The Book of Asif, the secret scripture of the Ellahu-Praga Church, records the following.
Long ago, a man appeared before the three-eyed Repatam Tribe. According to the holy words, he had descended from the sky.
He performed miracles before the commoners and earned their worship. These were the miracles most desperately desired by those enduring harsh lives. It was said that he fed the hungry, healed the sick, and revived the dead.
Once everyone was listening closely to his voice, the Prophet began to impart his wisdom in earnest.
First, he revealed the beings the people were meant to serve.
“I know that you are the most suited to welcome the primordial race.”
He taught them how to serve the gods.
“Knock upon their doors with endless prayers. Shake the gods from their deep slumber.”
He preached what the world would become once those gods awakened.
Curiously, the scripture offers absolutely no description of his appearance, despite his being the sole pope of the order.
According to the texts, countless people had looked directly upon his face during his time with the Repatam Tribe. Yet after the Prophet departed, no one could recall his features. It was an eerie, inexplicable phenomenon.
The only detail they remembered about the Prophet was that he had been a man.
*
A chilling silence settled over the conference room.
The priests' representative, the acting pope, asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.
“With what intention... did you bring that out?”
He hesitated, then added another remark.
“There is no mistaking it—it looks exactly like a cooking utensil.”
In his tone, even the faint aura of respect—treating the man before them as a candidate for the avatar—had faded. The other priests wore identical expressions.
Minjun watched their reactions and thought.
‘It's going to be hard to win their trust in this shape.’
Having carried it around in various colors and put it to good use, Minjun was perfectly accustomed to it, but to anyone else, it was utterly absurd. No matter how they looked at it, it was just an everyday Frying Pan.
He whispered to his creation via a mental wave.
‘I suppose you need to transform.’
The Frying Pan cheerfully replied.
‘Into what shape?!’
Minjun knew the true identity of the Prophet worshipped by the order.
It was impossible for him not to.
After all, Minjun was the one who had created him, and he was currently holding him in his hand.
The Ellahu-Praga Church was the remnant of a failed revenge plot Minjun had orchestrated through Asiph-1.
Captured before Asif-666 was born, Asiph-1 had wandered across various dimensions while pretending to be brainwashed by the Committee. He had left behind arrangements to awaken Minjun's kin in the future—and this order was exactly that.
Minjun's task in front of them was simple.
He just had to prove that the Prophet—the subject of the promise they were bound to—was right here.
‘They'll probably have a hard time accepting the truth that a Frying Pan is the founder and Prophet of their order.’
‘Well, I'm a little hurt! Form doesn't necessarily determine essence. Though, my memories of that era aren't perfect yet.’
‘It doesn't matter, since I remember. Anyway, they seem to be struggling to accept the truth, so it's best to dress it up a bit.’
‘You mean I should turn into something they can easily accept, rather than a Frying Pan?’
‘It should be a shape that instantly commands awe, something they will immediately recognize as a sacred tool.’
He looked around at the aliens.
Soon, his gaze landed on a specific item they were carrying.
‘Aha.’
The item hung at every priest's waist—a Dagger with intricate patterns carved into the hilt.
Minjun remembered Yumtus referring to it as the Holy Sword.
‘Yes, that will be perfect. It's an item deeply intertwined with you from the start.’
That Dagger was a weapon that housed Divine Power, while simultaneously serving as a ritual tool used in the most important ceremonies of the believers' lives.
When members of the Repatam Tribe reached a certain age, they would stand before the acting pope. The representative of the order would bestow a Baptism upon them, but the method was exceedingly violent.
They would plunge the Holy Sword straight into the nape of the recipient's neck.
It was driven deep enough to leave a severe wound—so deep that if a waiting cleric didn't heal it immediately, the recipient's life would be in danger. If another species, such as a human, underwent this Baptism, they would instantly die before they could even be treated.
‘Transform into that Dagger. You have to copy it flawlessly, down to the smallest detail.’
‘...’
Asiph-1, who always responded to Minjun with lightning speed, hesitated for a moment.
‘What's wrong? Is the hilt pattern too complex? Do your gathered fragments lack this memory? You used to be very familiar with that pattern...’
Right then.
Flash!
Proving Minjun's worries needless, Asiph-1 changed shape in the blink of an eye.
“Gasp!”
The acting pope and everyone else drew sharp breaths at the sight.
It was an inevitable reaction.
That Dagger was a sacred relic they all knew far too well.
Minjun spoke with a placid expression.
