Fear Not

There is a word for it: idol. These days people toss it around for any celebrity blessed with a beautiful face, but dig into the etymology and you'll find it means something else entirely—an object of worship. And from the earliest days, an idol was meant to be the likeness of a god.

"O God..."

The moment that whispered lament slipped into my ear, I set my aloof, sovereign stride in motion. The natural qi of heaven and earth, seized by my Intent, became footholds, and an invisible staircase took shape in empty air.

To anyone who didn't know better, it would look like nothing less than a miracle: a man walking on the sky. I was only human. But in the world of those watching me now, this moment was indistinguishable from the descent of a god.

Because this is exactly how the Cheonjingyo scriptures described the coming of the divine.

When the Cheonjingyo canon spoke of the end times, it said a Heavenly God—a Cheonsin—would descend from the sky, drawing five-colored clouds in his wake, and spread the true teaching. The cult leader must have been a fairly dedicated wuxia nerd; the descriptions were surprisingly granular, which had made that particular passage rather interesting in its own right.

An immortal descending the stairs of heaven. A dragon's bearing, trailing five-colored clouds. And beyond that, a teaching of true principle that would drive itself into the minds of all people, no matter where in the world they stood.

There was no description of the descending deity's appearance, but then, human beings have always painted the divine as beautiful. In nearly every mythology, unless ugliness itself is the point, gods are rendered as men and women of extraordinary beauty. And personally, I thought my own looks were fairly decent.

I'd been treated like a weirdo since I was a kid, but that was a separate matter from popularity. I'd had my share of that.

Flawless white skin. A solid, well-built frame. I wouldn't rank among the peerless beauties of the age, but I had a face you could reasonably call handsome. I'd turned them all down on the grounds of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠martial training, but my school years had been colorful with love confessions and street castings.

Namgung Yeon had complimented my appearance during our last collab stream, hadn't she? Granted, that had been our first meeting, so it might have been simple courtesy. Still. The point was this: in every outward respect—looks and staging alike—I now resembled Cheonjingyo's god ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as closely as a man possibly could.

"Come down, child."

But I still had something left to show. I had called it a precedent, after all. I hadn't left behind the first woman to break free of Cheonjingyo's brainwashing.

"Can I... can I really do this...?"

The woman I had left on the rooftop—once a missionary, now free of the cult's claws—asked the question toward me. What I had asked of this woman whose name I didn't even know was to follow the path I had walked, and come down the same way. Put bluntly, I was telling her to step out into empty air.

A terrifying, uncertain demand. Of course she hesitated. Reading that fear, I smiled gently and spoke.

"Believe in me. If your faith is sufficient, then in this moment the heavens themselves will marvel at your heart, and gladly lay down a staircase."

As Jesus had done for Peter in the scriptures, my encouragement lent her strength, and she put out her foot. All ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠around us, people sucked in their breath. The cult leader's lips even began to twitch.

She'll fall. Has she lost her mind? Concern and mockery tangled together in the reactions around her. And then, at last—tak!

"...Huh?"

Her foot had stepped upon the sky. Tak, tak! One step. Then two. Both feet left the rooftop, and her entire body stood upon the air. Just as I had shown her, she walked on emptiness, and the corners of her mouth trembled.

In truth, I had simply laid out Void Stepping platforms all around her. But from the standpoint of someone living it, it would feel no different from walking the heavens herself. The first step is the hard one; after that, it's easy. True to that principle, confidence bloomed across her face, a smile flowering there, and then her steps grew light and eager as she crossed the empty air, her body drawing nearer to the ground.

And so she came down to earth, took her place at my side, and cried out at the top of her lungs.

"Fraud!"

"Wh-what?!"

Her voice rang out, pitched high with fury, and the finger she thrust toward the cult leader she had once worshipped as a god trembled violently.

"Y-you bitch—what do you think you're—!"

"I'm not falling for it anymore! That holier-than-thou posturing, the scriptures you wrote for no purpose but to deceive people—all of it!"

She howled as if she meant to lay every one of the cult leader's crimes bare before the crowd. For a moment he faltered before the venom of her grief; then his face crumpled and he ground his teeth.

