Humans Are Weak to Pain, But Even Weaker to Pleasure

Humans are weak to pain, but even weaker to pleasure. Instilling fear through pain is far harder than implanting faith through pleasure. People tend to guard against pain but let their defenses down around pleasure.

Mid-level Hallucination: Intoxication. With this spell, I could inject pleasure into the faithful with just a flick of my finger, fostering unwavering devotion. The old Voodoo Cult deemed it taboo, but that was none of my concern. It might have been forbidden in the "old" Voodoo Cult, but not in the Voodoo Reincarnation Cult.

Why did the Second Cult Leader bother making taboos like that? So rigid. I thought of the Second Cult Leader again, reduced to ashes with not even a corpse left behind. Along with him came memories of the goals I'd set when founding the Voodoo Reincarnation Cult.

For those goals, I would spare no means or methods. Any obstacle blocking my path would be crushed, no matter what. Steel resolve surged through me as I cast the spell—toward that arrogant trio who dared mock the Voodoo Reincarnation Cult.

Soon, the purple mist conjured by the spell circle swallowed them whole. They would forget all worries and sorrows, laughing like fools—pathetic, deranged laughter that would soon turn to tears as their brains pickled in ecstasy. Just as I had seven years ago.

"Huh... what?"

But they didn't laugh. Instead, they stared back with cold, merciless eyes. The faces peeking from beneath their masks felt strangely familiar.

One of them started striding toward me with bold steps. Voodoo magic seeped from his fingertips.

Only then did I understand. A Voodooist. A follower of the old cult had come to punish the Voodoo Reincarnation Cult. That explained why the spell failed—Voodooists have far greater resistance to spells than ordinary people.

But that was all. If resistance was the issue, I'd simply use a spell strong enough to overwhelm it.

Mid-level Hallucination: Faint. The Faint spell was more advanced and potent than Intoxication. No matter their resistance, they couldn't withstand this. I'd deal with their disposal later—zombify them, tie them up for dog food, whatever. First, subdue them.

"Hm."

But he didn't faint. He just wore a bored expression and kept plodding forward.

Resistance that strong? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It wasn't even low-level; this was mid-level Hallucination. His spell resistance dwarfed that of any average Voodooist. Maybe he wasn't a regular follower—perhaps an executive. Executives had stronger resistance than rank-and-file believers. As a former executive myself, I knew that better than anyone.

Fine, then. Hit harder. I needed a spell they couldn't possibly resist, even if it meant draining every drop of voodoo magic in my body.

"Hoo."

It had been ages since I'd cast anything high-level or above. I steadied my breath and fired refined voodoo magic from my fingertips, drawing the spell circle.

High-level Hallucination: Nightmare. The mist engulfed him. But no effect. He strode through it unfazed.

High-level Hallucination: Dread. No effect. He kept coming.

High-level Hallucination: Delusion. Still nothing. That's when I realized: it wasn't his resistance. My spells weren't activating at all.

With a mere twitch of his finger, he was dismantling and disassembling my spell circles, rendering them useless.

Not an executive. He's... Executives couldn't interfere with others' spell circles. No one had that skill. The only one who could meddle in another's voodoo magic, dismantle their circles, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and prevent spells from firing was one person in this world.

The Voodoo Cult Leader. Son of the Second Cult Leader, Do Seon-woo. Only him.

You couldn't subdue Do Seon-woo with spells. His innate resistance was high, but more than that, his understanding of voodoo outclassed any ordinary follower. Draw a circle carelessly, and it'd be undone before it could activate.

"Marinette!"

If spells wouldn't work, only a Loa power remained. I hastily summoned Marinette. Using powers repeatedly without a Loa's blessing brought severe backlash. I might even cough up blood and die. But now wasn't the time for caution. No room for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hesitation.

The moment I called Marinette, I thrust out my hand and focused my will. But no matter how hard I tried, her voice didn't come. The power failed to manifest. My outstretched fingers flailed uselessly in the air.

"Marinette! What are you doing? Hurry!"

In desperation, I shouted Marinette's name, but she only repeated pleas to flee in a terrified voice. What the hell was happening?

Shrrrrk—

By then, Do Seon-woo stood before the altar. He pulled seeds from his pocket and scattered them across it. Countless seeds glimmered green for an instant before crumbling to ash and vanishing.

The meaning was clear. The offering was accepted. The Loa's weakened power returned to full strength.

"Ah, shit—"

Too late, I grasped the situation and tried to flee, but it was already over.

"Granbwa."

With calm words, his fingertips glowed green.

Krunch-crack-boom!

When Do Seon-woo slammed his hand to the floor, a deafening roar shook the heavens and earth—or rather, it felt that way because they truly were upheaving. The worship hall floor lost its level, tilting sharply. Massive cracks spiderwebbed across walls and ceiling. From the fissures, enormous tree roots surged like tentacles, writhing forward.

The offering Do Seon-woo gave Granbwa wasn't a soul tree root, ancient branch, ripe fruit, or fresh spring leaf. Just seeds. Cheap 8,000-won mustard greens and lettuce seeds from the mart on the way.

But it was enough. Do Seon-woo was a prophet chosen by the Loa. His powers dwarfed others'.

"Kek...!"

