As night fell, after one final, fervent coupling, the exhausted catgirl, marked with passion's traces, fell asleep. Truman watched quietly as her form dissolved into the air, just as she'd appeared.
He felt little attachment, already anticipating the next creature's race, drifting into sleep with lurid fantasies.
The next day, Truman resumed his routine of prayer at the church. Gazing at the white building, so out of place among the slum's decay, the surreal reality of this world lingered in his mind.
The Middle Kingdom relied on native cultivation methods. Four centuries ago, during the great cataclysm, powerful figures rose, unearthing ancient Taoist arts, ascending through the five supernatural tiers, even rivaling mythical beings. This allowed them to establish the Demon Suppression Division, safeguarding the people.
The church, however, wasn't a product of the Middle Kingdom but of the Federal Nation from the former North American continent. There, humans didn't carve their path alone but followed divine revelations, founding the Cross Church. They waged crusades to reclaim lost lands, and four hundred years later, their war with abyssal demons raged on, growing fiercer. Fifty years ago, a cataclysmic event saw mythical beings perish together.
That day, storms swept half the continent, blood rained from the sky, and the earth split, claiming countless demons and church warriors.
Now, the church's crusades had scaled back, but their need for faith grew. They crossed oceans to proselytize in the Middle Kingdom, humbling themselves to pay slum-dwellers for prayers to bolster their waning strength.
That was how Truman earned his keep.
With Charlotte gone, he slept soundly, focusing better during prayers without dozing off.
Amid the mix of devout and half-hearted prayers around him, Truman pondered how to gather materials for his next summon.
Previous rituals had drained his savings and required scavenging. He'd survived on plain porridge for ages. Now, he had some secondary materials but lacked the main catalyst—the priciest and hardest to obtain.
"So, no money, no women, huh?"
As he mused, Father Smith strutted by, visibly surprised to see Truman alert for once.
Smith was a fanatic, the kind who'd leave the Federation to preach in a foreign land. He despised these slum-dwellers who prayed for coin. To him, the chance to worship the one true god should've been thanks enough—they dared demand payment?
If not for the church's higher-ups, he'd never let these wretches set foot in his sacred sanctuary.
Just as Father Smith prepared to lecture Truman further, something felt off. He turned to a middle-aged woman at his side.
Her face was pallid, her frame gaunt from chronic malnutrition. Beside her stood a boy, equally frail, his expression vacant and dull.
"Why aren't you praying?" the priest demanded, his stern tone laced with suspicion. He hadn't heard a sound from her during his rounds.
Praying for coin was already his limit of tolerance, but he couldn't abide someone slacking during sacred prayer.
The woman opened her mouth, managing only a few hoarse syllables, her weakened state rendering her nearly mute.
Father Smith's once-mild expression darkened. Glancing at the dim-witted child beside her, he said coldly, "If that's the case, madam, please leave. There's no need to waste the Lord's grace."
"No… please, sir… we survive on prayer coins…"
Her voice was barely audible, a raspy whisper pushed to its limit by desperation.
"Madam, are you saying you pray not for devout faith but for mere coins?"
His sanctimonious yet cruel words struck her, draining what little color remained in her face.
Father Smith tolerated Truman's laxity because his youthful vigor produced more faith than the frail or elderly. But this worthless mother and child? He had no patience for them. He reached to expel them from the pristine hall.
The church erupted in chaos—her pleas, the child's wails, the priest's rebukes, the rustle of fabric, and the whispers of onlookers.
Only when Father Smith's commanding voice rang out again did the hall restore its prayerful order.
Truman had fumbled through the commotion, but for a different reason. Clutched in his right hand was a small platinum cross, pilfered from the priest's robe during the chaos. Its holy radiance made it a perfect catalyst for his summoning ritual.
The tedious day of prayer ended. Father Smith, clearly embarrassed, distributed the coin pouches and left hastily.
At the church's entrance, Truman spotted the destitute mother and child still begging the guards, their eyes brimming with despair. He sighed, plucked two coins from his pouch with two fingers, and tossed them to the woman.
Payment for helping me today, he thought, not lingering to see her reaction before turning to leave.
A week passed in a blink. The mother and child never returned, but everything else remained unchanged—except for the eager anticipation swelling in Truman's heart.
The journey home was rough. After dodging a few pesky pickpockets, the long-looming storm finally broke, as if heralding an extraordinary night.
Soaked to the bone, Truman reached his dilapidated shack. The dreary room and dripping clothes couldn't douse his burning excitement.
"Finally, it's time. Waiting this long nearly killed me."
Without a moment's hesitation, he locked the door and sat on the floor, beginning the summoning preparations.
He unrolled the parchment scroll, set out the gathered materials, and used gray scale powder to trace a crude summoning array. Unlike the Middle Kingdom's grand Taoist formations, it resembled the arcane, metallic elegance of the Alliance's alchemy.
The torrential rain wasn't confined to this land. Across the ocean, sheets of water fell like a curtain before a grand performance, cleansing the earth of its sins.
Countless demons had been slain there, their numbers enough to fill abyss after abyss. The expeditionary legions, too, left behind mountains of bones, their tombstones capable of crowding ten holy cities.
This was a realm of blood and death, where humans and demons fought mercilessly for faith and desire until their last breath.
On this storied continent stood a radiant holy city, a natural counterpoint to the despairing abyss. Perched atop a lofty peak, it shimmered with divine serenity, bathed in the Lord's light—a wellspring of faith, a shore of dreams. Its streets, paved with silver and gold, echoed with ceaseless prayers, while holy water flowed through its heart. It was no exaggeration to call it paradise on earth.
At that moment, in the city's highest square, St. Peter's Plaza, a solemn chant rose, accompanied by sacred hymns. White petals drifted from the heavens. They were holding their most sacred ritual.
This ceremony held the fate of the Federation—perhaps the world—shaping humanity's future.