Just as I had asked, and just as I had predicted, he didn't even remember what her dream had been. And every luxury, every greedy indulgence he had enjoyed, had been a violation of his own doctrine. An old man who beguiled people with a creed he himself never kept, with the empty pomp written into it, who stole their dreams and used them as he pleased to make himself rich.

She exposed him hoping everyone present would open their eyes. But the brainwashing of a cult is not so easily broken.

The only reason I was able to bring this woman back to her senses was that a number of conditions had already aligned.

Human beings are social creatures who seek stability. To seek stability is to prefer the familiar. To be a social creature is to bind together as one, so that no single person's influence can easily shake the whole. And if the head of that society—the cult leader himself—stands right in front of you, all the more so.

They would interpret even her plea through the doctrine they knew so well, and minds bound by religious indoctrination would not judge for themselves. They would simply obey the cult leader's commands as the will of God.

They'll hesitate. Grow sluggish, thanks to what I showed them and her appeal. But the fact that they remain the cult leader's limbs will not change.

And as if to confirm my prediction, the cult leader gave his order.

"A Magun! A Magun stands before us!"

"Hah—!"

"A M-Magun!"

"This can't be!"

Magun. According to the scriptures, a demonic fiend who tempts the faithful and sows chaos in the world until the Heavenly God descends. A being that whispers: do not follow the scriptures. Live your own life, rather than the life God ordained. As the wording makes plain, the structure is designed so that anyone who tries to help a brainwashed believer is labeled a Magun—a trick to keep the indoctrinated indoctrinating themselves, denying them any chance of escape.

The cult leader used that Magun as his pretext and issued a command to hundreds of followers.

"Seize those wicked Magun! If you fall to their temptation, the Heavenly God himself will rebuke you and punish you without mercy!"

He was nothing more than an old man. But the followers flinched in terror at that worthless nonsense. To them, the Heavenly God was more than a deity who may or may not exist. He was the one who had promised to grant their lifelong, desperate wishes—the one who guaranteed a happy afterlife beyond their suffering. He had taken their dreams hostage, threatened to smash them, and driven them like slaves.

"Waaaaah!"

"The Magun—catch the Magun!"

"Don't you dare be deceived!"

In an instant, hundreds of people surged forward, seized by frenzy. Even the woman who had shouted with such confidence whimpered, cowed by a madness that defied all common sense.

"Ah... aah...!"

Some, watching that frenzy, would click their tongues and call it irrational, stupid. I knew why they had been stained with madness, and I was different.

"...Pitiful things."

The followers were not insane. They were saner than anyone. Just as a mother would fight with everything she had against a robber trying to snatch her child before her eyes, they were charging at me to protect the thing more precious to them than anything else: their dreams.

"This is the harm a cult inflicts. People cannot live as people. They can only struggle, day after day, to keep what little they have."

Who would dare condemn someone who throws themselves, body and soul, against the world for the sake of what they hold dear? The brainwashing of a cult—the true nature of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the madness it wrings out of people—comes down to this. Driving them to move desperately, every single moment, and making them live inside the terror that they might lose what they love forever. That is why, however loathsome the cult leader may be, the followers themselves are nothing but pitiable.

A roar burst forth like thunder. A single shout, striking every mind around me through the profundity of Six Directions Voice Transmission, blanketed their thoughts in white. And at the same time, a net descended from the heavens.

In one stroke it washed away the fear that had dyed and occupied their minds, and bound the bodies that had been driven like slaves, locking them in place.

Their bodies, Intent suppressed, froze and would not move. And in that stillness, the flickering colors of each person's Intent showed me their emotions. Some were startled. Some were anxious. Some were afraid. Some were watching the cult leader's face for cues.

It was unbearably sad. Their Intent had clearly arisen from themselves—and yet not a single thread of it was turned toward caring for themselves. Those whose dreams had been stolen had lost even themselves, and could only grope desperately between the cult leader and me. Please, fulfill my dream. No—please don't throw away the dream I entrusted to you. That terror colored everything they were.

"Poor children."

And so, in this moment, I spoke the words they needed most.