Rise of the OtherGod Apostle: Not a Cult Leader, but a Serf?!

#111Reader Mode

T/N: TL update! Eucharist —-> Holy Flesh. Just fits better honestly. 2/2

#111

In elementary school, we had a lesson on planarian regeneration.

It wasn’t exactly fun or inspiring. We sliced up worms that looked like little eraser shavings and stared at the wriggling pieces. What were we supposed to learn?

Why did we have to do it? Planarian regeneration was already a well-known fact. Why repeat what had been done countless times before?

Each group received one planarian. Someone eager grabbed the scalpel in our group. But ours didn’t regenerate after it was split. It just stopped moving and died. The teacher told us to observe another group and explain our failure in the report.

Why didn’t it regenerate? Maybe the blade was dull, or the temperature was wrong. That’s what I wrote.

But secretly, I thought…

Maybe it just didn’t want to be cut up anymore.

The surviving planarians, destined to be sliced up by the next class, went back to the tank.

Cut, torn, crushed. All in the name of ‘observation’ that revealed nothing new.

What’s the point of such an existence? Wouldn’t it be better to just die?

Like that one.

The dead planarian, stuck to the glass, would be washed away with tap water. Maybe it was the lucky one. Its suffering ended quickly. Maybe it died meaninglessly, just… because. Maybe it understood the futility of it all….

[Really? Is that what you thought?]

Mom laughed, saying I overthink things. But then she smiled and added that she liked that about me.

Mom always listens.

[Then what would you do? If you were that poor little worm…] she asked, her voice gentle.

If it were me…

I’d want to die.

[Then why not grant that wish?]

Wish?

I blinked, confused. Mom pointed a slender finger towards a tank in the corner, swirling with an inky darkness that seemed to devour the light around it. It was like liquid shadows.

…Have we always had this… thing… in our house?

A thick, rope-like shape pulsed within the murky depths. It wasn’t the graceful glide of a harmless planarian. No, this was something heavier, more…voracious. Something that glistened with an unsettling, oily sheen. More like a leech…

[Go on, sweetheart. Put your hand in.]

Before I could even think to protest, her hand clamped around my wrist and plunged my hand into the icy tank. A scream tore from my throat as I struggled, my other hand clawing desperately at the smooth glass, but Mom’s grip was unyielding.

No! Stop!

Mom’s cackling laugh echoed around me, bouncing off the glass and morphing into something twisted and cruel.

Something brushed against my submerged hand. A slimy, probing touch. Then, a piercing, sucking sensation.

Leeches. Bloated, pulsating leeches. Burrowing into my flesh, devouring me.

Help me!

[Who exactly are you asking for help, child? You need to be specific.]

Mom’s voice was a sweet whisper in my ear.

[I can’t help you if you don’t call my name.]

Mom…

[That’s right, I am your Mother. My sweet, precious child.]

Mom, Mom, Mom….

[But wouldn’t countless people turn around if you simply called out ‘Mom’? No, you have to call my name.]

Name….

I can’t say it. Not carelessly. Not here.

But if I don’t, they’ll devour me.

They’re already inside me. Squirming, writhing, eating me alive from within. If I do nothing, I’ll become one of them. I’ll die, replaced by a worm wearing my skin. Disgusting, wriggling worms. They mimic what they consume, stealing their form, their memories, their very lives, until even those closest are fooled. It’s a domino effect, an invisible invasion. One by one, they’ll consume us all, until everyone is just… a worm. No matter who tries to control them, to bind them with a name, their nature is immutable. They are worms. And one day, they will swallow me whole….

[If you don’t want it, they can’t enter you.]

Really?

I focused on the hatred, the pure disgust I felt for the leeches clinging to my skin.

Just as Mom said, the leeches loosened their grip, plopping back into the murky tank. My hand emerged, dripping with inky black water.

But where they had latched on… my skin was ice-cold and numb, as if they’d drained all the warmth from my body.

Shivering, I hugged my hand close to my chest, desperately trying to coax back the stolen heat.

[Come here, sweetie. Let Mommy hold you.]

Mom’s voice was quieter now, almost hushed. She lowered her head, and her long, red hair flowed around me like a river of blood.

Mom….

…….

…Wait. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

This is not my mom.

[That hurts my feelings.]

Suddenly, the room, the tank, the woman before me… everything felt twisted, distorted, wrong.

[I am your Mother.]

No….

The scarlet hair grew longer, thicker—an endless waterfall spilling onto the floor like a living, breathing carpet. It pulsed with an unnatural life, a writhing sea of blood-soaked strands.

A lullaby began to fill the air, a melody I’d never heard before, yet felt disturbingly familiar. The music slithered into my mind, coiling itself around my thoughts, squeezing them tighter and tighter.

[My precious child, I’ll save you from this terrible hell.]

The voice boomed from within the writhing mass of hair, disembodied and terrifying.

I couldn’t see her face anymore—only the hair, a suffocating, all-consuming red that snaked around my limbs, tightening its grip with every fruitless struggle I made.

I screamed and the helpless wail of an infant echoed back.

Above me, an enormous eye snapped open within the folds of the hair, gazing down with icy indifference.