I couldn't move a finger. The roots bound my body without gaps. Crushing pressure squeezed my lungs; even breathing was agony. Dizziness hit, and my vision blurred to black.

Then consciousness faded.

*

"Gack, guh—!"

The cult leader, bound tight in tree roots, foamed at the mouth and passed out.

I could have subdued him faster and easier with a spell, but I chose Granbwa's power anyway. There were reasons.

"Spot on."

An altar right in front of me, perfect offerings at hand. The Loa screaming in my head for sacrifices. Using a power felt far more natural than a spell here.

Of course, that wasn't the only reason.

"Did you see that, everyone? The cult leader you've followed is a fake! This is the miracle of the true Voodoo Cult—the original Voodoo Cult's leader!"

Uncle Lee Jin-seong snatched the mic from the cult leader and launched into his speech. The followers hung on his every word.

Uncle planned to absorb every last fake Voodoo follower into the real cult. My flashy power display—not a spell, but a Loa miracle—added weight to his words, doubling the propaganda effect. Not intentional, but it worked out great.

While Uncle spoke, I quietly gathered the spoils.

"Altar. Water basin. No need for rope. Leash? Hm."

"Impure how?"

"Huh?"

I had no idea what was impure about it, but I decided to leave it. I stuffed the altar, water basin, and sundry spoils into Baal's maw. Despite the load, it weighed nothing, with plenty of internal space left. A true fourth-dimensional pocket. Worth every penny.

"Then, see you at the Voodoo Cult worship hall!"

By the time I finished packing, Uncle's speech wrapped up. The followers poured out via the stairs. So many it took minutes just to exit.

The now-empty worship hall felt desolate—and wrecked. Roots jutting from cracks everywhere gave it the vibe of an ancient ruin abandoned for millennia. Amazed by Granbwa's might yet appreciating the scenery, I took it all in.

"Cough, hack! Guh..."

A cough broke the silence. The fake cult leader, freshly conscious, dazedly scanned the room. Seeing it empty, he slumped in despair.

"Ha, haha. Fucked."

He laughed like a madman. I approached and removed his mask. The bare face beneath was oddly familiar. I'd definitely seen it as a kid.

"Han Su-yeop?"

The name slipped out. He snapped his head up.

Uncle, arms crossed and watching, raised a brow. "Huh? Yeah, it is Han Su-yeop."

He strode toward the root-bound traitor. Uncle's face twisted with fury, betrayal, glee—a cocktail of emotions.

Spotting Uncle, Han Su-yeop forced a shaky smile. "...Good to see you, Jin-seong."

"Good to see me? After ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ditching alone? You fucking traitor. And don't call me by name."

Thwack. Uncle smashed his fist into Han Su-yeop's skull.

During the Holy War seven years ago, Voodoo executives had fled en masse. Han Su-yeop was one. Uncle called all those deserters "traitors."

"Where are the other traitors?" Uncle yanked his hair, forcing his head up.

"Dunno."

"Dunno~? Wanna find out?"

Uncle pulled a pen from his pocket, flicking it open with a click. He held the sharp tip before Han Su-yeop's eye. Terror made the man's pupil jitter wildly.

"Again. Where?"

The threat hung: answer or get stabbed. Kang Ji-a, watching, swallowed hard.

Trembling, Han Su-yeop stammered, "I-I dunno. Really! I barely hid myself. The rest... all...!"

"All. All what. Finish."

"..."

Han Su-yeop shook his head. Uncle jabbed the pen toward his eyeball.

"Uncle. Stop. We got questions."

I pulled him back. Plenty to ask Han Su-yeop first. I got the anger, but gouging eyes now gained nothing. If he died or fainted, it'd complicate things.

"Hoo, right. Questions first."

Uncle pocketed the pen, crossing arms again. Rage lingered—his eyelids twitched. After stewing, he sighed heavily.

"Where's the money? You gotta have stashed donations somewhere."

"..."

"Huh? You got no right to silence, punk. No lawyer either. Where's the cash?"

"G-gone. Burned it. You saw."

Han Su-yeop lied coolly. I rummaged the charred donation box, pulling out intact bundles. As Legba said, only the box burned; the money survived.

Uncle's face soured at the sight. "Burned, huh?"

Thwack. Another skull-smash.

Han Su-yeop gawked at the bills, then frantically shook his head. "N-not that. That's all. Really. The rest went up in smoke—"

"Still lying? Eyeball time? No complaints?"

"Aaaah! Wait, wait!"

Uncle drew the pen again, slowly pressing toward the eye. Han Su-yeop thrashed in his bonds. As the tip neared his pupil, Kang Ji-a tapped my shoulder.

"Cult Leader. Suspicious door over there."

She pointed to a corner. A door, slathered in paint to blend with the wall. Suspicious as hell.

Before heading over, I glanced at Han Su-yeop. Despair etched his face. Something vital hid inside.

"N-no... Not there! Nooo—!!"

"'Ya' is casual speech."

As I approached, he bellowed to stop me. Uncle thwacked his head silent. Clearly pent-up.

Ignoring the blows, I reached the door. Kang Ji-a gulped nervously beside me.

Click.

The handle turned easily. Unlocked.

Creeeaaaak...

The door swung open with a chilling, eerie groan.

(To be continued)