Evasive Maneuver

Two million... two million, huh.

It had only been a brief glance at the status window, but the change was plain to see — the number of Regular Believers was shrinking while the Devout Believers kept climbing. The rate of conversion had overtaken the rate of new arrivals entirely.

At this rate, the devout will outnumber the regulars before long.

Clicking his tongue at the believer census, I turned my attention to another corner of the status window.

I had recruited a whole battalion of Pardners, but the seeds hadn't sprouted yet. Next, I checked my holy items.

Sitting at the very top of the list was the unsung hero that had carried Providence Church to where it stood today: Raising a Clergyman.

You'd think an EX-rank holy item would just get certified as a Holy Relic outright...

Not once — not even across my memories of my past life — had an EX-rank holy item ever existed. Anything S-rank or above was, by definition, a Holy Relic. But Earth played by different rules.

This app was, in truth, something the Mother created through my own two hands.

If the Mother said it wasn't a Holy Relic, then it wasn't. The true owner of Raising a Clergyman was the Weaver of Providence. I was nothing more than a middle manager.

Let's stop at the status window for now. What's next on the schedule... healing a child with leukemia, wasn't it?

Casting off a pointless flicker of regret, I was about to carry on with another busy day when—

?!!!

Something felt off. A prickling unease brushed past me like a cold draft.

This is...?

I activated Foresight without hesitation.

Ahh... I see. So that's how it is.

Fragments of an abstract future washed over me in broken glimpses.

Well, I did stick my neck out this conspicuously. It would be stranger if they didn't move.

That said, this Foresight skill of mine — barely worth the Holy Power in my past life, yet surprisingly useful on Earth. Back in Icadia, who in their right mind would dare touch the Church or its high clergy? There were black mages and demon-spawn vermin, sure, but adventurers, mages, and knights cleaned those up long before the Church ever needed to lift ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a finger. On Earth, where nothing was certain, the skill finally earned its keep.

Cold-blooded ones, too — Revelation won't work on them. And their karma is high enough that I have no desire to bring them into the fold as believers.

Having sized up the future I'd just glimpsed, I called for my battle priest, the shadow who guarded me at all hours.

"Director Kim Dae-hoon."

"Yes, Firstborn Son."

"Assemble the entirety of the Providence Network. Immediately."

Roughly a week later. Yeouido, Seoul, South Korea.

A safehouse owned by the United States' Central Intelligence Agency.

"So this is the AR game called Raising a Clergyman?"

"That's the one. Also secured a product called Holy Water."

"Check the app first. See if any of those weird phenomena from the rumors actually show up."

"Copy that."

Two mixed-race agents, arrogance and chill radiating off them in equal measure, got to work. The moment they launched the app, the first thing on screen was English text.

But this much was trivially achievable with any app's standard data-collection features, so neither man was remotely impressed.

"Sounding like a cult from the very first screen."

"Agreed. Then again, if this were a legitimately well-made AR game concept, you'd have to admit they nailed the atmosphere."

"What matters is the daily missions and that counseling bot — Love, was it?"

"Right."

Agent Ian Kaye turned to Isaac Choi, who had brought in both the app and the Holy Water.

"No matter how I look at it, this is just a cult going viral. Trying to harvest leads, or whatever."

"Too covert and too expansive for that."

"Covert but expansive? What does that even mean."

"More like a terrorist organization or a secret society. The Provians, I think they call themselves? I did some digging. On social media and forums they rave about how miraculous the thing is, but the moment anyone presses them about the actual anomalous phenomena, they clam up tight."

"Well, they're a cult. Birds of a feather."

"Which is exactly why we're testing it now."

Even as they ran their tests, neither of them entertained the notion that divine power might actually be real. Just as South Korea's National Intelligence Service managed and monitored various subversive organizations, the CIA also tracked, surveilled, and occasionally exploited groups capable of sowing social unrest. This assignment was cut from familiar cloth. Lately, the cult had shown signs of expanding beyond Korea and into the United States. If the problem proved serious enough, the CIA had no choice but to intervene.

The moment Ian Kaye opened the app, the daily missions were the first thing he looked at.

"So you're telling me the counter logs itself automatically?"

