Living as a Faithful in the Punk World

The sight of those once-mighty bodyguards collapsing one by one was too unrealistic. Beyond unrealistic, it left a dreamlike impression. Right in the midst of it, Amon recalled the priest's words.

The reason was that divine power and mystic power were condensations of faith. When specific beliefs gathered thickly in one area, they became mystic or divine power, and those forces would settle somewhere, birthing a divine power holder or an entity. At that point, the divine or mystic power didn't settle all at once but in fixed cycles, limiting it to one per region. So, once a divine power holder was born, drawing a circle around them within a certain radius meant no others could be born inside it. This was a setting even Amon hadn't known before. And at the same time, he was the exception that proved the rule. That's why, right after hearing it, he hadn't believed it. Even the priest who told him had been confused. But soon enough, Amon figured out why it didn't apply to him.

'I'm not a product of people's gathered faith.'

No one knew exactly what the Goddess had done, but his divine power was undoubtedly a gift from her. Once his thoughts reached that point, he remembered a scene from Punk City 1. It was a quest roughly involving wiping out a steampunk cult. Depending on the player's choices, the player could end up sacrificed. Then, divine power would be extracted via a demonic symbol, triggering game over. But if you received a holy blessing through a relic during the quest, you could survive even after the extraction. The choice existed because blocking the demon summon from the start was easier, but it meant missing the demon's drop items. So, those needing the drops would get blessed on purpose, let their divine power get extracted once, then take down the summoned demon. By that logic, Amon had no issue even if his divine power was extracted. His came straight from the Goddess.

"As expected of divine power. The effect is killer, huh?"

Amon muttered, watching the employees crumple before his eyes. But amid the carnage, survivors remained: the chairman and the doctor. They were barely hanging on through the disaster. Amon could guess why.

"Whoa. How much implant stuffing did you guys do?"

Before Amon's eyes, the chairman's mind flickered in and out. His implants restarted his heart each time it stopped, somehow supplying oxygen to the starving brain. Repeating death and revival, the chairman clung to life. But with each revival, his face grew more haggard. Like the chairman, the doctor—more machine than man—was somehow sustaining himself.

'Not much time left.'

Amon decided not to finish them off himself. He wouldn't deliver the killing blow, but he dragged a chair over to watch their certain deaths.

Toward Amon, savoring the scene, the doctor squeezed out a voice.

"Why...!"

That was all the mad scientist could muster. Even in his flickering mind, he desperately wanted to understand. The answer lay in Amon's head. Every attempt to create mystic power by human hands ended like this. If cramming a hundred people's worth into one shell easily birthed a saint, why wasn't the Vatican doing it now? Simple: they'd tried it already. On a far grander scale than Hickzen Group. Sacrificing thousands, not hundreds, turning an entire city into a summoning array. The result? Failure, erased from history.

'Strictly speaking, they succeeded in creating it...'

The problem was it wasn't God's daughter, the saint, but the Antichrist. Common sense said humanity's savior wouldn't require thousands of sacrifices. What was born wasn't a divine power generator like a saint, but a divine power exchanger: the Antichrist. Unlike a saint freely granting apostles divine power, the Antichrist turned ordinary people into entities—a demon of ruin.

'And that was the story of part 1.'

The Vatican accidentally summoned the demon, and the protagonist—a mercenary from the steampunk era—cleaned up the mess across Europe and the Middle East. Knowing that story, Amon had long foreseen this company's saint project would fail.

'Well, entities can power generators too, so maybe the company's ambitions succeeded in another direction.'

To the Vatican, it was black history. Maybe only the pope knew. But even he wouldn't dwell on it. Whether Hickzen summoned a saint or Antichrist, the Vatican had to stop it either way. Telling priests to block the Antichrist would mean spilling the black history too. The end result was the same—hostility toward Hickzen—so they probably just said "stop the artificial saint."

Amon was confident he could explain all this to the doctor.

'But no obligation to share the lore.'

No reason to. 'Who knows if this guy revives later.' Once you'd transferred to a machine body, caution upon caution wasn't overkill. Amon shut his mouth. Hugging his unresolved questions, the doctor finally stopped breathing. Amon turned to the chairman. Using pricier gear, he lasted longer than the doctor. But not by much. Their eyes met. The chairman didn't seem curious—just heartbroken.

"I... couldn't kill you... what a regret... for all time..."

Somehow stringing words together in his flickering consciousness. But did he know? That sentence was on its sixth repeat. Still maintaining his mind at this point was impressive.

'With mental fortitude like that, no wonder he runs a megacorp.'

But regardless of Amon's admiration, a correction was needed.

"You're not dying."

The chairman's eyes widened at Amon's words. Seeing is believing, so Amon pointed to a bodyguard starting to change.

"Death isn't an escape, Chairman."

Humans who broke God's taboos always faced heavenly punishment. Those who ignored the Goddess's words and fell into depravity were purified by flood. The Tower of Babel, challenging the Goddess's authority, crumbled. The cities Sodom and Gomorrah, mocking the Goddess's angels, burned in sulfurous fire. So what punishment awaited those who tried dragging divine power into human realms? They were denied rest. Sleep, peace, death—all rest stripped away. Such beings had many names across eras: the Goddess's forsaken children, beasts walking the abyss, beggars of ash. In modern times, one term fit best: monster.

