Grace Before the Intrusion
Thinking back on the pre-meal prayer—minus that damn rosary bullshit—I suddenly remembered we hadn't eaten a single bite all day. S-man, who'd just gone through some intense physical exertion, let out a gurgling rumble from his gut despite being covered in blood. Looks like H Group's got that post-meal digestion thing down pat for a reason.
"The greatest advantage of spreading the good word is that it lets you turn total strangers into neighbors. What that means is you can infiltrate someone's home way easier than those temple monks banging their wooden fish drum for alms."
"But domestically, the favorability for preaching the good word lags way behind those monks' begging, doesn't it?"
"What the hell is the good word anyway? It's all just 'believe in Jesus and go to heaven.' But those assholes tacking on their bullshit sermons twisted the meaning. They turned the good word into a tiresome nag—who'd like that? Even beggars humble themselves when asking for a meal, but these evangelists strut around like, 'I'm doing all this for you.' That's the damn problem."
We need the polished smile and manners of salesmen, the morality to play nice. Can't just wedge your way into someone's house peddling holy nonsense and a 20% discounted tithe DLC.
S-man wiped the blood from his lips with his sleeve and gazed up at the massive mansion where the H Group family lived. True to his sharp eyes, he was probably calculating the best entry point to spread the good word.
After scrutinizing the building, S-man finally spoke as if he'd reached a conclusion.
"I smell something delicious from inside."
"...Chinese food?"
"Yes. Smells like a skilled chef's handiwork. That subtle, nutty oil aroma typical of Chinese cuisine is wafting out. People think Chinese food is all grease, but spices play a bigger role. If it's this restrained with the oil, it's definitely from a pro."
"Might as well snag a meal while preaching the good word."
We sliced off the wrist of the presumed gang leader from those thugs and pressed it to the mansion's touchpad at the front door. The fingerprint scanner flickered like it was working, then blared a red warning and denied access.
"No choice then. If they're blocking me physically, I'll use magic to phase through."
I pressed my face right up to the door and shoved forward.
"Pass Wall."
⟨ Pass Wall ⟩
Grind! Crack! Shatter! Before the holy power, the metal door split like the Red Sea. Reveling in my Moses moment, I tore through with my face, stepping inside.
"Impressive. So that's the magic of a first-class technician...!"
"Length alone doesn't make it great. Thickness and rock-hard rigidity are key too."
I tossed aside the door panels shredded in my face's shape and scanned the corridor where surveillance cameras whirred. The mansion was empty save for cold machines and hollow luxury—no people.
Follow the tasty scent, and we'd probably run into the H Group family mid-dinner. We had to infiltrate like COVID, preach slyly like a communist manifesto. That's the true proof of faith in Jesus.
"Judging by the wiring and interior layout, there are all sorts of traps. The H Group chairman must've developed OCD from S Group's industrial spies."
"Like burning down a thatched house to squash one cockroach. Even Jesus, dropping Little Boy and Fat Man on Sodom and Gomorrah to wipe out the gays and beast-fuckers, would tip his hat to this place."
"It was a big deal back then. S Group's market cap soared while H Group's stock tanked. No evidence left, so legally they couldn't touch S Group—H stayed in the shitter for a while."
"A healthy body breeds a healthy mind, a healthy soul takes the good word. If the chairman's tormented by regret, ruin, obsession, and revenge—the four horsemen—he should just believe in Jesus and get saved."
I grabbed a steel spike shooting from the wall with one hand and snapped it off. Thick as an adult arm, aimed right at my side—but faithless weapons are worthless without a master's intent. No killer urge or protective will? Might as well be a kid's toy.
S-man nodded at the bullet-like spike from the wall, as if agreeing with something.
"H Group has long been synonymous with heavy industry, shipbuilding, and construction. Progressive S Group focuses on futuristic high-tech, while conservative H sticks to stable staples. This mansion likely incorporates their architecture, heavy industry, and defense tech. Unauthorized intruders might trigger traps like that—or turn the whole place into a maze."
"That a problem?"
A massive iron ball dropped from the ceiling; I smacked it cross-shaped into a home run. S-man shook his head.
"They say food tastes best after exercise, right? Perfect tension, lactic acid buildup, raging thirst, brain craving glucose—you'd wolf down dog chow. S Group motivated employees that way: extreme labor followed by huge bonuses, paid leave, promotions. Boosted efficiency big time."
"I agree. Unbelievers convert hardest."
Faith doesn't grow step-by-step; it awakens suddenly. When you've got nothing to lean on, gain great insight, or realize the time has come and nurture it yourself. That's when true faith hits. Anything before—forced by circumstance or pressure—is fake. Worthless as indulgences for a few coins.
Peter the fisherman only believed after Jesus' water walk, poof—disciple. Heart enlightenment, not head knowledge. To spark strong faith, show something mind-blowing to pry open unbelievers' eyes. Like Golgotha Mountain's ultimate performance: crucifixion and three-day resurrection vacay.
"Personally, I hope we don't miss dinner. Eating without proper pre-meal prayer? It'll be cold and tasteless."
"That's why pre-meal prayer matters. Ramble about daily bread, oil up Jesus steadily—even sloppy prayer works if sincere. Faith reaches through."
I dodged a thrusting spear from the front with a head tilt. S-man thrust his magic cross; the hologram panel looking like glass shattered.
"Visual confusion device. Checked outside earlier—no real windows. The 'view' through them differs in shading and saturation from inside. Eyes are perfect for deception, so constant optical illusions trigger traps."
"All chaebol like this shady?"
"Who'd put up with a senile old fart's hysterics? Jesus bounced back to heaven young—didn't wanna age in human flesh."
"Makes sense. No dementia meds back then."
Imagine Jesus with Alzheimer's on his salvation tour: turns all water to wine, then "This is my blood—the fish floating up there's my flesh." Dropping quips like that.
Chatting like that, we followed the scent—only to hit a firmly shut dining room door. Classic chaebol pettiness: not even letting outsiders snag a meal.
"Even so, phasing through a formal dining spot with Pass Wall feels a tad guilty. Let's bluff our way in."
I etched a human shadow rune on my tongue; my form shifted to the latest thug I'd killed, suited up. Pressed the intercom hard as that thug—no answer, door stayed shut.
Checked my disguise—no issues. Shadow rune worked fine.
"They've caught on."
"Sharp as fuck."
Tried wrenching the door in anger, but something gripped it from beyond, shoving back. Sparks flew from the handle, medium-rare'ing my hand.
Flipped open Google Book: 'Ward Rune' etched inside—blocks physical or spiritual passage. Ancient Egyptian; break with Pharaoh's Seal or inside sorcerer's permission.
Pharaoh's Seal? Millennium Puzzle vibes—but no dueling here. Plan B: destroy every outer rune encircling the dining room, shrink the ward's range to nothing.
Whoever pulled this annoying shit would pay dearly.
"I'll take the hallway, you the ceiling. Smash any weird runes on walls or floor."
Tricky work needing speed, so I buffed S-man with Jesus power.
"Striking!"
You're stronger now! Charge!