I pushed the cathedral doors open and entered without hesitation, my stride deliberate—loud enough to announce that I did not belong to the shadows. Stone echoed under my boots as I crossed the nave and took a seat close enough to hear every word of the meeting.
The Bishop's gaze snapped to Kyle, thin-lipped and cold.
"A blasphemy to this church," he said, venom barely restrained. "Truly, Malcolm—had you not interfered, I would have exercised my authority and had this heretic thrown out. Look at him. Look at that arrogant face."
The Bishop stared.
Kyle met his eyes calmly. Then he nodded once.
And showed him the middle finger.
The Bishop went red.
"Damn this child—" he hissed, half-rising from his chair. "I'll smack this boy."
Malcolm moved instantly, gripping the Bishop's arm before the thought could become action. "Calm down. Calm down," he said quickly, voice low and firm. "It's just a child. Adjust yourself."
The Bishop stood there, breathing hard, sweat gathering at his temples—rage barely leashed, dignity slipping by the second.
Kyle leaned back in his seat, unrepentant.
The meeting dragged on.
Malcolm stepped forward, unrolling a rough map across the long oak table. "We surround the church," he said. "Men on all exits. Snipers at a secure distance. Anyone visible once the ritual succeeds is to be shot on sight."
Kyle blinked.
"Oi—oi, wait," he cut in. "What is this plan? Do you even know what a plan is, man?"
The Bishop's head snapped around. His expression soured instantly."What did you say, brat?" he spat. "Are you judging our judgment? What do you know of these matters?"
Kyle didn't hesitate.
"Listen, you bag of bones," he said flatly. "If you want everyone here to get killed, then yeah—follow that plan. I'm starting to see why you've failed to capture the Fallen God till now."
The Bishop surged to his feet. "You insolent—"
"You suck," Kyle continued, unfazed. "You suck, old man."
The room went dead silent.
Malcolm raised a hand—not to stop Kyle, but to slow the explosion. He looked at him seriously."Kyle," he said evenly, "tell me what you see wrong with the plan."
Kyle leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"It's not the plan," he said. "It's you people. You're all so brain-damaged by the Bible and God this, God that that you've stopped thinking."
A sharp intake of breath from the clergy.
"First—listen," Kyle continued. "We know empowering a god requires sacrifice. Blood. That means every single person in that church is already marked. Even one death becomes a catalyst. You shoot someone, congratulations—you've just donated blood to power up that loser."
No one interrupted him now.
"Second," he said, tapping the file on the table, "this thing can control dead bodies. Which means the more corpses you create, the bigger his army gets—while you're actively juicing him up."
Kyle leaned back.
"You're not laying a trap," he said. "You're setting the table."
Everyone looked at Kyle.
The silence that followed was not respectful.
Malcolm studied the map again, then slowly rolled it back up. The Bishop looked like he'd swallowed something sour.
"Then enlighten us," the Bishop said coldly. "Since the child believes himself wiser than men who have devoted their lives to God."
Kyle smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
"You're thinking like priests," he said. "Not hunters."
He stood, dragging the chair back with a shriek of wood on stone, and walked to the table. He didn't ask permission. He took the chalk from Malcolm's hand and drew directly on the polished surface.
A circle.Inside it—smaller circles.Crosses.Names.
"The ritual space is already a battery," Kyle said. "Every believer inside is a conduit. Faith makes them efficient. Blood makes it instant."
He slashed a line through the circle.
"So you don't surround the church."
Malcolm's brow furrowed. "Then what do we do?"
"You isolate it," Kyle said. "Spiritually. Logistically. Conceptually."
The Bishop scoffed. "You propose we abandon the sanctified ground?"
"No," Kyle replied. "We poison it."
He tapped the chalk against the table. Once. Twice.
"Faith empowers gods," Kyle said. "Doubt starves them."
The room stilled.
"You evacuate the civilians before the ritual window," Kyle continued. "Quietly. Fire hazard. Gas leak. Plague rumor—pick your poison. No deaths. No martyrs."
"And the cultists?" Malcolm asked.
"They stay," Kyle said. "They have to. They're bound by the rite."
The Bishop leaned forward. "And the Fallen God?"
