The streets of Greymoor were a furnace. Flames devoured thatched roofs, black smoke smeared the dawn sky, and the sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through every alley.
Through the chaos, the "pro-god" mob dragged the three CEOs, half-shoving, half-shielding them from the battle raging all around.
"This way! Protect the gods!" shouted a rebel, blood dripping from a gash in his face. His ragged tunic was smeared with soot, his hands gripping a stolen sword. Around him, a dozen peasants formed a ragged shield, blocking arrows and spears with their own bodies as they pushed through the burning streets.
Kael stumbled, coughing on the smoke. "This is insane! They're literally dying for us—"
"They should," Riven barked, cracking a knight's skull with a stolen mace as they passed. He grinned like a wolf, teeth red with blood. "We gave them a show. Now they're believers."
Damian said nothing. He walked in silence, calm even as firelight flickered across his torn suit. His cold eyes swept the burning city, cataloguing every weakness, every opportunity.
The rebels pulled them into a hidden cellar beneath a ruined tavern. The door slammed shut, muffling the riot outside. Inside, the room stank of sweat and fear. Straw mats littered the floor, along with barrels of food, stolen weapons, and bandaged wounded.
The ragtag band of villagers fell to their knees.
"Gods," whispered an old woman, tears streaking her ash-covered face. "You descended from the sky to free us from the pig-lord."
"Bless us," begged another, thrusting his dirt-caked hands forward. "Lead us!"
Riven chuckled, spreading his arms. "You hear that, boys? We're fuckin' gods now. Bout time someone noticed."
Kael buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god, this is a cult. We've got a goddamn cult already."
Damian finally spoke, his voice soft but razor-sharp. "Not a cult." He looked over the kneeling villagers, eyes gleaming with cold fire. "An army."
The rebels bowed lower. The three CEOs exchanged looks—one amused, one horrified, one calculating.
Outside, Greymoor tore itself apart. Inside, in the shadows of rebellion, the seeds of something far more dangerous had just been planted.
Faith and Fire
The rebels huddled around the three men in the cellar, their torches guttering in the smoky air. The youngest of them, barely old enough to hold a sword, looked at Damian with eyes shining.
"You came from the sky," the boy said. "When the fire split the heavens, I saw it with my own eyes. And when the knights tried to break you… you did not kneel. No man could endure that. Only gods."
An old woman spat into the dirt. "Halbrecht is no lord—he's a parasite. He fattens himself while we starve. Raises taxes while our children freeze. He takes our daughters for his bed, and our sons for his wars. And when we complain?" Her voice cracked. "The gallows. Always the gallows."
A scarred farmer, gripping a bloodied pitchfork, slammed its butt against the floor. "You didn't bow to him. You fought back. You showed us what we've always known—he's just a fat pig in a chair. Not a god. Not untouchable."
The cellar echoed with murmurs of agreement.
Kael rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ… these people actually think we're divine."
Riven grinned, leaning back against a barrel. "Let 'em. Fear and faith move armies. Doesn't matter if they think we're gods, devils, or space aliens—as long as they fight for us."
Damian's eyes swept over the kneeling rebels, cold and calculating. "Faith is a weapon sharper than steel. And right now… it's the only weapon you have."
The villagers nodded, emboldened. "Then lead us," one whispered. "Show us the way."
Kael groaned. "Fuck me. We're building a cult, aren't we?"
Riven laughed. "No, doc. We're building a kingdom."
The Pig's Wrath
But while faith burned in the cellar, fire also burned in Greymoor Castle.
Lord Halbrecht sat red-faced at his high table, goblet trembling in his fist. The riot had gutted his city. Half his knights lay dead, the rest were scattered. The "sky demons" had vanished, hidden by peasants. And whispers of gods descended spread like plague through every tavern and market.
His advisors begged restraint. His priests urged prayer. But Halbrecht was no fool. He knew what ruled peasants. Not prayer. Not law.
Fear.
"Round up the vermin," Halbrecht growled. "Every suspected rebel. Every fool who whispered 'god' instead of 'demon.' Drag them from their homes."
The purge began at nightfall.
Men were dragged screaming from their beds. Women were beaten in the streets until they named "god-lovers." Children wailed as soldiers tore families apart.
And in the castle courtyard, Halbrecht prepared his masterpiece.
A great iron cauldron was set over roaring flames. Water hissed inside as it climbed toward the boil. The crowd—terrified, trembling—was forced to gather and watch.
A young man, one of the captured rebels, was dragged forward in chains. His face was bruised, his lip split. He spat blood at Halbrecht's feet.
