✝️ PROLOGUE
The Weight of the Word
He died with the taste of iron on his tongue.
It was not poetic. Not sudden. Not merciful.
The room smelled of dust and overheated plastic, the stale odor of a life lived indoors and online too long. The hum of the PC fan whined like an insect trapped in a jar, growing sharper as his breath grew shallow. His chest burned—not dramatically, but like a slow fire eating from the inside out. Each breath scraped. Each heartbeat felt late.
He lay on the floor beside his desk, fingers twitching against cold tile, eyes fixed on the crucifix hanging crooked on the wall.
Cheap wood. Mass-produced. Bought online.
He had argued about crusades that morning. Again. Comment threads, citations, half-remembered Latin mottos typed with shaking fingers and too much conviction. Deus vult. Just war theory. Augustine, Aquinas. Anime tabs open in the background—DanMachi paused mid-frame, Bell frozen in a heroic pose that the MC had scoffed at even while enjoying it.
Too clean, he had thought. Too soft.
His throat tightened. Saliva tasted bitter. Regret pressed down heavier than the pain.
"I wasn't… good enough," he whispered, voice hoarse. He wasn't sure who he was speaking to. Himself. God. The ceiling.
He had believed. Zealously. Loudly. Imperfectly.
He had failed quietly.
The room dimmed—not like a light turning off, but like the world was being wrapped in cloth. Sound dulled. The fan faded. Even the pain loosened its grip.
Then silence fell.
Not emptiness.
Presence.
It pressed in from every direction, heavier than gravity, warmer than blood. He could not see it, but it saw him. The awareness stripped him bare in an instant—every half-meant prayer, every prideful argument, every time he wielded faith like a club instead of a cross.
He wanted to hide.
He could not.
"Stand."
The voice did not vibrate air. It commanded existence.
He found himself upright—not on the floor, not in the room. There was no ground, yet he stood. No sky, yet light poured from everywhere. It was white, but not blinding. It revealed rather than erased.
He tried to speak. Failed.
"You desired war without understanding its cost."
Images struck him—Crusaders bleeding in mud, monks praying over mass graves, martyrs singing while fire climbed their legs. Not glorified. Not sanitized.
Real.
"You desired righteousness without obedience."
His own memories surfaced—anger in debates, contempt for the weak, indulgence excused because at least I believe. The shame burned hotter than any hellfire fantasy he'd ever imagined.
He fell to his knees.
"I'm not worthy," he croaked.
"No one is."
The words were not condemnation. They were fact.
The presence drew closer. He could feel it now—like standing too near a furnace, yet never burning. The smell of incense filled the void, sharp and ancient. Frankincense. Myrrh. Ash.
"You asked why I allow false gods to walk."
His breath hitched. He remembered that prayer. Whispered, angry. Demanding.
"You asked why they are loved while I am mocked."
The light shifted. Shapes emerged—not angels. Not wings. Just weight. Authority without spectacle.
"You will be sent where they reign openly."
Fear flared. Excitement followed. Then terror again.
"I—I'm not a hero," he said. "I'm not—"
"I did not ask for a hero."
The pressure intensified. Something settled into his bones, heavy and cold and right.
"You will go as you are."
The Word struck him—not as sound, but as inscription. It carved itself into him.
Languages bloomed in his mind like opened wounds. Hebrew—raw and ancient. Greek—precise, sharp as a blade. Latin—solemn, judicial. Words of prayer, of law, of blood and vow. He gasped as they layered atop one another, not confusing, never conflicting.
Meaning, not noise.
"You will remain human."
Relief flooded him—followed by confusion.
"You will not ascend."
The warmth withdrew slightly.
"You will not be protected from consequence."
The weight returned.
"You will be My servant."
Something unlocked.
Not power.
Calling.
He felt it then—the class, though no window appeared. No numbers. No voice explaining mechanics. Just function settling into place like a yoke across his shoulders.
Servant of the Word.
The title hurt.
"Go."
The light collapsed.
Stone slammed into his back.
Cold. Hard. Wet.
Air rushed into his lungs, sharp and rotten, carrying the stench of mold, sweat, iron, and something deeper—something alive and wrong. His hands scraped rough cobblestone as he coughed, bile burning his throat.
Noise crashed over him.
Voices shouting. Footsteps. Laughter. The clang of armor. The distant roar of something enormous echoing from deep underground.
He rolled onto his side, gasping, vision swimming.
Torches flickered overhead, casting orange light across towering stone walls etched with symbols he recognized instantly.
Orario.
The city of gods.
His stomach twisted.
A blue-haired goddess laughed nearby—high-pitched, impulsive. Hestia. Exactly as in the anime. A group of adventurers passed, armor scuffed, expressions weary but excited. Falna shimmered faintly on exposed skin.
He felt it then.
Pressure.
Not from the Dungeon.
From above.
The gods were watching.
Not consciously—not yet—but instinctively, like animals sensing a storm. Something in him did not fit. It did not register to their divine senses. Falna slid off him like water off oil.
Hestia glanced his way, brow furrowing for half a heartbeat before distraction claimed her again.
"Oi, hurry up!" someone shouted.
He pushed himself to his feet, hands trembling. The stone felt real under his fingers—cold, damp, unforgiving. His heart pounded hard enough to shake his ribs.
He closed his eyes.
Prayed.
Not aloud. Not yet.
The languages stirred, waiting.
When he opened them again, the city had not changed.
But he had.
A beggar slumped nearby, eyes dull, muttering a prayer—not to God, but to a goddess who had never answered. The MC felt it like a knife in his chest. The words scraped against his soul, wrong in a way he could not ignore.
Discernment flared.
Falsehood.
Not hatred. Not rage.
Grief.
He knelt beside the man, ignoring the curious looks. The smell of unwashed flesh and sour wine filled his nose. The beggar flinched, expecting mockery or theft.
The MC placed a hand on the stone between them.
"Lord," he whispered, voice shaking, "have mercy."
The words were Hebrew before he realized it.
The beggar blinked.
Nothing flashy happened. No light. No miracle.
But the man heard him.
Not the words.
The sincerity.
Far above, in the tower that watched the Dungeon, Ouranos stirred.
And deep below, the Dungeon shuddered.
The war had begun—not with steel, but with witness.
And the gods did not yet understand why they were afraid.