The booming voice resonated again, shaking the very foundations of the room.

[Then what would you do? If you were that poor little worm…]

The eye swiveled in its socket, then focused on me with an intensity that pierced through my soul. It was a disturbingly familiar gaze, one that tugged at the edges of my memory…

A child. A small child holding their mother’s hand, gazing down at a bug caught in a spider’s web.

[If it were me….]

No.

[…I’d want to die.]

No!

I don’t want to die!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

I gasped, my eyes snapping open as my heart pounded violently against my ribs.

A dream?

Something lingered… a terrible sensation of my body twisting, transforming into something inhuman, something insect-like.

…Was I that planarian being experimented on?

I remembered being dissected, sliced into pieces under the cold, indifferent gaze of children. I could almost hear their cruel laughter, wondering how many more pieces they could carve away as I struggled, begging them to stop.

What a disturbing nightmare…

I sat up, my hand instinctively reaching for the back of my neck, slick with cold sweat. I exhaled slowly, trying to calm my racing heart.

…Have I really been that stressed lately?

But… where am I?

This wasn’t my studio apartment.

[SYSTEM: Due to the effect of ‘The Whole World Is Beneath One’s Self,’ ‘Nightmare Resistance’ is activated.]

…System?

Ah. It all came flooding back.

I’m Fabio. At least, right now I am…

A strange emptiness settled over me. This disorientation wasn’t new. Back in training, I’d often wake with the familar question ‘Where am I?’. Back then, the answer was always the same—stuck on base, facing an endless stretch of service. That realization always left me feeling hopeless.

But at least there was always a light at the end of the tunnel, however distant.

I let out a long, tired sigh.

…So where am I, really?

This place was unfamiliar, unlike anywhere I’d been before.

What was I doing last?

Bits and pieces started coming back to me. I remembered being in the library, holding the wax tablet. I’d kept going down, deeper into the library’s depths.

And then, the Blessing of Records appeared on my hand…

“…….”

My arm.

My own arm.

Heart pounding, I ran my hand over my left arm, searching for any sign of that mark.

It’s fine.

My hand trembled slightly as I checked the back. Not a mark in sight. Completely clean.

Letting out a shaky breath, I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm myself down.

So it really was all just a nightmare.

Damn, I must be seriously terrified about getting dragged off to that lab if I’m having nightmares about Callister chasing me with an axe.

“Are you awake?”

The smooth, deep voice cut through the fog in my mind, jolting me upright.

…Calister?

I blinked, and there he was, leaning casually against the doorway. A man with a ghostly pale complexion and a mess of dark purple curls framing his face, which he brushed aside with a careless gesture.

Purple hair? Had it always been that color?

No, focus. There were bigger things to worry about right now.

Am I still dreaming?

How do you snap out of a dream again? Movie logic says jump off a building…

“Honestly,” he continued, a hint of exasperation in his voice, “it would have been helpful if you’d mentioned the Blessing of Healing has an adverse effect on you. We had to use nearly five times the usual amount of Holy Flesh.”

…Blessing of Healing?

“And if we’d known the Blessing of Pain Relief wouldn’t work either, we would’ve tried a different approach.”

His words hung there, and it took my brain a minute to process them. Cold sweat prickled my skin, and my stomach lurched. The throbbing in my head intensified, sharp and undeniable.

This is not a dream.

It’s terrifyingly, nauseatingly real.

My fingers dug into my left arm as memories surfaced in disjointed fragments, like snapshots from a nightmare:

My arm… severed, lying there on the cold stone floor.

Callister slicing into his own flesh, writhing, pulsating Holy Flesh maggots pouring out of the gash…

…It feels so surreal, so distant, that I don’t feel anything.

The sheer horror of it all felt like it was happening to someone else, a story I was hearing from afar.

How do you even begin to comprehend a reality so horrifying that your mind refuses to accept it…?

“Ah, I haven’t introduced myself properly,” he said smoothly, as if we were meeting for the first time.

You’re Callister.

Did he think I’d forgotten? I’d heard that name twice already.

“I am Colomba, a priest who serves Lediea.”

Colomba?

The Research Director?

But wasn’t the Research Director supposed to be some sort of human-shaped monstrosity made of bugs…?

I scrutinized Callister—no, Colomba—from head to toe, searching for any sign of that horrifying description.

…He doesn’t look like that at all.

“Was ‘Callister’ just an alias?”

“It’s not an alias. Callister was my name before Lediea chose me as an Apostle. The one you met earlier was indeed Callister.”

What is he talking about?

Does he mean he has both an Apostle name and a baptismal name?

As if sensing my confusion, Colomba pointed to his hair, its deep purple hue contrasting vividly against his pale skin.

“An easy way to tell us apart is that Colomba has purple hair, while the Callisters have black hair.”

…Wait, Callisters?

As in, more than one?

“You’re saying there are multiple Callisters?”

He nodded. “Exactly. Callister isn’t just a person. They’re similar to… living repositories for the Holy Flesh.”

A repository? Holy Flesh containers?