Kyle finally looked at him directly.
"You don't let him finish being born," Kyle said. "We don't need him fully empowered. We only need him trapped—not juiced up."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"You don't shoot," Kyle continued. "You don't spill blood. You don't create corpses. You cut anchors."
He drew symbols now—old ones. Not Christian. Not clean.
"Every god manifests through rules," Kyle said. "Names. Symbols. Witnesses. The moment he starts forming, he needs observers to believe he exists."
Malcolm's eyes widened slightly. "So if there are no witnesses…"
"He collapses," Kyle finished. "Half-formed. Like a stillborn idea."
The Bishop's hands trembled. "That borders on heresy… but damn it, that's a clever idea."
Kyle shrugged. "Yeah. And losing does us no good. We lose our people—and they have families."
He flipped the chalk and pointed it at Malcolm.
"You send three teams. No snipers. No guns unless it's a last resort."
"Team One," Kyle said, marking the floor plan, "cuts power, bells, and sound. No chanting leaves the building."
"Team Two," another mark, "goes underground. You destroy the buried sigils. The ritual fails structurally."
"And Team Three?" Malcolm asked quietly.
Kyle's smile returned.
"That's me."
The Bishop shot to his feet. "Absolutely not."
Kyle turned slowly.
"You brought me here because your prayers didn't work," he said. "Because your men died. Because your God stayed silent."
He leaned in, voice low.
"Now you can either trust the heretic… or feed a Fallen God."
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
Finally, Malcolm exhaled.
"…If this fails," he said, "we lose everything."
Kyle nodded. "Yeah. Oh—and one more thing."
Every eye in the room snapped back to him.
"You want to mobilize the believers," Kyle said, turning slowly. "Not kill them. Not scare them. Neutralize them—and the church ground itself. Water helps. Holy water helps more."
The Bishop scoffed. "With what? We don't possess enough holy water to—"
"Exactly," Kyle cut in. "You don't."
He walked back to the table and took the chalk again.
"You think holiness is about purity," he said. "It's not. It's about recognition."
He drew a large cistern beneath the church.
"Holy water works because believers believe it works," Kyle continued. "Dilution doesn't weaken it—denial does."
The Bishop opened his mouth.
Kyle didn't let him speak.
"You mix consecrated water with ordinary water. One drop is enough. Belief propagates. You flood the underfloor lines, the fonts, the pipes. Every surface becomes 'holy' by association—enough that the Fallen God's power becomes inefficient against us, and we can capture it."
Malcolm's eyes sharpened. "But water won't be enough. It won't immobilize them."
Kyle nodded. "Low voltage. Wide spread. An electric current before we enter. It electrifies the stone and locks them down."
He tapped the chalk twice.
"Salt content in holy water is already higher. You increase conductivity. Run current through the flooded stone—nothing lethal. Nothing that burns."
He met Malcolm's gaze.
"Just enough to lock muscles. Induce tetany. They won't be able to stand. No blood. No deaths. No sacrifice."
The Bishop's face had gone pale.
Kyle underlined the diagram.
"Believers collapse. Conscious. Alive. Unable to move. Chanting stops. Witnesses become frozen observers."
Malcolm exhaled slowly. "And the ritual?"
"Starves," Kyle said simply. "Faith without motion. Prayer without voice. A god without momentum."
He stepped back.
"While they're down," Kyle continued, "Team Three enters."
The room felt colder.
"What about resistance?" Malcolm asked.
Kyle smiled again—sharp this time.
"They won't fight," he said. "They'll be too busy trying to understand what happened. Team Three brings extra men—we evacuate cultists fast, before they try anything strange."
Silence.
Then, quietly, Malcolm nodded.
"…Prepare the teams."
The Bishop sank back into his chair, hands shaking.
Kyle turned once more toward the doors.
"Oh—and old man?"
"Yes?"
"Tell your men not to panic when they see people praying on the floor," Kyle said. "They're not dying."
He paused.
"They're being disappointed."
The cathedral bells rang again.
Closer now.
Kyle looked toward the doors.
"But if it works," he said softly, "history forgets there was ever a god here at all."
The bells outside began to ring.
Not in warning.
In countdown.