“For practical reasons, I kept him disguised in a different shape until now. This is ‘his’ true form.”
He boldly declared that the Frying Pan was a disguise and the Holy Sword was the true form.
“‘His’? Who do you mean...?”
The majority of the priests still had no clue where this conversation was heading.
But one among them did.
“...”
Only the acting pope seemed to have caught on, his breath trembling faintly.
Minjun examined Asiph-1 in his hand, observing the form mimicking the Holy Sword.
The carving etched into the hilt was remarkably intricate, allowing for various interpretations depending on the viewing angle. The pattern appeared to depict someone—indistinguishable as human or Lepatam—shedding a liquid that could be either blood or tears.
But Minjun knew this carving hadn't been engraved merely for artistic or religious purposes.
Hidden within the curves of the hilt's pattern was a cipher used by ancient beings.
Those living in the current era couldn't decode it, but it was possible to copy it exactly and use it like a Key.
The method was simple. If one let the Sword absorb Talent and then stabbed a living person, the cipher would be duplicated and branded onto their soul.
The order called this ritual, taught by the Prophet, the Baptism.
Tracing his memories, Minjun looked around again. The evidence of the Baptism clearly announced its presence on the aliens' napes: a scar pierced by a blade. A mark that didn't vanish even when healed with Divine Power.
It was left on the necks of the vast majority of the priests.
Except for one.
Minjun decided it was time to wrap up the conversation.
“Ah!”
At that moment, the priests felt the atmosphere shift violently.
“T-This is!”
The air pressed down on their skin, heavy as lead. The priests felt an immense pressure that made it hard to breathe.
Suppressing the urge to avert their eyes, they looked toward the source of the aura.
It was Minjun.
The priests shuddered. An unchallengeable majesty was rolling off the man. Tension yanked at every muscle in their bodies, making it feel as though a sharp electric current was surging through their nerves and veins.
The calm conversation they'd been having just seconds ago felt like a dream. The change was that abrupt.
Gazing apathetically at them, Minjun seemed less like a person and more like... a piece of nature that had weathered an impossibly long expanse of time, or a callous observer peering at creations from beyond their realm of perception.
In his pitch-black eyes fixed on the priests, an inscrutable light flickered.
“No. This... This isn't Divine Power!”
Struggling not to be overwhelmed, Felix muttered desperately. His tightly clenched teeth bit into his own flesh, drawing up droplets of blood.
He repeated it to himself over and over. This was not proof of a god. The supernatural power returned as a reward for earnest prayer—there was absolutely no trace of that on this man.
And yet, defying him was impossibly hard.
As if winding back frozen time, Minjun murmured.
Looking straight at Asiph-1.
“You all know this blade.”
Even his tone had shifted at some point.
Because the act needed to be flawless.
“A long time ago, the one you call the Prophet appeared before your ancestors. He personally bestowed the Baptism upon everyone. He pierced their necks and drew blood. A brand was left on the souls of the baptized. They gained the qualification to reach Elahu-Praga.”
He explained it using religious phrasing so they would easily understand.
“Even after the Prophet vanished, a suitable individual was chosen to take on his role, crafting a replica of his blade. The Prophet's acting proxy dipped the imitation blade into Divine Blood, then stabbed the believers' necks. Thus, the brand was passed down, and more Divine Blood could be gathered.”
Minjun casually cast his gaze. Sitting right in front of him was the proxy he had just described.
The one who had carried on Asiph-1's role within the order, generation after generation.
The acting pope.
“Just as everyone who serves us is a tool to manifest our will in the world.”
Minjun reached out his hand toward him. Asiph-1, in the form of the Holy Sword, floated up gently and flew in the direction Minjun guided. It didn't rush in the slightest, nor did it pause; it drifted slowly and gracefully.
“The first pope, too, was a tool of mine—prepared to be deployed exactly where he was needed.”
Having declared the Prophet as his tool, Minjun continued in a callous tone.
Meanwhile, the Dagger steadily advanced toward the order's representative. Forgetting to even swallow, the priests tracked its movement with their eyes. Sitting at the end of the Sword's trajectory, the acting pope was in a state of extreme tension. His pupils quivered endlessly.
“Even though he appeared before you in human form in the distant past.”
The blade slicing through the air gradually slowed down until it stopped at a certain point.
Right in front of the acting pope's nose.
He twitched his fingers. The acting pope felt a simultaneous, conflicting urge to reach out and snatch it, and to scramble far away from it.
