Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended [Part Two]

CHAPTER 221: Gospel for the Forgotten

A homeless man sat hunched inside his crudely built hut, his bony fingers resting limply on his knees, dog ears sagging. His lips were cracked, his skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, and his breath came slow and shallow. Hunger gnawed at his insides, a dull ache that had long since become familiar.

A sharp sting on his finger jolted him from his stupor. His dull eyes gleamed with faint awareness as he lifted his hand, watching an ant sink its mandibles into his flesh. The pain was fleeting, insignificant compared to the agony of an empty stomach. With a sluggish motion, he flicked the tiny scavenger away.

Then he heard a faint sound being carried on the wind.

It was music.

His head tilted as he listened. It was unlike anything he usually heard in the slums where the air was thick with misery and the occasional brawl. The melody was soft, almost soothing, like a whisper of something foreign—something hopeful.

Shouts followed. He turned his head just as a group of slum dwellers rushed past his hut, their urgency snapping him to full attention.

"At the plaza!" someone called. "A priest is addressing the people of the slums!"

Another man, pausing just long enough to relay the news, clapped a friend on the shoulder. "A priest from the Zepharion Church! Hurry!"

Crawling out of his dwelling like a skittish marsupial, the homeless man blinked in astonishment as more people flooded the narrow alleys of the slums. The usual sluggishness of the wretched quarter had vanished, replaced by an almost frantic energy. Even the children—those sharp-eyed street rats who served as messengers and informants—were darting about, spreading the word.

"To the square!" one of them cried. "There's gonna be a gathering!"

Still half-dazed, the man pushed himself up and trailed after the crowd with tempered expectation, weaving through the broken streets. His ribs ached with every breath, but curiosity carried him forward.

When he reached the plaza, he lingered in the shadows of a crumbling building, his wary gaze sweeping over the scene. A massive crowd had gathered—men, women, children, the elderly—most of them of demi-human descent. Their faces bore the same hunger and exhaustion as his own, yet at the moment, something else flickered within their eyes.

Hope.

A makeshift stage had been set up in the center of the square. On it, a small group of musicians played, their instruments filling the air with solemn, stirring notes. Before them stood a figure draped in immaculate white robes, his arms outstretched in welcome.

The priest's expression was warm, his smile gentle as he swept his gaze over the huddled masses. When the flow of new arrivals slowed, he lifted his arms higher like the wings of an Eagleowl, the fabric billowing slightly.

The square fell into a hush.

"Brothers and sisters," he called, his voice ringing clear and bright. "I thank you for coming here today, for opening your hearts to the words of the Goddess."

The homeless man tensed.

"I am Father Alvian, a humble servant of the Zepharion Church, and I bring with me tidings of hope and grace."

His sharp, knowing eyes traveled across the gathered crowd, drinking in the weary, hollow faces. "You have been abandoned. Forgotten by those who live in gilded halls, who feast while you starve, who warm themselves while you shiver in the cold."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The man watching from the shadows felt his chest tighten.

"But the Goddess has not forgotten you," Father Alvian continued, his voice swelling with fervor. "She sees you. She knows your suffering, your struggles. While the world turns its back, She holds you close, for you are Her children."