The soft glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the fields, painting the horizon in hues of orange and purple.

  Lucian surveyed the expanse before him, his staff lightly tapping the ground as he turned to Marcus, who trailed closely behind.

  It's been two weeks since the incident.

  Everyday, a continuous streak of constant blessings, with it, the volume of his divine powers grew significantly.

  And what at first, seemed to be an impossible task, is now nearing its completion.

  "We're done for the day," Lucian said, his voice calm yet satisfied.

  "Finally!" Marcus exhaled, dropping the sack of supplies he'd been carrying. "How do you even manage to do this every single day, Father? It's exhausting."

  Lucian chuckled. "You'll understand when you're older, Marcus. Now, let's head back before Agnes starts hunting us down for skipping dinner."

  As they entered the village, however, something felt… different. The usual lively chatter was replaced by murmurs, the melodic clinking of tools replaced by the scratching of sticks and the scrape of charcoal against stone.

  Lucian stopped mid-step, his eyes darting across the plaza. The once pristine walls were now scrawled with crude letters and symbols, the streets adorned with shaky drawings, and even the cobblestones bore the messy etchings of numbers.

  Elderly villagers hunched over small wooden boards, muttering under their breath as they painstakingly tried to write. Children crouched on the ground, drawing crooked circles and uneven lines. Some men used daggers to carve letters into wood, while others practiced on strips of fabric.

  Lucian's lips curled into a faint smile.

  Ah, progress.

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  "Father!" Barret's booming voice pulled him from his thoughts. The burly carpenter emerged from his workshop, wiping soot-stained hands on his apron.

  "Barret," Lucian greeted with a nod. "How's the project?"

  Barret beamed with pride, gesturing for Lucian to follow. "Finished ahead of schedule, Father. It's ready for your inspection."

  "Already? You work fast," Lucian said, his curiosity piqued.

  Inside the workshop, the air smelled of sawdust and ash. In the center of the room stood a peculiar contraption—a simple yet functional printing press, its wooden frame gleaming under the dim light of an oil lamp.

  Beside it lay several boxes filled with small wooden blocks, each carved with letters, numbers, and symbols.

  Lucian stepped closer, running his fingers over the machine's smooth surface. "It's exactly as I envisioned."

  "We tested it too," Barret said, handing Lucian a stack of parchment. "For now, we're using a charcoal mix for ink. Prototype E worked the best."

  Lucian inspected the sheets, each bearing identical copies of a psalm. The text wasn't perfect—some letters were smudged, others faint—but it was legible. His grin widened.

  "This will do," he said. "Good job, Barret. You've just invented the printing press."

  Barret scratched his head, laughing nervously. "Invented? Nah, I just followed your instructions. But… this thing is something else. How'd you even come up with it?"

  "Genius inspiration," Lucian replied with a nonchalant shrug. "With this, scribes will be obsolete. Copying texts will take hours, not weeks."

  Marcus, who had been silently observing, stepped closer to the machine, his eyes wide with wonder. "So… it's like magic for books?"

  Lucian chuckled. "Not magic, but close enough." He turned back to Barret. "I'll have Leo prepare manuscripts for his textbooks. We'll start printing them next."

  As he headed for the door, he paused and glanced back. "Oh, and Marcus?"

  "Yes, Father?"

  "If you're interested, you can experiment with the machine alongside Barret. Just don't break anything."

  Marcus' face lit up. "Really? You mean it?"

  Lucian smirked. "Of course. But be back before dinner."

  "Yes, Father!" Marcus darted toward the press, already peppering Barret with questions.

  "One more thing," Lucian added, his voice firm. "Keep this technology a secret. No one outside this room can know about it."

  Barret and Marcus nodded solemnly.

  Satisfied, Lucian stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against his face. His mind raced with possibilities as he walked through the village.

  One small step for man, one great leap for Me.

  He stifled a chuckle. The printing press would revolutionize everything. Not just education, but control. The ability to mass-produce texts meant he could saturate the village—and eventually, the entire region—with carefully crafted messages.

  Pamphlets filled with praises.

  Books overflowing with devotion.

  Sermons emphasizing my 'divinity.'

  His grin turned sly.

  This is it. The beginning of mass brainwashing.

  Soon, they won't just respect me—they'll worship me.

  As he passed by a group of children struggling to trace letters in the dirt, he stopped, bending down to correct their grip on the sticks they used.

  "Remember, practice makes perfect," he said gently.

  The children beamed at him, their small hands clumsily following his guidance.

  But first… literacy. Can't have them worshiping me if they can't even read my name.

  Lucian straightened, his eyes glinting with ambition. "Soon," he whispered to himself, "they'll all see the truth I want them to see."

  He resumed his walk toward the chapel, his mind already drafting the texts that would shape the future of Ciara—and perhaps, the entire empire.