Those Who Defy Heaven's Will
"Those who defy Heaven's Will, Han Ga-ram."
Banners had sprung up overnight across the entire district. Telephone poles, overpasses, everywhere. Sky-blue backgrounds with black letters. They were legally registered outdoor ads, sponsored by "Cheonmyeonghoe Believers."
It wasn't just the banners.
Cheonmyeonghoe had turned Han Ga-ram's own knife against her. The citizen recall system. Organized signatures from believers had met the requirements, making her the first target under the law she'd passed herself. The vote was in seven days. On the same day, a by-election would fill the neighboring vacancy.
Han Ga-ram began her anti-recall speech right under one of those banners.
"Everyone! That banner's actually doing me a favor—spreading my name without costing me a dime!"
Laughter erupted. She adjusted the mic.
"But let's think about one thing. Heaven's Will? Heaven itself spoke. 'Don't sell me. Don't profit off people's fear.' And now they're saying handing over your deposit money as 'funds' is Heaven's Will? That's not Heaven's Will—"
She paused briefly. Then enunciated clearly.
"That's the merchants' will."
Applause broke out. But amid it, people wearing sky-blue badges stood silent. A fair number of them. They weren't angry. They just... looked at her with pity. Han Ga-ram met those eyes longer than she did the cheers.
In the neighboring district's by-election, Ryu Seong-gon was running.
He claimed independent status—but he'd once stood on Cheonmyeonghoe's grand rally stage. Knock out lawmakers who block them with recalls, then plant their own in the empty seats. These two votes on the same day were the first button.
Ryu Seong-gon was clever. He never mentioned Cheonmyeonghoe by name. He just said this:
"I'll practice humble politics. Politics that knows a higher will stands above human laws."
To a reporter asking directly, he smiled and replied:
"Cheonmyeonghoe? I have no religion. But I think there's something to learn from their communal spirit."
Carefully chosen words that wouldn't snag even in the Zone of Truth. Watching the TV debate, Cha Pil-gu clicked his tongue.
"That wordplay's straight out of Myeongjin Research scripts. Yuna, dig into that guy's donor accounts."
The TV debate aired that Thursday. A current affairs show covering both the recall frenzy and by-election. The two sat at the same table.
The moderator asked if both would voluntarily enter the Zone of Truth. Han Ga-ram didn't hesitate a second.
"Tomorrow. Want to come with me, moderator?"
The audience laughed. Ryu Seong-gon smiled softly.
"Of course I can go. But I question the system itself. Is mechanically testing human conscience fitting for a new era? We need faith. We need faith. Not verification."
"There it is—faith." Han Ga-ram cut in. "Simple, candidate. Will you go or not? Just say the date."
"I'll coordinate the schedule—"
"The date."
"...After the election."
"Why? Truth matters more before the election."
As Ryu Seong-gon picked his words, Han Ga-ram pressed further.
"Candidate. Let me say it for you. You don't know what might slip out if you go before. Right? Can't lie in there. You don't even trust your own mouth. And someone like that wants to represent the people?"
The audience burst into laughter. Ryu Seong-gon's smile stiffened by a millimeter. That night, the clip went viral online as "One Millimeter.gif."
But polls didn't budge. Ryu Seong-gon's support was rock-solid. Sky-blue badge voters skipped the debate. Their choice was scripted already.
Kim's house was a war zone.
"Honey. The deposit. Where'd it go?"
His wife slammed the bankbook on the table. Kim averted his eyes.
"...Invested it. New era comes, we'll get compensated."
"New era." Her voice trembled. "Last year with those coins, you said new era too. When Heaven hanged the scamming the scammers, I was glad. Thought guys who screw people like us were finally paying. But honey. Why aren't the ones screwing you now hanging?"
"They're different! That place... they call me by name!"
Kim shouted. Then stopped at his own words. Call me by name. The ten-billion-funds shrank to that line, landing on the table.
His high school daughter emerged from her room, tuition bill in hand.
"Dad. Can't I go to college?"
Kim couldn't answer. Silence blanketed the table.
The next day, after school, she went to Han Ga-ram's anti-recall camp. On the volunteer form, in the motivation section, she wrote one line.
I want to get my dad back.
Han Ga-ram, tidying the camp, read it. She called the girl over, sat her down. Boiled two cups of instant ramen. No aides or desks in the bare-bones camp—that was the full hospitality.
"Dad... isn't a bad person." The girl said, ramen steaming before her. "Lost his job, blew it on coins, then... he got smaller. Barely talks at home. But after going there, his face lights up. They call him 'Steward Kim' there."
Han Ga-ram set down her chopsticks.
"Can't hate him. But I'm scared. After the deposit, what's next."
