The sacred idol of District Seven did not fall because of age, or erosion, or a stray lightning strike.
It collapsed at the peak of worship.
Tens of thousands were kneeling. Hymns reached their loudest. Incense burned so thick the air shimmered—
And then, with a sharp, brittle crack, the god's stone face split from the brow to the chest and dropped like a mask that had been pulled too tight.
The ground shook.
Hundreds of believers held their breath.
The next second, flames erupted.
A dozen worshippers burst into fire on the spot, chanting "Let the god return—let the god return—" Their skin blistered, burned, peeled. None of them screamed. They simply knelt until their bodies collapsed into blackened shapes.
There was no blood in the air.
Only a faint, strange sweetness.
"Faith-ash combustion," someone whispered.
In this land, it meant one thing.
The god was no longer answering.
At the center of the scorched floor, a young man in a black adjudicator's coat lifted his head. His expression twisted between shock and exhaustion.
"…This really has nothing to do with me."
His name was Shisu—external investigator for the Central Oversight Bureau. His official job: record "faith structures."
His real job: quietly clean up "false gods."
In other words: the group most likely to be blamed and murdered by fanatics.
Today, he didn't come to judge anyone.
Today, they judged him.
No one knew who knelt first.
A middle-aged man pointed at him with trembling hands.
"Last night—your voice… you came to me in a dream! You said: 'If the god won't respond, write one yourself.' That wasn't a dream—IT WAS A DIVINE MESSAGE!"
Then a second person knelt.
A third.
Dozens.
"Lord, you've finally spoken to us—!"
Shisu stood in the ashes like someone dragged out of the clouds and thrown into mud. Logic clung to him desperately, but his head was ringing with one question:
—What the hell did I say last night?
He replayed it.
…Ah.
Yes. He had said it.
Yesterday, half-asleep, complaining about how corrupt the clergy were, he muttered that sarcastic line to himself.
No one was supposed to hear it.
But now, the entire district called it prophecy.
He was about to explain when a clear voice cut through the chaos—
"Not because he answered us. Because we chose him."
The crowd stilled.
A girl in a grey cleric robe stepped forward. Her eyes were too bright, like a lamp newly lit.
She stared straight at Shisu.
"You're not a god."
Shisu raised a brow. "…Then why did you kneel?"
"I wasn't kneeling to you."
She shook her head. "I came to help you write your first doctrine."
Her voice was calm, precise—each word hitting like a nail driven into wood.
"The old god is silent. This place can't wait anymore. We need someone to lead us. You can talk like a normal person—that's good enough."
She turned to the crowd, cleared her throat, and declared:
"First rule: Stay alive."
At that moment, the ashes floating above their heads twisted, pulled by an invisible pendulum. They gathered into a dark-red sphere in midair—
A Faith-Burn Clock.
And it began counting down.
[90]
[89]
[88]…
Shisu's face hardened.
This wasn't hallucination.
District faith systems could spontaneously build a Response Countdown when belief destabilized. If the "new god" didn't deliver a reply by zero—
A second wave of mass self-immolation would begin.
A time-lock.
Someone slammed the church doors shut.
"Bar it! Bar it now!"
The heavy beam crashed down. No one could enter. No one could leave.
A space-lock.
Perfect. A religious crisis inside a sealed building. Lovely.
Several clergy tried to flee toward the altar, but devotees dragged them down and beat them until they stopped moving.
"Don't question the chosen one! Kneel!"
Shisu exhaled slowly.
If he didn't say something to stop this, the next "holy decree" would be written by pure madness—and madness killed far more efficiently than any false god.
The countdown dropped—
[63]
[62]
[61]…
The girl looked back at him.
"You said last night you'd write a response. So write it."
Shisu lowered his gaze.
A small cut on his palm—the pen slip from last night—glowed faintly, like invisible letters were forming across his skin.
He inhaled sharply, lifted his head, and spoke:
"Listen."
His voice wasn't loud, but it crushed the noise in the church.
"I'm not a god."
People froze.
Some cried.
Some stared at him, shaking.
He continued:
"But if your god won't speak—then for now… you'll listen to me."
He raised his hand. The shallow wound glimmered like an improvised seal.
"Doctrine Zero. One word."
His tone sharpened—
"Stop.
Stop burning yourselves. Stop hurting each other. Stop kneeling. Everyone stand up. Pass the water. Cover wounds with ash. Smother the flames. Anyone tries to interfere—hold them down."
The moment the words fell, ash surged like it understood.
It swept across cuts, sealing them.
Pressed onto open flames, extinguishing them.
Torches went poof and died.
A raised knife snapped from the wielder's trembling hand.
The countdown froze at [47], jumped back to [60], then slowed.
Whispers rippled. People stood—shaking, but alive.
A black crow burst out of the broken idol, flapped wildly, then halted midair as if caught by a string. It drifted toward the altar.
Shisu's voice stayed cold.
"Second rule."
He pointed at a zealot still shouting.
"Put. The knife. Down."
The fanatic's hand dropped like the blade had turned to lead.
"Third rule," Shisu said, nodding to the door.
"Move the beam three fingers. Let the rescue team pass supplies in. No one rushes out."
The beam slid.
Cloth, saltwater, herbs all passed through the gap like lifelines.
The countdown dropped—
[10]
[9]
[8]…
Then paused at [3].
The girl grabbed his hand.
"Write the last line."
He looked at her eyes—bright, steady, terrifyingly sincere.
He nodded.
"Doctrine One—official version."
He spoke each word clearly:
"If the god is silent, then people may speak. Save lives first. Worship later."
The countdown broke.
No explosion.
Just silence—and then a wave of shaking breaths across the church, like everyone surfaced from underwater.
Shisu lowered his hand. The cut on his palm was covered now—sealed by faint glowing text.
Not a miracle.
A resonance.
People turning his words into law.
A half-dead priest clawed upright and screamed:
"H-He's rewriting doctrine! This is blasphemy—!"
Shisu's reply cut like iron:
"You've been using divine will to kill people for years. From today on, anyone who weaponizes faith—faces me first."
The room shifted.
Some people straightened their backs for the first time.
Some realized kneeling wasn't the only way to hear a "god's voice."
A distant bell tolled.
An Oversight crow swooped through a broken window and dropped a red urgent letter onto Shisu's shoulder.
[Field Investigator: Shisu]
[Incident Level: RED]
[Order: Cease all unauthorized "response" actions immediately. Await takeover.]
[Note: Possible 'False God Catalyst.']
Shisu narrowed his eyes, pocketed it, and breathed out slowly.
Great.
Now it wasn't just the believers watching him.
The higher-ups were too.
The girl smiled like it was good news.
"Then perfect. If you're not afraid of trouble… let's take all of it."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Chen Xin," she answered. "I'll stick with you for now. Let's finish the second doctrine."
"Oh? What's Rule Two?"
She looked at the shaking crowd and spoke each word like a verdict:
"From today on—believe whoever you want. But believe the living first."
"…Fair."
Shisu faced the crowd again.
The crow perched above them cawed sharply.
"Let me repeat," he said.
"I'm not a god."
"But if yours won't speak—then for now… you listen to me."
"Rule One: No dying."
"Rule Two: Save lives first, worship later."
"Rule Three: Anyone who uses 'divine will' to force death—answers to me."
Ash drifted like warm snow.
For the first time, District Seven's ruins glowed.
Outside, dusk gathered.
Far down the street, a hooded figure paused, lifting her head slightly.
No one saw the curve of her mouth.
No one heard her whisper:
"Finally… a variable."