Han Daeri Evolves into Han Guwon (2)
Before diving into the story of Han Daeri's evolution into Han Guwon, let me first explain the perks of being a cult leader. Cult leaders are free from all sorts of societal constraints:
1. Monogamy restrictions. Since the cult leader is the law and the truth itself, he's unbound by common sense or legal norms. He can fuck big-titted female devotees to his heart's content, knock them up with bastards, and not worry about anyone's side-eye. In fact, the flock envies them, saying they've received the leader's holy grace or some shit. The reason cults are packed with hot young men and women? Half of it's honey traps to lure in the naive, but the other half is straight-up fucktoys for the leader and his inner circle.
2. Massive wealth. Cults own huge churches, prayer centers, or even entire villages because they've fleeced their idiot, brainwashed followers. They strip devotees of their IDs and assets, balloon their riches overnight, then plow it all into real estate. Dodging the financial regulators or cops? Piece of cake. Just recycle the identities of countless fanatics, and the leader and his cronies stay untouchable.
3. Covert backing from the powerful. One word from the cult leader mobilizes hordes for any job—usually what politicians need. Protests disguised as hired thugs, smokescreens to bury scandals by staging cult incidents and diverting public eyes. For divide-and-conquer pols chasing self-interest, cults are handy tools. So even if they break laws or stir shit, politicians bail them out, letting them slither free like eels every time.
In short, in this cramped hellhole of liberal democracy fused with capitalism, no gig beats cult leader for easy living. Maybe stripping camgirl BJ at best? Anyway, the moment I spotted the 'Savior' strutting onto the pulpit, greed boiled up inside me.
That piggish bastard's skin gleamed with grease—probably from gorging himself fat. The way he hitched up his pants to support his aching back? Fresh off pounding some stacked devotee, no doubt. His narrow eyes curved like crescent moons, fixed in a perpetual, friendly smile that made him look like the approachable guy next door.
"Aaaah, Savior... the Savior has come!"
"Hallelujah!"
"The Savior's halo's so bright I can't open my eyes! Too... too dazzling!!!"
"If I could just lick the Savior's toes, I'd have no regrets!"
"I'd die happy if he called my name just once!"
Like monkeys mobbing the zookeeper with food, the fanatics spasmed in place—eyes squeezed shut in prayer, foreheads slamming the floor in collective fits. He hadn't said a word yet, but his mere presence drove hundreds insane. The Savior's popularity was off the charts.
Guys built like that usually excel at one of two things: opera or rap. If he'd grabbed the mic and dropped a beat, I'd have thrown my arms up praising him on the spot. Sadly, no such luck. Instead, he cleared his gravelly throat—slightly phlegmy—and spoke in a calm, cozy tone dripping with folksy warmth.
"The sun of the old era has set, and the light of the new millennium rises soon."
Fact: the most reactionary, outdated cults love yapping about 'shedding the old' and 'embracing the new.' They think spouting plausible bullshit makes them look innovative and forward-thinking.
Fair enough—their evangelism tactics and cover-up methods evolve daily with the times, so yeah, progressive in their own cockroach way.
Like next-gen roaches immune to old pesticides, hiding and breeding better. These genetically enhanced bugs even wielded 'mysticism' now—stuff they never touched before—to block outsiders and religious crackdowns. I hadn't expected god-worshippers to stoop to outright sorcery from alien roots, but it proved they'd use any means for their ends.
The plump 50-something Savior scanned the crowd with a benevolent face, like a campaigning pol, raising his Smoky Ham fist and declaring:
"I descended into this corrupt world to lead you to the promised land, era, and future. I can't stand by while you innocents get swept into the apocalypse orchestrated by evil forces. How could I leave you in a world where the heavens split, seas turn blood-red and flood the earth, lightning and hail pour like rain? You're all my siblings, sisters, children—would any monster abandon family?!"
"Yes! Exactly!!"
"Your words pierce my marrow from east to west!!!"
"Killed it!!!!"
"Hey! The Savior banned political talk!"
What bullshit, but I knelt calmly like the rest, surveying like him. It wasn't the leader's slick nonsense gripping this hall. Crowds always have cheerleaders and yes-men. Without them amplifying every line—even pure drivel—with hype, no cult leader eats for free. Solo operators running cults single-handed? Born talents, tyrants of chaos. But this porker on stage? No way. His skills might con a dozen geezers, but not this mega-cult.
Any cult leader shielding their HQ with perception-disruption spells has to be packing more than this—or at least equal.
So he patched his weak charisma with tricks. I pretended fervent prayer, hands clasped, head tilted up. To onlookers, peak devotee. But my eyes pierced the high ceiling.
Sorcery traces everywhere.
Not some musty ancient reek. Old spells are finicky to cast, even trickier for effect—no pro spreads them wide. They're for quick rituals, zero convenience, stuffy, unstable, risky. No 'progressive' vibe.
But these etched everywhere? Meticulous craftsmanship. Ancient stuff's never tidy—more like spotting patterns in chaos.
Obvious one's the Chaos Spell stirring and hyping emotions.
Not deep on sorcery, so I forehead-slammed in mock bow, pulling out Googlebook. Dusty as hell after ages, it hacked up like a living thing—protesting neglect? Ballsy for a book.
Anyway, it spat the answer:
Mixes negative and positive emotions in all beings within range, disrupting rational thought and leaving them dazed like junkies.
By uttering specific keywords to the affected, emotions can be arbitrarily manipulated. Originates from 'gypsy' street hustlers who pitched tents, dosed the air with drug-like vibes, and scammed via fortune-telling.
Gypsies count as 'modern' vs. ancients. Occult + scams? Can't skip 'em—their MO was astrology and mystery drugs.
With spells like that fogging this chapel, others spots have 'em too. Lucky me: Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office manager Han Daeri, with this wondrous Googlebook. I'm a hacker deep in their network.
Tweak those spells my way...
I can pull off a juicy takeover too.
That Savior's seat? Mine soon.