A processing plant of souls. They saw the "Gods"—beings of light with cold, empty eyes—drinking the refined essence. They saw the "Grace" that was sent back down. A grey, muddy sludge. The leftovers.
"That's not god," a loyalist guard whispered. He fell to his knees. "It's… it's a kitchen."
"It's a farm!" Xiaochen's voice thundered through the sky. "You are the wheat! Your lives are the harvest! Every prayer you say just seasons the meat!"
The woman in the temple sanctum was staring at the sky. Her golden wings flickered and died. She looked at the lotus. Then she looked at her own hands. A golden thread was rising from her chest, disappearing into the crystal.
"Is it… is it true?" she whispered.
"Ask the lotus," Xiaochen said. "It's currently eating your childhood memories."
She let
