Chapter 1: The Betrayal

The Cedarwood Saint, Reverend Samuel, achieved enlightenment at the end of the Pilgrimage West—a journey as epic as any American road trip, filled with hope and sacrifice—only to meet his end, struck down by his own disciple, Simon Shaw. From that day on, every generation of scripture-seekers fell to one man. In an instant, Mount Providence erupted into chaos, the air thick with incense and the chill of cold marble underfoot.

On the day the Pilgrimage West concluded and the merit was fulfilled, Mount Providence—usually alive with celebration and the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers—was deathly silent. It felt like the hush that settles over a church after a funeral, when even the wind seems to hold its breath. Banners that should've been streaming in the breeze hung limp, their colors faded, as if mourning alongside the congregation.

"Simon Shaw, I can't believe you did it—you actually took the Golden Soul!" Reverend Mansfield glared at me, his voice trembling with fury and disbelief.

His accusation rang through the marble halls, bouncing off stained glass windows that depicted saints and miracles in vivid color. The pews stood empty except for the fallen, their bodies sprawled in unnatural stillness.

The church had schemed throughout the pilgrimage, hoping to claim the immense fruit of merit from the journey westward—like chasing the American dream, only to have it snatched away. Who could have predicted that Simon Shaw, already appointed as the Eight-Treasure Golden-Body Saint, would rebel? He consumed his own master, Reverend Samuel, newly named the Cedarwood Saint. This act brought catastrophic backlash upon Mount Providence; saints and bishops were wounded, their golden halos flickering and dimming like dying lightbulbs.

It felt as if the backbone of the church had snapped, and every loyal follower shuddered with the tremor. Their faith wavered, whispered doubts swirling through the crowd like rumors after a scandal.

I licked my lips, gripping my Demon-Breaker Staff, and laughed softly, the sound echoing with defiance:

"Immortality—the ten generations of Golden Soul are finally complete. If the church can seize this fruit of merit, why can't I, Simon Shaw? Today, Mount Providence's luck has run dry; all saints shall perish."

My words crashed into the silence, heavy as thunder before a summer storm. The stained glass seemed to darken in response to my rebellion.