"...Can't promise I'll save your dad." Han Ga-ram said. "Politicians promising that are just merchants too. But I promise this: I'll crack those merchants' ledgers. So your dad can see with his own eyes."
The girl nodded. Before the ramen got soggy, they ate.
Cheonmyeonghoe was peaking.
A grand rally announced. Venue: City Hall Plaza. Expected: 100,000. Official theme: "Night of Gratitude and Leap Forward." But the lecturer testified to Cha Pil-gu: real goal was different.
"That day, they'll take 'Dedication Pledges.' Not funds—powers of attorney. For disposing of assets. Real estate too. From 100,000 people."
Cha Pil-gu's pen stopped.
"If that passes, Cheonmyeonghoe isn't a religion anymore. It's a tens-of-trillions asset... nation within a nation."
"Yes. And where that money flows? You've already seen."
Myeongjin Research. And the shadows behind.
Cha Pil-gu set publish time: rally morning. Before 100,000 gathered, for 100,000 to read.
"Dangerous, no? 100,000 furious believers on you."
The lecturer asked. Cha Pil-gu shrugged.
"Twenty-year-old story. Let it age more, it'll spoil."
The interview taped in the newspaper's basement studio. The lecturer went on camera with real name and face.
He showed the script original to the camera. Even the tiny watermark at the bottom.
"I didn't write this. Came weekly via encrypted email. 'Tremble voice here, three-second pause there'—full stage directions. And I... read it. Knowing it turned your fear into money."
He stared straight at the camera.
"To those who cried at my lectures: sorry. You saw a savior? It was an actor. But believe this: Heaven never asked for money once. That guy's the type to pay for his own canned coffee."
Yuna snorted from behind the monitor. That last line survived editing unanimously.
In the back room, final debate on pushing the rally.
"You said dive low—why push the rally? Risky."
"Risky or not, must do. 100,000 dedication pledges. That's the capital to dive with. Enter shadows empty-handed, starve in the dark."
The elder set down his teacup.
"And... bet he won't move. Hit Cheonmyeonghoe before 100,000? Turns 100,000 faith to enmity. God doesn't do that. Guy who hates deification won't make martyrs."
Twisting the Transcendent's principles against him—their style, final bet. But the Transcendent didn't need to hit the rally. The paper would arrive first. And the mouth on stage... was already theirs.
Nam Do-yun's channel was in uproar.
Undercover at a Cheonmyeonghoe lecture, believers mobbed and chased him out. He saved the camera just before they snatched it. Video title: "Infiltrating the Company Selling Heaven." Views exploded, comments split.
Mobilization nationwide. Buses per branch. Sky-blue ponchos and lunchboxes promised. Group chats buzzed with the notice: "Witness history. Seats by dedication rank."
Dedication rank. Those words shook final funds again. People broke savings for front rows. Kim was one. He cashed his last housing account. Secretly from his wife. Telling himself: this is truly the last.
On the bus seating chart, his name topped the first row. Kim—no, "Steward Kim"—snapped a photo to cherish. First front-row seat of his life.
Jeong Min-ho poured water into cup ramen.
"Flowerbed blooms next week."
"Fast."
"Good fertilizer."
Jeong Min-ho grinned. Flowerbed op. His old Tae-seong accounting junior—now posing as Cheonmyeonghoe finance—gathering ledger copies. Bloom meant ledgers ready.
"Boss. Or, hyung Jeongsang. Can I ask something?"
"No."
"Rally day... something happens?"
Kim Jeongsang pressed the ramen lid. Three minutes. Then shortly:
"Good day for flower viewing."
Rally eve, post-shift, Kim Jeongsang walked to the plaza.
Workers bolted steel frames for the stage. From outside the construction fence, he gazed up. Tomorrow, atop that, 100,000 fears would turn to powers of attorney. Selling his name.
Angry? No. He'd watched his name sold for millennia. Cheonmyeonghoe was just the latest.
But this time, he was here. Under the same sky, night-shift clerk. Tomorrow morning, papers distribute. One actor speaks true lines before 100,000.
A guard approached.
"Can't stand here. Rally prep."
"Sorry. Stage looks nice."
"It is. Ten billion won." The guard boasted. "Customer, coming tomorrow? Sky-blue clothes gets front row."
"No. I'm—"
Kim Jeongsang glanced up once more.
"Going flower viewing."
Same night. City Hall Plaza stage rising. Sky-blue flags encircled it. Soundcheck echoed: new era. His will. Dedication.
Same time, newspaper editing room. Cha Pil-gu typed the final line.
Clock passed midnight. Rally day dawned.
Cha Pil-gu hit send.