The Lord Is With Me: Ten Thousand Jesuses Strong
I'd wondered about it ever since I was a kid—the question everyone must've pondered at least once. Does Jesus really stick by every single person in the world? Does that mean there's Jesus No. 1, Jesus No. 2, Jesus No. 3, Jesus No. 4, all the way up to Jesus No. 7 billion? Or is Jesus some kind of omnipotent stem cell that can divide into 7 billion copies and then merge back together?
I was pretty damn young back then, but I tried to crack it with the most plausible logic I could muster. My solution? Apply the Santa Claus formula to Jesus. Theoretically, Santa delivers presents to every kid on Earth on December 24th night without a single miss—rocket delivery style. That'd require moving at the speed of light, maybe even faster. The key point is Santa isn't some fictional tachyon particle lifeform, and a big ol' fat old man with that mass and volume couldn't possibly pull it off at those speeds. So Santa wasn't alone. That means either he can self-replicate like Jesus, or there are tons of clone models out there.
So we gotta think about it sometime. When I'm praying right now, which cloned Jesus is the one hearing me—the 5,000th division, or the off-the-assembly-line No. 7,342 model? And if the Lord is with me, then everyone's got the exact same Jesus hanging out with them. Take it a step further: theoretically, we can summon as many Jesuses as we need. Call in a massive horde for some insane Bible power.
"Right here, right now, the Lord is with me. One... thousand of 'em!" Nah, a thousand's too stingy. Make it ten thousand. Ten thousand Jesuses—sounds legit.
—Do you fancy yourself David? Do you think that pathetic sword you're clutching will fell a mighty giant and crown you king, like some holy relic? Wrong. Before me, your life is a candle in the wind, your scraped-together courage nothing but the arrogance of a pup that fears not the tiger. Your kingdom, your honor, your ideals—they'll never come to pass.
Naturally likening himself to Goliath, the crocodile slithered through the swamp like a stealthy gator. Saleos didn't even snort at the sight of my Heaven's Demon-Slaying Sword; he just slammed his massive tail down on the swamp's surface.
Splash! The impact echoed like waves crashing against coastal cliffs, reverberating wildly off the underground cavern walls. The louder the noise, the more the momentum built, the uglier the vibe got—he figured it'd scare the shit outta me. I'd be lying if I said it didn't. Even if catching this croc meant scoring premium leather for a year's worth of Gucci bags, getting stuck in this swamp would turn me into a fossil too. But scarier than fossilizing under the mountain? Letting this bastard strut around in front of me without sending him straight to heaven.
Imagine him crawling back to Pandemonium later, chowing down at a demon feast, chewing me up like peanuts. "Han Daeri? That fucker's dog-cock chow, bro. We wrecked his ass, lmao." Just thinking about it makes my balls shrink. We Koreans can take a lot, but "dog-cock chow"? No way in hell. Even if I end up fossilized here forever, this guy's going next to Jesus by the well. Otherwise, I'll never sleep soundly again.
In the end, I kicked off the sticky muck first and charged straight into the croc's maw. He hadn't expected a suicide rush—too late, his sawblade teeth flashed as he whipped his body and head around.
"Where does unbelief come from!!!!"
Lewd thoughts! Lustful thoughts! Scheming thoughts! Thinking ain't the heart's doing—it's the brain. The root of Jesus-doubt? The brain!
"I smash it!"
Whoosh! Twisting my body halfway and pouring my core into a horizontal slash, the white sword clashed with Saleos's massive fangs. No cartoonish crack, boom, crunch. Instead, a brutally realistic metallic scrape rang out, like gears grinding for real.
Kagang!
—All weapons steeped in blood have been wielded above my maw (the battlefield)! You think you can shatter the battlefield with a mere sword, not even a holy relic!!
"I've got ten thousand Jesuses with me right now!"
—Weren't you bragging about a thousand a second ago!
"Even Master Yi I from 450 years back pushed for a 100,000-man army! What's a thousand or ten thousand to Jesus!!"
I shortcut-prayed in 500 more Jesuses. Like kids rushing "Amen!" in pre-meal prayer to scarf down faster. Ten thousand five hundred. With this Bible power, what couldn't I do? Seizing the knee-deep swamp terrain, I jammed the sword between Saleos's thrashing fangs.
Kagagagang! That stripped at least the enamel off those teeth. Dead set, I smashed my knuckled fist into them. People fear the dentist not just 'cause someone's poking their delicate mouth. It's the psycho drill pounding nerves that scream at the slightest touch. My teeth are tough! Skip brushing for a day! That complacency gets drilled right out of you—best hygiene lesson ever.
"Lemme tell ya before you freak: crocs get wisdom teeth too!" Google it if you didn't know. I targeted those sensitive wisdom teeth in human and croc alike—the one gap in his tough hide, insane strength, concrete-hard chompers.
Right then, Saleos realized I wasn't backing off his jaws and snapped to snatch my upper body in one bite. No dodge time—what could I do caught in those sawteeth? I had to take his patented death roll till my halves split.
But if you take a hit, you gotta give one back.
"Don't stop! You got this!"
I stabbed the sword into his thick tongue to anchor my upper half and called my wandering lower half. Hearing me, it miraculously dashed back into Saleos's reopened maw.
"You made it, Body."
By the iron law of equivalent exchange, reattaching my lost half turned Han/Daeri back into Han Daeri.
—How long do you think your pathetic struggles will last?
Saleos clocked I was still alive in his mouth and blasted hot breath. Volcanic, reeking smoke poured out, thick and foul. Then smoke-shapes formed, bloodied swords in hand, charging me—warriors toyed with and killed in his maw during his "fun." Ghosts of war, screaming only death, blood, slaughter, revenge, crawling back at his call.
Ragged primitives with shitty weapons, armored knights on horseback, uniformed soldiers with guns—they swarmed in chaotic waves. Suddenly, I was a lone gladiator slave in a colosseum of sawblade teeth, facing an army.
First, a hulking primitive with a massive club—I punched his throat, stabbed his heart, dropped him. When organized spearmen and swordsmen came, I didn't dodge or roll; I charged, beheaded their leader, mounted his bony steed, seized the reins, and swung the white sword mercilessly.
"You to heaven! You to heaven! And you—express to paradise!"
When the skeleton horse crumbled, I dropkicked the next rider. They lassoed like hunters, yanking me down; I cracked skulls wide with metal-tipped whips.
—Diiiiieeeee!
"Heavennnnn!"
A giant brute swung an iron mace—I barreled straight in, slammed him down, mounted, and preached with punches: "Jesus! Heaven! Unbelief! Hell! Tithes! Every week! Before thanks prayer—thanks offering first!"
Smashed his skull flat with his own mace, then faced distant gunfire.
Popopopopow!
Uniformed musketeers lined up, aimed, fired. Acrid smoke cleared; they dragged up a massive cannon, lit the fuse. Boom! Cannonball slammed my gut dead-on. Nearly groaned like a gut-punched wimp.
"Yet the Lord is with me here."
Bleeding and dusty in the battlefield heart, I stood, straightened the white sword. Confirming bullets and shells bounced off, the uniforms bayonet-charged. Their blood-red eyes burned with endless death, slaughter, blood, revenge—no room for other feelings, no great being to anchor their fragile souls.
That's exactly why!
"That's why you gotta go to heaven."
Don't rot eternally in hell, unsaved, fading to nothing. File that claim on your unrequited life. Go to your creator, make 'em own the creation. You're no joyless duty, no meaningless thing.
"I will be with you."
Till when? Heaven's front gate!