The stale scent of incense lingered in the air, thick with age.

  It clung to the wooden beams of the small, dilapidated room, curling like tendrils around the dim light that seeped through the dusty windows.

  The faint murmur of wind outside barely disturbed the oppressive silence within.

  Father Lucian Thorne lay still on the rickety bed, his body frail, cold, and strange.

  His skin, once warm with the vitality of a man who had fought for a better world, now felt like the fragile parchment of an ancient book—thin, crinkled, ready to tear at the slightest touch.

  His chest rose and fell slowly, unevenly, a heart that had been broken once now unsure whether it had the strength to beat again.

  He hadn't been granted the mercy of death. Instead, he had woken to this—this weak and foreign shell that had once belonged to Lucian Thorne, a man who had been nothing more than a forgotten priest in a forgotten village on the edge of the world.

  But Daniel Evernath wasn't forgotten.

  He was alive.

  Somewhere, deep within the recesses of his mind, Daniel still lived, angry and burning with desire.

  That flame had not been snuffed out.

  And neither would he be.

  "Survive. That's right. I need to survive and rise again." He though as he stared at the words floating in front of him.

  But before he could even contemplate on his situation. The old wooded door creaked open, and a figure entered—a boy, an adolescent, with the sharp features of youth and the weariness of one who had grown up too soon.

  His brown hair fell in messy tufts around his amber eyes, eyes that were now wide with surprise.

  The robe he wore, patched and threadbare, clung to his thin frame akwardly, marking him as a servant of the Lord, yet one who had known little of the wealth and privilege that the Church possessed.

  Marcus.

  His name instinctively rose form the depths of Lucian's mind.

  The boy's eyes softened as they landed on Lucian, and before he could say a word, tears welled in his gaze. He dropped the small wooden bowl he had been carrying, the thud of its fall reverberating in the otherwise quiet room.

  "Father Lucian... you're... you're awake," Marcus stammered, his voice a mixture of relief and disbelief.

  Lucian blinked slowly, his mind hazy, but a flicker of understanding crept through the fog.

  This is my chance.

  He had to play the part—pretend weakness, forgetfulness, vulnerability.

  He could extract more from this boy, from this situation, than brute force ever could.

  He gave a faint, shaky smile, his voice soft, almost as though he were speaking to a child.

  "Where... where am I?"

  Marcus's face lit up with a beaming smile, and for a moment, Lucian could see the innocence and hope that still lived in him.

  "You're in the convent, Father. You've been ill for weeks," Marcus explained, his voice bubbling with happiness.

  "I—I thought you were... gone. But look at you! You're alive! By the grace of God, you've returned to us."

  Lucian's mind sharpened as Marcus chattered on, his words filling the room like an unwelcome guest.

  The boy spoke of miracles and divine intervention as though Lucian were a saint returned from the heavens.

  How convenient.

  I can use this.

  He let out a soft sigh, lifting his hand to his brow as if to gather his scattered thoughts.

  "My mind... it's foggy." He winced slightly, his hand moving to his chest as though in pain. He gave Marcus a pitiful glance.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "I... I don't remember much."

  Marcus's face twisted with concern. "You must be exhausted. You've been through so much." His voice was full of empathy. "Let me fetch you something to eat. You need to regain your strength."

  The boy darted out of the room, his footsteps a quick patter on the wooden floors, leaving Lucian in silence once again.

  This place… these people…

  Lucian let his thoughts drift, examining the room. The walls were cracked, the altar in the corner worn down by time and neglect.

  This place was a pitiful reminder of the state of this world, and of the Church itself—utterly detached, struggling, and desperately clinging to the illusion of power.

  Marcus returned quickly, his face flushed with excitement. In his hands, he carried a simple tray with a bowl of watered-down soup and a hunk of stale bread, as though it were a feast.

  "I brought you food, Father," Marcus said eagerly, setting the tray down beside the bed. "You must be so hungry. You've been asleep for so long, and the villagers—they've all been praying for you. For a miracle."

  Lucian stared at the food, his stomach turning. The bread was dry, crumbling in on itself like the church's crumbling authority. The soup—if it could even be called that—was little more than warm water.

  "I… I'm grateful," Lucian muttered, lifting the bowl to his lips, though every part of him screamed against it. He wasn't here to be pitied, nor was he here to die quietly in this forgotten corner of the world.

  As he ate—slowly, carefully, for effect—he listened intently to Marcus's chatter. The boy spoke of the village's struggles. "Father, it's been hard. Very hard."

  "There's barely enough to feed the children, and the old ones are suffering. We've been praying for a miracle. For help. But it's been... it's been weeks, Father. And our church—" he paused, swallowing hard, "—it can't do much. It's been a while since we ran out of resources."

  He let Marcus speak, letting the boy reveal more of the cracks in the foundation of this forsaken village:

  Starving villagers who are barely clinging to their faith.

  Mothers who cried every night as their children wasted away from sickness.

  The bandits who roamed the outskirts of the village, terrorizing the people.

  And the lord—the distant lord who had long since abandoned any semblance of protection for the people under his rule.

  "It's bad, Father," Marcus said softly, looking down. "We pray every night, but... many have lost faith. They say God has turned His back on us. They say He has forgotten the poor."

  Lucian's eyes narrowed as he processed this. His sharp mind worked quickly, calculating how best to use this new knowledge.

  A failed harvest meant desperation.

  This is dangerous.

  A desperate mob will definitely find someone to blame for their misfortunes.

  But desperation also meant vulnerability.

  And that vulnerability... could be utilized.

  These people, they need someone to save them.

  But they won't save themselves.

  They never do.

  A faint smirk pulled on his lips

  That's where I come in.

