"It looks like a proper house of worship now. Smells better too." Lucian said as he stood inside newly cleaned chapel, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air.

  "Indeed." Marcus replied, smiling brightly as he finished wiping the dusty windows.

  Look at this boy. He seemed so weak and scrawny but quite good at cleaning. He'll make a good slave. I'll use you well.

  Dim light filtered through the cracked stained glass bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of muted colors.

  Lucian had worked tirelessly alongside Marcus, scrubbing the grime away and restoring a semblance of dignity to the forgotten space.

  "It was far from perfect, but it would suffice"

  It would suffice for what I needed—a stage for my first act.

  As Lucian stepped forward, the worn wood of the floor creaked beneath his weight. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the polished altar, the freshly swept pews, and the simple octagram star that hung above it all.

  It's meager, but I could work with it. The chapel would serve as a symbol of faith, but most of all, my authority.

  "Father Lucian?" Marcus's voice broke the silence. The boy stood at the side, his patched robes still damp with sweat from their labor. His amber eyes glimmered with a mixture of hope and nervous excitement.

  Lucian turned, offering the boy a faint smile. "It's time, Marcus. Change your robes and ring the bells. Let them know I've returned."

  Marcus's face lit up, and he darted off to the bell tower with the energy only youth could muster. Moments later, the deep toll of the church bells echoed through the village.

  Lucian took a deep breath, steadying himself.

  This is it.

  I can't afford to falter now.

  ---

  The villagers began to arrive, their faces etched with weariness and suspicion.

  The crowd filled the small chapel, their murmurs growing louder with each passing moment.

  Lucian watched from the pulpit, his sharp eyes studying them. Farmers with dirt-streaked faces, mothers clutching thin, pale children, and a handful of elderly who seemed to carry the weight of the world on their frail shoulders.

  But it wasn't just desperation that filled the room—it was disdain.

  "Why now?" a voice muttered from the crowd.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Where's he been all this time?" another asked, louder this time.

  Lucian's hand clenched the edge of the pulpit. Their skepticism was palpable, their disdain justified. To them, he was nothing more than a useless figurehead—a priest who had lain sick while they starved and suffered.

  They hate me.

  Of course they do.

  His mind flashed back to the mob that had ended his previous life, the rage in their eyes. A chill ran down his spine.

  Failure here might lead to the same fate.

  After all, an angry mob will always find a scapegoat for their misfortunes.

  Unfortunately, a useless sickly priest and an orphan boy might be a candidate for lynching.

  "Father?" Marcus whispered, stepping close. His smile was small but earnest, a spark of reassurance in the storm of doubt. "You can do this."

  Lucian nodded, the boy's faith steadying him. He straightened, his hands tightening behind his back as he surveyed the crowd.

  "Good people of Ciara," Lucian began, his voice cutting through the chatter. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

  "I know I have failed you." The admission hung heavy in the air, catching the villagers off guard. Their murmurs stilled, replaced by a wary silence.

  "I was weak," Lucian continued, his tone firm yet tinged with humility. "I was lost. Sick. Weary. But I have returned. God has returned me—not as a broken man, but as your servant. I have heard your prayers, your cries for help. And I am here to answer them."

  The crowd remained tense, their skepticism unbroken.

  "Words mean nothing, priest!" a burly man in the back called out, his voice laced with anger. "You think your fancy speeches can feed our children?"

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, the tension thickening. Lucian's chest tightened, but his mind raced. He couldn't lose them. He couldn't fail.

  Of course.

  Enough talk.

  They need action.

  Something tangible.

  Steeling himself, Lucian stepped down from the pulpit, his legs trembling as he descended in front of the crowd. The memories of his death surged—the jeers, the fists, the clubs, the betrayal. But he forced them down, locking eyes with Marcus, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.

  Sigh. Just as I practiced earlier.

  Lucian reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small holy book. He recalled the sensation when he healed a small cut on Marcus's hand from cleaning earlier.

  It's now or never.

  Fail and the village will definitely turn on me.

  "Let them come to me," Lucian commanded, his voice steady. "The sick, the injured. I shall heal them."

  The crowd hesitated, their distrust warring with their desperation. Finally, a woman stepped forward, carrying a boy no older than five. His face was pale, his breathing shallow.

  "He's had the fever for days," the woman said, her voice trembling. "No one could help him."

  Lucian loomed before the boy, his heart pounding. He whispered under his breath, chants he had improvised—poetic, structured, like the rituals he'd once seen on televisions back on Earth.

  "O Radiant Light, hear my plea,

  By Thy mercy, let them be free," he murmured, his hands hovering over the boy.

  "Mend the broken, cleanse the strife,

  In Thy grace, restore their life." A faint golden light began to emanate from his palms, and the crowd gasped.

  The boy's labored breathing eased, color returning to his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, the woman let out a choked sob of relief.

  "It worked," someone whispered.

  Whew. It worked.

  I guess I'm not getting lynched anytime soon.

  Lucian exhaled, his relief hidden behind a calm exterior. But the murmurs of doubt hadn't completely faded.

  "He's just doing his job," a man muttered. "Took him long enough."

  Lucian forced himself to remain calm, his sharp mind noting every reaction.

  One miracle isn't enough.

  They need more.

  One by one, the villagers brought forth their sick and injured. Lucian healed a child's persistent cough, a twisted ankle, a festering wound.

  Ugh. It stinks.

  The people of this world... Their hygiene, it might as well be non-existent.

  But I'm a politician. Or at least was.

  Im used to hugging sweaty mobs during campaign.

  This much is nothing.

  Each act of healing drew gasps and murmurs, but the effort drained him. He felt the divine energy ebbing away with every spell, leaving him lightheaded and unsteady.

  By the time he reached the twentieth person, his vision blurred, and his legs felt like lead. A gaunt old man with a bent back stood before him, his milky eyes filled with silent hope.

  Lucian raised his trembling hands, his voice barely above a whisper as he recited the chant. The golden light flickered, faint and unstable.

  Just one more.

  I can't fail now.

  The light grew stronger, enveloping the old man. Slowly, the man straightened, his bent back easing, his steps steady as he walked away.

  How ungrateful. Can't you at least say thank you.

  Huh? I feel dizzy...

  The room erupted in shocked whispers, but Lucian barely heard them. The world tilted, his knees buckling as the last remnants of divine energy left his body.

  He collapsed in front of the altar.

  Ugh... Am I dying?

  Why is this happening?

  I did as the "system" asked.

  The crowd surged forward, their concern mixing with awe. Marcus knelt beside him, his face pale.

  "Father Lucian!"

  [System Notice]

  [Mission Completed: Healed 20/20]

  *

  *

  *

  [You have obtained 1-month Life Extension.]

  [You have obtained Blessing of Vitality.]

  [29:23:59:59]

  [29:23:59:58]

  [29:23:59:57]