Then, Minjun spoke, sounding like a declaration.
“It stands to reason that he would return in the form of a tool, true to his essence.”
The priest's lips trembled.
“Could it be?”
Minjun encouraged him.
In a solemn yet soft voice.
“Didn't I tell you? If the Prophet's prophecy is the issue, we can settle it right here through a direct conversation with the person in question.”
That exact person was right here.
Without realizing it, the priest recited a verse from the scripture.
“The beasts called me ‘Asif’, the sinner who committed the greatest evil.”
Minjun nodded.
“Yes, Asif. He is right before your eyes.”
The priests were aghast. How could a person become a sword?
The only possibility was...
“An Ego Sword?!”
Was the Prophet's soul sealed inside the sword?!
Minjun urged the order's representative.
“Yes, it is him. It's Asif. The Prophet has returned just like this. So grip him in your hand. Go ahead.”
To the acting pope's ears, that whisper didn't sound holy at all. Instead, it felt like the whisper of a demon.
Which was exactly why it was so sweet.
He knew the reason why he remained merely an acting proxy instead of the pope. His fingers twitched.
Suppressing the urge to stroke the nape of his neck, he grabbed the sword's hilt instead.
Then, the sword spoke.
‘You are a child who remembers the secret promise.’
“Gasp!”
The priest felt a storm of lightning and fire churning in his stomach.
Toward him, Asiph-1 fervently recited the lines Minjun had taught him.
The Frying Pan still couldn't remember everything perfectly. That was why he resonated his mental wave exactly as his creator had instructed, loading it with as much majesty as he could muster.
‘When I was with you, I personally baptized everyone, yet there was exactly one whom I did not. I left exactly one without a wound.’
Unable to hold back any longer, the acting pope swept his other hand over his own neck.
Just as Minjun had observed, among all the priests, only one had a clean, unscarred nape.
It was the acting pope.
The ones chosen to represent the order were selected and educated from childhood, generation after generation.
Paradoxically, unlike the other priests, they could not receive the Baptism. Even if their necks were pierced, no brand would be left on their souls.
The reason for the Prophet's arrangement remained a closely guarded secret, though everyone assumed it was due to the dangers of astral projection. Sometimes, priests failed to return to their bodies, and it would be disastrous if such an accident befell the representative of the order.
However, there was a tale passed down orally exclusively among the pope's proxies.
‘Those who will guard my seat in my absence. Only they shall not have their souls branded. The reason is...’
The sword spoke the secret only they were meant to know.
‘Because on the day I return, I shall personally bestow the Baptism upon him.’
After the Prophet vanished, no one could recall his face. They didn't even have records of what species he belonged to.
So when the pope returned, how would he prove his identity?
To prepare for that day, the pope left behind a promise.
Returning in the distant future, he would personally baptize the one guarding his seat. Only then would a brand be carved into their soul. He would bestow glory upon the one who had served him across generations.
And like passing a baton, the proxy would ascend to the vacant seat of the pope.
‘Personally bestow the Baptism.’
He chewed over the sentence.
Until now, the proxies had always envisioned the pope holding a sword and plunging it into their necks.
But... what if the pope himself came in the form of a sword?
The alien felt his breath turning shallow.
‘He knows. He knows the secret we kept only among ourselves.’
The blade tempted him with a mental wave.
‘Your neck is still bare and pale, without a single scar. You have kept your promise well. Now, it is time for me to fulfill mine.’
While the other priests bore witness to the place where the gods slumbered, drenched their souls in Divine Blood, and experienced the glory of rapture...
Only the pope's proxies had to abandon that blessed joy and guard his seat. Stepping away from the danger, they had to dedicate themselves to administration and politics.
He felt as if the generations-long yearning was finally within his grasp.
‘If I receive the Baptism, I too can go. To the place where the gods sleep!’
As the staff of the gods, there could be no greater glory.
Unconsciously, he gripped the sword's hilt tightly with both hands. With bloodshot eyes, he turned the blade toward himself and slowly raised it. The priest felt his chest swell with overwhelming emotion.
‘If I plunge the pope, returned as a sword, into my own neck... The moment I am baptized by the Prophet, I will...’
The edge of the blade slowly crept toward his pale neck.
A little more, just a little more.
Minjun watched the scene unfold with an amused gaze.
“Stop!”
A sharp shout.
The proxy's hands froze in the air.
In that moment, Felix's furious roar rang out once more.
“Yeh-min-choong! What in the world are you doing?!”
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