He went through the motions of prayer, though it was nothing more than a formality without an ounce of reverence. After all, he was a god too, and when dealing with equals, prayer was merely a method of communication or spellcasting.
Despite his obsession with gaming, the God of Death hadn't forgotten the oddity he had noticed about the arcade machine from the very beginning.
The machine, while sporting the aesthetic beauty of gears and mechanics, was nothing more than a facade. The God of Death knew these mechanical parts served no real function.
It looked flashy, but how could something so superficial convert virtual value into real value?
Only the characters controlled by players could generate value, while other virtual entities, like the enemy aircraft in Thunderbolt, didn't produce any death value even when destroyed.
The God of Death had once thought that was because players projected a part of their soul into the game, thus generating real value through their actions. However, that theory was shattered when he saw a transformation mage turn into a pixelated character and run rampant through the game world.
That was an actual, enterable world!
"Real value from a fictional world."
"A world that truly exists, yet some deaths within it don't generate value."
"These two contradictory phenomena exist within the same system. Even I can't understand what's going on. What kind of power does the God of Fiction wield?"
The God of Death tried and failed to analyze the makeup of the arcade machine. He even attempted to forcibly extract the value from NPCs but couldn't get involved. He couldn't tell if those entities were truly dying without producing value or if they possessed value he simply couldn't touch.
If it were the former, that would be a big problem. If it were the latter, it would be an even bigger problem.
Steam gathered like condensation on the Iron God's statue, and from its chest, high-temperature vapor hissed out like steam.
The God of Death appeared as a handsome blond boy in a black top hat. Gods usually retained a fixed appearance to lock their image in the minds of mortals, preventing cases of mistaken worship.
The Iron God's appearance was particularly unique.
The statue was covered in gears, connecting rods, and mechanical parts, making it look like several dismantled difference engines forcefully reassembled into a humanoid form. In its chest was a small boiler, resembling an energy core.
This was just one of the Iron God's many forms, representing the "wisdom of machinery." In different worlds, the Iron God had various forms, each embodying a distinct aspect of its dominion over steel. To the God of Death, however, it was just a bizarre jumble of spare parts.
As the God of Death watched, the steam from the Iron God's statue enveloped the arcade machine. After a brief inspection, the vapor dissipated, and a rectangular slot on the statue's head spat out a slip of paper.
The paper fell into the God of Death's hand, and its contents made him frown.
"Although it appears simple, the rune combination originates from an unknown source. The symbols have been recorded, but the core operating logic cannot be deciphered. It does not align with any known authority. What has been decoded so far is nothing more than surface-level camouflage."
"You need to obtain more rune sets to attempt further decryption."
The God of Death's hopes of pirating the game were dashed.
If even the Iron God, the master of all machinery, couldn't crack the code of the game's core mechanics, then no other engineer in the Allworlds would be able to.
The God of Fiction's anti-piracy measures had defeated the combined efforts of the Iron God and the God of Death, delivering a devastating blow to the budding black market of pirated games.
"So even you can't figure it out? What a disgrace to your title as the Lord of Machinery."
The God of Death, of course, wasn't pleased with the result. Just then, the slot on the Iron God's statue spat out another slip of paper, larger this time.
"Machinery can construct all things known in the world. The fact that you've come to me shows you are powerless against this machine. And yet, since it is a mechanical creation, no matter how its logic operates, it will ultimately provide me with 'mechanical and operational value.'"
"Mechanical creations are meant to embody truth. Even if there are machines I don't understand, that's something I welcome. Because no matter how advanced, when a machine breaks down, all of its parts and operational logic will return to me."
"If you're unhappy with my analysis, let's settle it on Sunday at the Church of Fiction. One arcade machine, you pay."
The God of Death read the note in silence for a moment before murmuring to himself:
"So you play Fists of the Gods too."
No wonder the Iron Church had so easily approved the Church of Fiction's Sunday event and allowed them to run their promotional campaign.
New mechanical creations brought new power and value to the Iron God. The God of Death had just never expected that this guy had been bribed by the Church of Fiction, secretly playing games at his own church.
It seemed he had long since analyzed the machine's operating system.
The God of Death checked the time.
"Today's Saturday."
———
Finally, Saturday had arrived, and posters promoting the Sacrifice Church's event had started appearing everywhere.
The artwork on the carts, the display boards by the roadside, the newspapers held by newsboys, and the banners hanging in front of shops—all the characters had come to life, moving around and shouting to passersby.
This Sunday, the God of Sacrifice would descend upon the Sacrifice Church for a special sermon, addressing the issues of pollution and mental health in the world. He promised to provide solutions and make important announcements. Those who attended the Sacrifice Church would also receive small gifts personally crafted by the god.
This overwhelming bombardment of advertising quickly caught people's attention. However, since the Sacrifice Church wasn't a mainstream faith in the Gray World, most were simply curious rather than inclined to convert or pray at the church.
Some even grumbled impatiently:
"The God of Sacrifice, huh? Can he make my wages go up? Is he gonna teach me how to sacrifice my boss for a thousand gold coins?"
The idea of sacrificing a boss for a thousand gold coins was certainly appealing to the working class, but actually doing it would probably get you arrested. The Allworlds weren't lawless lands, after all—tread carefully.
"Sacrifice is supposed to be a virtue, right? But the God of Sacrifice only seems to care about 'offerings.' Honestly, his real name should be the God of Offerings and Bloodshed, not Sacrifice."
The ones saying such things were people who disliked the Sacrifice Church.
Yet, despite the criticism, there were still some compelling points in the church's promotional material that drew people in.
For example, while you couldn't sacrifice your boss to summon a thousand gold coins, you could, in fact, sacrifice two low-star monsters to summon an eight-star giant beast.