Heresy Inquisitors and the Chains of Fate
The history of Christianity's rejection and elimination of heretics runs deep. Among the facts verified by history, the most infamous are the Crusades and the witch hunts—blemishes so indelibly documented that even the Church can't deny them. Yet Christianity never ceased its attempts to purge heretics, driven by fear of false prophets emerging. As fringe cults, derisively called "scam religions," spread their influence, the Church's foothold shrank, and countless souls were led astray by lying entities' false prophecies, stumbling into suffering. From the Church's perspective, they had no choice but to root out and eradicate idol worshippers, false prophets, and pseudo-Christian sects peddling entirely different doctrines—even if it meant taking some heat themselves.
To that end, the Vatican unofficially established four organizations. The Exorcist Priest Corps, tasked with preempting or eliminating humans tempted into evil by demons, evil spirits, or malevolent yokai. The Cathedral Knights, who confronted the Vatican's external enemies head-on, shielding faithful Christians from harm. The Heresy Inquisitors, who scouted signs of the end times, the emergence of great evils, or urgent matters needing verification and response, buying time and gathering intel. And the Heresy Executioners, who used that time and information to utterly eradicate heresies.
Officially, the global Christian population exceeds a billion, with Vatican-affiliated personnel rivaling the size of a small nation, both on and off the books. A priest saying Mass in a quaint village chapel might be the Vatican's eyes and ears. Conversely, a ragged homeless wanderer could be their informant. Of course, these roles demanded peering into the abyss of evil, a mentally grueling ordeal that often corrupted agents or led to silent assassinations by apostates and heretics. The Vatican never officially honors them, but for every lost eye, ear, or informant, they engrave a tiny star for a martyr on the massive stone slab called the "Star of Bethlehem."
Unlike exorcists or knights, Heresy Inquisitors handled the filthiest human-related dirty work, resulting in disproportionately high casualties. Even if they were utterly devoted to the Lord Jesus in spirit and possessed superhuman physical prowess far beyond ordinary mortals, their numbers were few and support limited. Heresy Executioners operated with even fewer heads, but as otherworldly beings, their casualty rate approached zero.
The key point was that Heresy Inquisitor-262 had just blasted a massive hole through the heretic's upper body with his double-barrel shotgun.
BOOM!
The deafening roar shattered the air as hundreds of buckshot pellets erupted from the double-barrel, engulfing the target. He confirmed the gaping hole, the spray of blood. No human could survive that. Even a yokai would be helpless against buckshot forged from sacred silver and blessed.
Reload swiftly for the kill shot, aim again at the Vatican enemy—and the double-barrel jammed.
"What the—?!"
"Heh heh... I've been stockpiling a lot of impure energy today."
His clothes were shredded, but the massive hole was gone without a trace as the heretic rose, flashing a creepy grin. A sinister jade necklace hung from his nape, writhing with repulsive worms visible inside.
"This bug grows by absorbing impure energy and randomly triggers disasters around it. Truly random—even I don't know what'll happen next."
"You vile heretic!!!"
"Brother, I'll handle it!"
As 262 hurled the jammed shotgun and reached for his pistol, 288 burst forward from his side, unleashing his UZI submachine gun.
DRRRRRRT!
Like lightning stir-frying beans, the 50-round mag emptied in a blink. But the enemy brushed off the embedded bullets like dust.
Impossible. Their weapons were all consecrated, loaded with special rounds to dispatch humans or yokai without exception. Yet this thing regenerated in the blink of an eye, flicking away silver-coated bullets like annoying insects.
"Martini incoming."
"Martini!"
Not content with that, he casually grabbed a cocktail from beyond his acrylic arm and chugged it.
"Worthy of the King of Cocktails. Straight-up flavor hits just right."
He tossed the glass carelessly over his shoulder, donned golden knuckles, and eyed them coolly.
"Heresy Inquisitors under the Vatican... Did I cross paths with you lot before? Can't recall blaspheming the Pope."
"Silence, yokai! You shatter the divine order and harmony created solely by the One True God, toying with the innocent's fates—a fiend deserving death a hundred times over!"
"Ah, so in short, you wanna run a modern witch hunt. Here I thought the Vatican was running Boy Scouts."
262 bit his lip. Guns useless—how to kill it? He'd never faced this in training or countless battles. Demonic possession or fallen evil spirit—anything with a human body died to human weapons. Even the great Lord Jesus, born in human flesh, perished pierced by a human-made spear. That's why they moved to instant elimination when intel gathering or executioners weren't needed. Humans die by human hands. No one escapes the fate and karma allotted to humanity. Not the foulest devil-worshippers, fake reincarnated Jesuses, or heretics armored in twisted sorcery.
So what was this thing? Unmistakably human, yet immune to human weapons. Wounded, sure—but shrugged it off. Yokai? No, divine arms felled them too. They wielded human will and God's power—no mere yokai could defeat them. Nothing was God but Him, so this wasn't divine.
'A demon descended to the mortal realm?'
"I see your doubt."
"!"
"You who claim faith in the Lord Jesus—doubting your teachings, rationalizing your powerlessness by imagining me a demon. That's your sin laid bare."
"Shut that mouth! Your serpent's tongue weaves no lies against our faith, a fortress in His radiance—you'll crumble to dust!"
"Fate, fate, fate. You love binding yourselves with it, never tiring. If SM play's your kink, stay roped up forever."
The blasphemer charged, cross-shaped stake-sword of silver and steel gleaming.
"Then bind me with that fancy fate of yours."
Back in childhood, dragged to church by my parents, I'd hear the pastor spit-flying sermons every time. Drowsing off was routine, but not just from youth or boredom. The pastor always regurgitated the same spiel.
Humans face the Lord's judgment on the final day—live gratefully, piously faithful. Only then heaven and His grace. Skipping weekend fun for church? You're His true sons and daughters.
Yeah. The pastor was the shepherd herding lambs into the vast pen called fate, watching to ensure they never strayed—for the head office (Jesus) who harvested them periodically.
Fate: ropes binding limbs, cinching the crotch tight. Faith: a ball gag sealing mouths to only whimper as He desired. Love: His spanking whip on our asses? Or hot wax penance dripping on backs?
Whatever. Tastes vary, and Christians' kinks aren't my concern—unless forced on me.
"Speed quiz time! Here we go! Player 262! How many holes does Jesus have?!"
"You son of a—!"
"Answer: eleven! No golden bell? Time for the hit?!"
I charged through the bullet storm at the nameless thing, 262, swinging spicy fists.
This is Korean jeong—affection!