Dungeon themes varied by failed experiment. Gene experiments birthed beasts or zombies; AI failures spawned robots. But mystic power experiment failures differed from the start. At the site, when the dungeon boss was born, nearby beings twisted. The space became a dungeon, souls bound without rest, wandering as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠monsters. Even if explorers killed them, they respawned, clinging to fragmented memories of their human days, obsessed with their final moments. That was their divine punishment.

Amon nodded as he watched those around him transform.

'Ignorance isn't a sin.'

They never imagined becoming monsters. Mystic power experiments rarely failed, and mystic dungeon monster origins were unknown.

'If they'd known, they wouldn't have done it inside HQ.'

But.

'Blasphemy is a sin.'

Disbelieving in God and daring to challenge divine authority? They deserved punishment. Amon felt no pity. Not for the employees turning into low-tier monsters, the bodyguards into elites, or the doctor into some mimic-like abomination. This was their rightful heavenly retribution.

'Those not in the project won't get punished anyway.'

The innocent would survive. Seemed like dangerous thinking, but right for this situation. Even oblivious employees would flee the building now, so no needless sacrifices.

For reference, the chairman muttered "Gotta sell..." at the end, becoming a mid-boss. From the last words, probably a gimmick-type boss.

As they turned into monsters, the building began changing too. Taking dungeon form to welcome challengers and protect the boss. Slowly reshaping its structure. Before long, Amon's lab became the boss room, bodyguards and chairman relocated elsewhere.

'Oh. Nice.'

Happy accident. He'd planned to make them monsters then bolt for the exit, but they cleared out themselves.

'Wait. Is this good?'

On second thought, no. He was in the boss room now—the most dangerous spot. Amon bolted for the exit. But a voice from behind halted him.

A dry, emotionless voice echoed through the room. Not through human throats, but directly in his mind. The boss stared at Amon with blood-red eyes. At a glance, a beautiful woman. But Amon could never like her. Or it, really. Closest classification: asexual. The dungeon boss spoke.

"Bow and worship me. I will give you all this."

With an expressionless face, the boss manipulated space. The city's panorama unfolded below.

Staging the scene, the boss declared,

"Revere me, serve me, kiss my feet. Then I shall give you this land to its ends—or destroy you."

Amon's face twisted. This was why he hated bosses. They quoted scripture at birth, but not out of holiness. Contrary to popular ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠belief, angels, demons, saints, Antichrists—all drove you mad on sight. Only the already mad or deeply faithful endured. (Much the same thing.) Unable to praise demons himself, Amon just quoted Bible verses. Bosses weren't holy.

'Vermin impersonating the Goddess's authority...'

If she were an innocent victim shell, a naive new life, he'd compromise. Even a vengeful spirit against her experimenters—he'd try reforming her. But this was a demon. One born from sacrificing a hundred divine power holders, mocking the Goddess. No innocence, no injustice. Pure evil incarnate. At least the sacrifice count was low, not Antichrist-final-boss level, but a demon was a demon. Recognizing Amon as an apostle right away and tempting him confirmed its evil nature.

Amon rejected the demon's offer. Instead of words, he raised his middle finger.

"Why the hell should I?"

Serving that thing led only to ruin. "Bow and worship" was polite for "worship me as god and turn into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠entity or monster." It called it a "blessing"; Amon saw a curse. Utterly wise, he had zero reason to accept. No more talk. He turned and headed for the boss room exit. No matter how strong, bosses were stuck in their rooms. Reading his intent, the boss desperately tried to hold him.

"Why fear me? You cannot leave until I allow it."

Flipping it off again over his shoulder, Amon sprinted for the exit. Finally, his foot crossed the threshold.

That was when it came. From Amon's nape, an irresistible line.

Amon's foot halted abruptly. Seeing it, the boss showed emotion for the first time. Its lip corner twitched up.

'In the end, that faith will trip you up.'

The boss never planned to let Amon live anyway. What it wanted: his pounding heart. The overflowing mystic power spring inside. No intent to make him an apostle. She needed him dead to claim it. To get it, she couldn't let him go. As predicted, insulting the Goddess kept Amon in the boss room. Rather, rummaging for weapons looked like fight prep.

'Foolish.'

Like a moth to flame. The boss watched Amon endearingly. She could attack now, but fresh-born, she wanted to test her power. Arrogance, some might call it; she called it confidence.

Finally, geared up, Amon turned to the boss—back still to it—gripping swords in both hands.

"You come at me with sword and sorcery, but I advance against you in the name of the Mother of All—that is, the Goddess you mock—"

The boss peered into Amon's muttering eyes. The angrier, more irrational he got, the easier to claim the spring. But gazing into those eyes, the boss recoiled in horror.

'What... is this...'

Madness. Beyond the dark pupils lurked only madness. Mad-glinting eyes glared at the boss. Amon crossed his dual swords. Grinding teeth, lips smeared like ripped lipstick twitched behind the cross.

Deus vult. (God wills it.)

Amon murmured lowly, and the boss staggered back.