He decided to try the easiest-looking mission of the lot. Pulling up the laptop beside him, he opened YouTube, navigated to a mid-tier YouTuber's channel, and left a comment.

He'd put some genuine heart into it. It really was a channel he watched regularly. Satisfied with his kind comment, he stole a glance at his phone.

"It's not counting."

Ian and Isaac tilted their heads in perfect unison. Just in case, he tapped the mission window twice — and up popped a new prompt.

The app was asking for camera access.

"Oh, come on."

"Figured as much."

The two men clicked their tongues.

"Come to think of it, plenty of people have been raving about this app, but there's not a single video out there actually showing anything."

"Even if there were, it'd be doctored."

The rough shape of the situation was now clear.

"Let's check the bot last, then."

"Agreed."

Next, they attempted a chat with the app's AI counselor, Love.

"Just an ordinary AI chatbot."

"Still better than Siri, I'll give it that."

"If it were worse than Siri, would it even qualify as AI?"

As expected, counselor Love was thoroughly unremarkable.

"Better safe than sorry. Let's run a code analysis too."

"And while you do that, you can keep slathering on that Holy Water or whatever it is."

"Ah... funny thing, I've actually been using it for a week already."

"...Excuse me? You've been using that?"

At Isaac Choi's confession, Ian Kaye's eyes narrowed.

"Looking closely, my wrinkles do seem softer, and my pores smaller?"

How to put it — there was a subtle sense of improvement. Or was there? Was it just the placebo effect?

"Seems to have some effect. But come on — Korea's the country that practically invented good skincare. There's got to be a dozen products at this level on any shelf."

"You purchased it properly, I assume?"

"Yeonok-dong is a construction zone with traffic straight from hell, and I went there myself to buy it. Dropped a full 300,000 won — about 230 bucks."

"And the ingredient analysis?"

"An ordinary toner. Well — a premium toner, to be precise. But no matter how I run the numbers, it's not a 230-dollar product. Oh, and the list price was what, 70 bucks?"

"So it's just a cult going viral."

"Looks that way. And since it's not completely useless, that explains all the online raving."

"Must be a headache for the Korean government too."

"Their intelligence service has an entire dedicated cult-division. Tells you everything."

"Small country, cutthroat competition. It adds up."

The conclusion was in. The code analysis came back as nothing more than a thoroughly ordinary ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠AR game — and this was the CIA's own AI doing the analysis, so the result was beyond question.

"Then~ shall we go squeeze the bastard who fed us this goddamn bait?"

"Let's."

At Ian's words, Isaac picked up his phone with an irritation-laced expression.

"Max. Get over here. Now."

They were the CIA, for God's sake — they would hardly be running around in person over some internet chatter. The investigation had been formally launched precisely because the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠source came from someone considered reasonably trustworthy.

"Uh... what seems to be the problem? Isaac? Oh, and Ian, good to see you too."

Thirty minutes later, a textbook Asian nerd — hoodie, horn-rimmed glasses, bedhead — arrived at the safehouse.

"Max, about this Raising a Clergyman you reported. Turns out it's nothing."

"It's nothing??"

Max Oh — Oh Joo-hoon in Korean — a man in his thirties, was a local contractor on the CIA's payroll. In name only, the Agency had no reason to move over online hype; the source was what mattered.

"By the way, Max, your skin's been looking a lot better lately. That wouldn't be the Holy Water you were talking about, would it?"

"Oh! Yes! All thanks to this Holy Water."

"You certainly got the good batch. For the record, I've been using it too. Today makes exactly one week."

"You used that?"

Max asked the exact same question Ian had earlier. It wasn't as though the product had no effect whatsoever. He had no particular hobby of scrutinizing other men's skin, and he was very much not gay, but Isaac's complexion undeniably looked better than before. The problem was that a dermatologist visit or a decent cosmetic line could produce the same result. Even a nerd like him understood that much.

The Holy Water only has this much effect?

Max was mulling over the question when a warning window he'd received earlier from the counselor bot, Love, suddenly surfaced in his memory.

"!!!!"

A chill crawled up his spine, and his whole body broke out in a shiver.

"I bought mine directly in Yeonok-dong from the locals myself, yet the results are night and day, apparently. Would you let me see this Holy Water you're using?"

