“Thou shalt worship no other gods.”
In the city of Eaton, Cardinal Elliot Sanchez lived for one thing: burning heretics.
He loved the sight of a heretic twisting in the flames, the thin wisps of smoke rising toward the heavens, and the divine favor he felt descending from above. It was a high he could never quite get enough of.
He had once made a grand vow to offer nine hundred and ninety-nine “candles” to the God of Light. Unfortunately, finding the right materials proved difficult. By the time he reached his one hundred and forty-seventh candle, every heretic within a thousand-mile radius had been reduced to ash. He was forced to look elsewhere.
To maintain good relations with cardinals of other dioceses, he’d had to trade away his carefully trained choir boys, his collection of holy artifacts, gallons of sacred ichor, and wagon-loads of gilded scrolls. That choir boy—the one with skin so soft you could practically squeeze water from his cheeks—had been particularly hard to let go. But compared to the transcendent joy of roasting a heretic, such sacrifices were trivial.
–
Sacrament Cathedral.
Morning prayers had concluded, and Elliot returned to his second-floor office to handle the diocese’s affairs. After signing several documents, he paused, peering over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses at the acolyte standing by his side.
“Erwin, how is the interrogation of that heretic going?”
“My Lord,” the acolyte whispered, “his name is John Wang. He’s a farmer. He claims to worship something called the God of Science.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Likely some backwater shrine. A gathering of peasant incense and superstition that gained a sliver of sentience—a false god that’s clouded the man’s mind.”
Elliot narrowed his eyes, his soft body sinking into his velvet armchair. A large, ornate gold and silver cross rested atop his protruding belly.
“John Wang… even the name sounds heretical. Positively wicked. ‘John’ is a holy name, the name of a disciple, signifying the mercy of God. To place ‘Wang’ before it is a blatant usurpation. Pure sacrilege.”
“The ritual is ready, My Lord. Would you like to light the fire personally?”
“I shall recite the litany of the Merciful and Loving Lord—He who is pure, beautiful, and flawless, He whose holy blood nurtures our souls—directly into the eyes of that wretch while he drowns in his foul delusions. Alagamen.”
The Cardinal hoisted himself out of his chair and waddled off with purpose.
–
“Execution today! Burning a heretic!”
The news spread through the streets and alleys of Eaton in sharp, trembling voices. Leaden clouds hung low in the sky, pregnant with the threat of rain. Whitehall Square was already packed with spectators.
For the citizens of the Holy Kingdom, “heresy” was a terrifying concept.
If someone dozed off during Mass or lacked focus during morning prayers, their faith might dim and their Holy Light might fail to manifest. At worst, they’d get a scolding from a priest. That wasn’t heresy. Heresy meant a soul had truly fallen into the embrace of an Evil God.
A stir rippled through the square.
“The heretic is here!”
“That’s him!”
“Don’t look into his eyes! He’ll pollute your soul!”
“I saw him! What do I do? I’m tainted!”
“Put a silver cross in a bowl of water and stare at it for an hour. You’ll be fine.”
“Die, you filthy heretic!”
Rotten eggs, wilted vegetables, and stones pelted the prisoner’s carriage.
–
A group of nuns, beautiful in their hooded robes, tilted silver pitchers to pour holy water into a basin. The basin was a perfect circle made of granite, the water reflecting the gloomy sky. In the center stood a copper pillar engraved with holy runes. The heretic was bound to it with heavy chains.
As one of the nuns leaned over, the neckline of her habit shifted, revealing a hint of pale skin.
Wang Yue, tied to the stake, took a good look. He was a dying man; he might as well enjoy the view like a gentleman. He had lived two lives now, and he had no regrets.
In his previous life, Wang Yue had been a high school student in China. After transmigrating, he hadn’t wallowed in self-pity. He had leaned into the industrious nature of his people, using his own two hands to clear land, farm, and raise livestock. He worked from dawn to dusk without rest.
Eventually, he had built irrigation channels, waterwheels, and a biogas system. He used the gas for light and the byproduct for fertilizer. He bred superior seeds, grafted seedlings, and established vineyards and apple orchards. He raised chickens, ducks, and guinea pigs. Life was finally looking up.
He’d spent months bribing Old Man Eugen with high-quality apple brandy until the old man finally agreed to let Wang Yue marry his daughter, Erika.
Erika was sixteen, soft-bodied, and fair. She had watery eyes and a charming mole just above her lip. Wang Yue had been on the verge of reaching the peak of his life, only to be dragged away by the Church.
Calling him a heretic wasn’t exactly a lie, though.
Wang Yue was a staunch materialist. He believed in the “Two Misters”—Mr. Democracy and Mr. Science. The God of Light? He didn’t know the guy.
When he’d been forced to touch the black-covered Holy Scripture—known as the “Heresy Detector”—the scene had been spectacular. It was as if a portal to another world had opened; phantoms of celestial models, molecular structures, and mathematical formulas had surged out, scaring the local priest so badly he’d wet his pants.
Shortly after, the Sacramentum Knights had surrounded his farm.
Wang Yue had stood his ground with a pitchfork against their gleaming blades and polearms. The Knight Commander had drawn her sword with a sharp shink and sliced his pitchfork in half.
Wang Yue had surrendered immediately.
The only one who had really fought back was his pet goose, Ougen. Ougen was intelligent; he had followed Wang Yue’s heels since he was a gosling, pecking at grain. He had grown to be half a man’s height, his down replaced by magnificent feathers.