  He let the boy's words wash over him, each one an opportunity, a chance to rebuild his power base.

  The villagers needed healing—both physically and spiritually.

  They needed a savior. And he could give them one.

  "Tell me more," Lucian said, his voice low but commanding. "About the villagers. Who leads them?"

  Marcus hesitated, then looked at Lucian with wide eyes. "Well, there's old Agnes, the late village chief's wife. And then there's… there's Barret, the blacksmith. He's tough—he's the reason why the bandits haven't pillaged us yet."

  The names were meaningless to Lucian, but they painted a picture.

  Agnes. Barret. If I can win them over, I can win over the village.

  "And... what do they think of the Church?" Lucian pressed, his gaze piercing.

  Marcus looked away, shame flickering in his amber eyes. "They've lost hope, Father. They say the Church doesn't help. It's just a building. Empty."

  That's a bit problematic.

  Lucian felt a stir of something sharp within him—an opportunity. "But you... you still believe, don't you?"

  Marcus's eyes softened. "I do... I have to. The Lord is all we have left."

  Lucian smiled faintly, his mind already weaving the threads of a plan.

  The stale bread and watered-down soup had offered no comfort, but they had served their purpose. And he'd needed the time, the silence, to think.

  "Can you fetch me more food, my child?" Lucian asked with a soft smile."

  "Of course!" Marcus hurriedly left to fetch more food, as Lucian's mind churned with the knowledge he'd just gained.

  The villagers were starving, desperate, and disillusioned.

  And in this despair, Lucian could see the opportunity, clear as day.

  His sharp political instincts kicked in.

  The boy, Marcus, was a perfect tool—too na?ve to see the depths of his situation. His faith was unyielding, and he was desperate for something, anything, to believe in.

  But more than that, Marcus was a window into the villagers' hearts and minds. The young altar boy's loyalty could easily be molded into something far more useful.

  When Marcus returned, carrying a crude jug of water and another slice of stale bread, Lucian leaned forward slightly, studying the boy with his piercing gaze.

  His hand, still trembling from the weakness of his new body, rested against the edge of the bed.

  But his mind was sharp as ever.

  "Marcus," Lucian said, his voice calm, almost soothing. "Tell me more about the people here. What can I do to help them?"

  Marcus set the water down, looking at Lucian with wide, eager eyes. "Father, you've been so sick, you mustn't tire yourself," he said, his voice tinged with concern.

  But Lucian waved him off.

  "Tell me anyway," Lucian pressed gently, watching Marcus closely. "I need to know. The village, the people— how are they faring since I got sick?"

  "The villagers... They are waiting for you to heal them, Father," Marcus said hesitantly, but he cannot hide the great hope gleaming in his eyes. "You're our priest. You're the one who can make it right. They all await for you to heal them."

  Heal? That's troublesome... I have no background on medicine. If I faked it and someone dies...

  Lucian shivered at the thought.

  I can't die to an angry mob again.

  "My mind is foggy... I'm afraid I don't remember much," Lucian murmured, feigning confusion. He reached up to his brow, his fingers tracing lightly as though trying to jog his memory.

  "Oh, Father, don't say that!" Marcus exclaimed, kneeling beside him with concern.

  "You must remember. You must! You've healed so many before. I know you can do it again." His eyes were pleading.

  "You have DIVINE POWERS. You're a priest, Father. A servant of the Lord."

  The boy's faith was an open wound, and Lucian's words were the knife that could carve it.

  "Power?" Lucian echoed softly, eyes narrowing in feigned contemplation. "What do you mean?"

  Marcus looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled brightly. "Father, it's the divine gift that priests have," he explained, his voice filled with reverence.

  "You have the ability to heal, to cure the sick, to purify the impure. The Lord has blessed us to bring salvation to His people. You—you can heal the sick, Father. You can perform the sacraments!"

  Lucian's heart skipped a beat.

  Divine powers? Surely this must be a scam, right?

  But if priests could truly wield divine powers, if his body could still channel such forces, then it was another tool in his arsenal.

  "So… this power, you've witnessed it yourself?" He let the boy speak, guiding him with simple questions.

  Marcus was eager, his eyes sparkling as he spoke. "Of course! You can heal wounds, Father. If someone's hurt, you can mend their injuries."

  Lucian's mind spun, his lips curling into an almost imperceptible grin.

  This is perfect.

  This power. If I can learn it, I can use this as leverage to exert influence.

  And with that, the floating message appeared once again.

  A soft, mechanical chime filled his mind.

  [Mission: Deliver hope to the desperate.]

  [Clear Condition: Heal the Sick]

  [0/20]

  [Reward: Blessing of Vitality. Lifespan Extension (1 month).]

  A surge of energy rushed through Lucian's body, mingling with the weakness he still felt.

  But he knew, deep down, this was just the beginning. This entity had given him his first task.

  Twenty. Twenty villagers.

  For a month worth of Life Extension.

  It was a small number, but it was a start.

  Lucian turned back to Marcus, who was still kneeling beside him, watching him with wide, hopeful eyes.

  "Marcus," Lucian said, his voice firm, suddenly filled with an energy the boy hadn't seen before.

  "We need to prepare the altar. We need to prepare the Church. I will perform the rites. But first, we must make this place worthy of the God."

  Marcus looked at him in awe. "Of course, Father! I'll help you! I'll do whatever you need!"

  And just like that, Lucian had his first ally.

  As the sun dipped above the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Lucian lay back, his mind churning with possibilities.

  Deliver hope, they say. Fine. If hope is the leash they need, I'll make them beg for it.

  The first task had been set. And with it, a new path had been forged.

  Lucian Thorne, the broken priest, was no more. And in his place stood something far more dangerous: a man with the will to shape the world in his image.