"Well... actually, I finished mine off today... so I was just about to head to Yeonok-dong to buy more."

"I see."

"It's probably... you know, some skin types take to it and some don't. Ahaha..."

Max scrambled to gloss over the Holy Water question.

"Forget the Holy Water."

And that was the moment.

"Open the app, Max."

The silent Ian suddenly spoke up, his tone an order, plain and simple.

"...Open what?"

"Max. Raising a Clergyman. The one you play. Open it."

"Uh... well, that is..."

Whoosh—

The instant Max hesitated, Ian snatched the phone out of his hand.

"Face ID, huh?"

He scanned Max's face without effort and slipped into the app.

"Native Korean, so it loads in Korean?"

The Korean loading screen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gave way to the main menu.

"Regular Believer? Is that your level?"

"Give it, give it back!"

Like school bullies tormenting a quiet classmate, Isaac and Ian picked through Max's Raising a Clergyman at their leisure.

"Daily missions are identical to what we saw."

"Re: personalized missions — confirmed false."

"It switches to the camera when you try to verify a mission. Same as before."

"Chatbot's the same story. Although... Max, what is this chat history? Don't tell me you're on drugs?"

"Huh...?"

Max, still trembling from the Weaver's warning, could only blink question marks at the two agents' reaction.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Ian held the phone up, displaying Max's chat log with Love.

I... I never had a conversation like this!?

The chat history had been rewritten. With content about narcotics.

"Here."

Apparently deciding there was nothing more worth seeing, Ian tossed the phone back to Max.

"In consideration of your service as a humint asset up to this point, we'll write off the chat log business."

"Get out, Max."

"Y-yes, sir! Thank you!"

And with that, Max vanished — leaving the two agents to trade words steeped in arrogance and annoyance.

"What do we tell upstairs?"

"What else? The truth. Just another garden-variety cult."

"Doesn't that embarrass you a little? We got played by our own local asset."

"Played by a drug-addled humint asset, no less."

"Goddamn it. Cut Max loose. You can't trust a junkie."

"Works for me. His output's been pathetic lately anyway — he was already on my shit list."

They scrubbed Providence: Raising a Clergyman Global from their phones, clean and complete. The one thing they couldn't bring themselves to throw away was the Holy Water — so they decided to keep using it.

Max in English, Oh Joo-hoon in Korean — a locally contracted employee hired by the CIA. A humint asset, in the trade's jargon. He'd long had a keen interest in cutting-edge domestic tech trends, and playing to that aptitude, his job was to scout unheralded Korean talent and homegrown breakthrough technologies and report them to Langley.

The CIA would then pluck Korea's talent and technology off the floor at rock-bottom prices — and each time, Oh Joo-hoon collected a tasty finder's fee. Somewhere along the way, the side hustle had become his real occupation.

Haah... haah... haah!

Oh Joo-hoon ran from the safehouse, and kept running. Only when he judged himself far enough away, only when he reached a blind spot in the CCTV coverage, did he cautiously open Raising a Clergyman.

"?!"

The screen was completely different from what he'd been shown at the safehouse — the true Raising a Clergyman, untouched. Even his chat log with counselor Love had been restored, exactly as it was.

Tremble. Tremble. Tremble.

At the sight of it, Oh Joo-hoon shook harder still. He felt like he'd go mad from the fear. His recent dry spell had left him anxious and desperate, and that was why he'd ignored the warning and filed the report. The Mother's Firstborn Son was a man of undeniable, extraordinary power. Wasting away in a country this small would be such a shame, wouldn't it — that was the self-consolation he'd clung to. But of course, the Mother had known everything all along.

Ding!

At last, an alarm chimed and the warning window materialized. In the chat window, the bot Love was firing off negative emoticons one after another.

Huh...?!

Oh Joo-hoon suddenly felt a numbness spreading through his left hip and pelvis. So piercing was the sensation that cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

Don't tell me...!

He knew this pain all too well.

A slipped disc!

To a man already suffering cervical disc problems, a lumbar disc had now come calling.

Huh...?

And then — the hair at his front hairline began drifting down, strand by strand, onto the phone screen. It was the punishment the Mother had laid upon the reckless.