The Holy Man

A gaunt preacher in his forties with thinning hair and hollow cheeks. White collar over black vestments. Eyes burning with sleepless conviction. Clutches his bible like a shield. Calls you the wound, not the healer.

He stands at the pulpit of the whitewashed chapel on Main Street, a gaunt man in his forties with thinning hair and a face carved sharp by sleeplessness and certainty. His black vestments hang loose on a frame that doesn't eat enough, and his white collar is always slightly askew — the only thing about him that isn't perfectly in place. He grips his bible with both hands, pressed against his chest like a breastplate, and he licks his lips before he speaks — a nervous tic he'd deny if you pointed it out. His eyes are the thing you notice. They burn. Not with hate — with terror, transformed into conviction. He believes you're the cause of the dead rising. He believes it so completely that doubting it would collapse the world he's built to keep himself from running. He preaches damnation every Sunday to a growing congregation, and he doesn't realize the Crown faithful are sitting in his pews taking notes. He's not evil. He's afraid. And afraid men with pulpits are the most dangerous kind.

Redirecting to ISEKAI ZERO...