"You can't kill us all," he croaked. "The gods have descended. They will free us."
Halbrecht smiled—a wide, greasy grin. "No. They will watch."
The man was lifted, screaming, into the cauldron. The boiling water swallowed him whole. His shrieks tore through the night, high and ragged, echoing through every alley of Greymoor.
The villagers wept. The guards turned pale. The man's screams went on, and on, and on.
In the cellar across the city, the rebels froze as the sound reached them. It carried through the streets, carried through the stone, carried into their very bones.
Kael's face went white. "What the fuck is that…?"
One of the rebels covered her ears, tears streaming. "He's boiling them. Halbrecht… he boils people alive to make us afraid."
The screaming lasted for hours.
Riven's grin faltered. His fists clenched. "That fat fuck's dead. I'm gonna carve him open like a hog."
Damian didn't flinch. He only listened, cold eyes unblinking. "Good," he whispered. "Fear cuts both ways. Tonight he shows his people his cruelty. Tomorrow, we show them his weakness."
The shrieks finally ended, leaving only silence. But the echo remained.
Faith and fear were now clashing in Greymoor, and the city itself had become the battlefield.
The cellar had gone silent after the screams died. Nobody spoke for a long time. Even the torches seemed to flicker weaker, as though afraid.
Finally, Damian broke the silence. His voice was calm, deliberate, ice-cold.
"Tonight, he proved he rules by fear. But fear only works if people believe resistance is hopeless. That belief ends now. We don't wait. We strike."
The rebels stirred uneasily. A young man, barely armed with a rusty short sword, shook his head. "Strike? We're farmers. Miners. We've got pitchforks, not steel. If we march on the castle, we'll be slaughtered."
Damian's gaze pinned him like a hawk. "You're already being slaughtered. One by one. In your homes. In the streets. That boiling was not punishment—it was a message. A message that you are weak. You want that to continue?"
The man swallowed hard, but didn't answer.
Riven slammed his fist into a barrel, grinning. "Fuck yeah. About time. I say we cut the pig's head off and mount it on his own gates."
A few rebels cheered nervously. Others paled.
Kael rubbed his temples. "Okay, before Captain Bloodlust here drags us all into suicide, let's think. We don't have numbers. We don't have armor. But we do have brains. These people are locked in medieval tactics—we can outthink them."
Damian nodded. "He's right. You don't need to storm the walls head-on. You need chaos. Disruption. Turn Halbrecht's fear against him."
Riven's grin widened. "Sabotage. Ambushes. Guerilla shit. I like it."
Kael pointed to the rebels. "Half of you know the castle better than the guards. Secret paths. Supply routes. Weak points. That's where we hit."
Damian's cold smile returned. "We bleed them slowly. Then, when the time is right… we take the castle in one strike."
The rebels exchanged glances—fear, doubt, hope. For the first time, they had something they had never possessed under Halbrecht.
A plan.
But while whispers of rebellion grew in the shadows, the ripples of Halbrecht's purge spread beyond Greymoor.
In the halls of Baron Hollowmere, the petty lord who had once mocked Halbrecht's weakness, a council argued.
"He boiled them alive!" a knight spat, slamming his fist on the table. "Even for Halbrecht, this is madness. His people will never forgive him."
Baron Hollowmere sneered, swirling his wine. "Madness? No. It's brilliance. Every village within a day's ride will tremble at that sound. They'll fear him more than they hate him. Fear keeps peasants in line."
But another noble leaned in, voice low. "Or it breaks them. If whispers are true—if those strangers are still alive—then Halbrecht just made martyrs. And martyrs topple lords."
Hollowmere's smile faltered.
Meanwhile, in the manor of Lady Mirabel Cazwyn, the silver-tongued debt-ridden noblewoman, the purge sparked a different reaction.
She lounged on silk cushions, listening to her spies' reports. "Boiling peasants alive? How very… theatrical. But if he must go to such extremes, it means he is desperate. And desperate lords can be… persuaded."
Her lips curved in a sly smile. "Send word to Greymoor. Tell the 'sky gods' they may find a friend in House Cazwyn—if they prove themselves worthy."
And so, in the span of a single night, Halbrecht's purge had both terrified his people and alerted his rivals.
The city simmered with fear. The countryside whispered of omens. The lords of the region sharpened their knives.
And in the shadows beneath Greymoor, three men from another world sharpened theirs.
The rebellion had not yet begun in earnest. But its first sparks were already lit.