Because before that image, everything he was felt insufficient.