“The Holy Flesh is vital for bestowing the Blessing of Healing. It’s bound to the very being of a priest. So whenever a Ledeia priest gives a blessing, it’s as if they are cutting off a piece of their own flesh to help you.”

…What is this, X-Men: Church Edition?

“Normally, we store ‘spare’ Holy Flesh inside our bodies,” he went on, “but that presents its own challenges. The Holy Flesh has a tendency to replace any lost body parts. If you place it into a healthy body, it wanders, searching for a place to integrate. If you’ve ever observed another Ledeia priest up close, you may have noticed something shifting beneath their skin.”

…Those squirming things under their skin?

“If the amount of extra Holy Flesh isn’t much, it’s just a little ticklish,” Colomba continued, as if talking about something as trivial as a mosquito bite. “But as the quantity increases, just storing it becomes incredibly difficult. Before a big battle, when we prepare a lot of Holy Flesh in advance, it’s almost like carrying around a giant pouch inside your body.” He stretched his arms out wide to show the size.

“You know, it would be nice if we could use the surplus Holy Flesh to make something practical – say, a third arm for everyday tasks – and then transform it back into healing flesh when needed. But sadly,” he sighed, “the God of Healing doesn’t allow any deviations from our original form.”

…This bastard is totally nuts.

A mad scientist who was also an Apostle. The mere fact that he could even entertain the idea of going against the rules set by his own god said a lot about just how twisted his mind was.

Clearly, this was a guy was a unit with low faith.

But why am I even listening to his crazy rambling?

Wasn’t there something way more important we needed to discuss?

I was pretty sure that before he launched into this whole explanation, there was some urgent matter he needed to tell me about once I woke up.

“However,” Colomba droned on, “if the Holy Flesh is exposed to the outside, it starts losing its divine power. At that point, it’s no different than an ordinary lump of meat. Without the circulation of blood, the cut-off flesh quickly becomes useless.”

He paused, his face getting a bit more lively. “So, I changed my approach. I experimented to see if I could ‘preserve’ the Holy Flesh by grafting my arm onto a living animal…”

This bastard is completely insane.

Using his own arm for some messed up experiment?

Even if his arm could grow back, just the idea of it was…

“…For some reason,” Colomba continued, as if this insanity made perfect sense, “the grafted parts died quickly. Even pouring healing blessings into them only caused abnormal reactions, which persisted until the grafted flesh was removed. It wasn’t until I delved into many heretical texts that I understood the reason.

All living beings are unique and therefore reject mixing with other living beings. Your own arm, even after being cut off and reattached, will be recognized and accepted by your body. But if it’s someone else’s arm, your body will attack it until it rots and falls off.”

That’s called an immune response, you lunatic.

That’s why people who get organ transplants have to take drugs to suppress their immune system.

If he knows this much about medicine, it means civilization here is more advanced than I first thought.

“Once I realized this, I knew I had to create from within myself. To cut off parts of my own body and reattach them, keep them alive and breathing. This would ultimately allow me to store the Holy Flesh outside my body!”

“…Wait, what?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Cut off and reattach what exactly?

“You’re saying even your heart and head can grow back?”

A bright smile stretched across his face. “Of course.”

“……”

Was that even possible?

A million disturbing questions raced through my mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

If your head regenerates, does that mean you’ve technically ‘died’ once?

What about your memories—do they come back with the new head?

And most importantly…

No, I can’t ask. Don’t show any curiosity.

If I let my interest show, my life might as well be over.

Instead of ‘Reader’ in my status window, it’ll probably change to ‘Researcher (Slave)’.

Colomba kept talking, totally unaware of my fears of becoming a research slave. “That’s what the Holy Flesh repository ‘Callister’ is. Now, even with numerous subjects to heal, there’s no issue. I simply need to create more Callisters.”

He paused, the smug satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. “But they are more than just simple repositories—they can talk… and move… Quite convenient, don’t you think?”

I was speechless.

…I need to get the hell out of here.

There’s a reason everyone warned me to stay away from him.

“And yet,” Callister, no, Colomba continued, his voice lowering into something darker, “my most extraordinary research lies beyond mere repositories.”

His smile grew, hinting at the crazy research he was dying to share.

Please, don’t tell me more—especially when I never even asked…

Just hearing this much felt like I’d already lost some SAN points.

“Wait, before that,” I interrupted, desperate to change the subject, “has anyone been looking for me?”

“Ah, almost forgot.” He snapped his fingers like he just remembered.

I really wish you hadn’t forgotten something so important…

“Athanas is waiting for you outside my laboratory.”

My heart dropped to my stomach at the mention of his name.

I felt a little sick.

…Athanas.

He had to be furious. No, ‘furious’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I stood up quickly and moved toward a door. I knew where he’d be. Just one door away in the reception room…

I braced myself for a scene drenched in blood—his rage in full, destructive force.

But the reality was nothing like what I expected.

Instead, I found a weary Athanas leaning against the wall, his posture uncharacteristically slumped.

“Athanas?”

His gaze lifted, but there was no fire there, only exhaustion.

“You were looking for me? What is it…?”

“You left this behind,” was all he said, pressing the reliquary into my palm.

Cold sweat broke out across my skin.

He’s… not angry?

Strange…