"Sacrifice two low-level creatures to summon a higher-level one, or even create a fictional lifeform."
" *Scoff* I can do that too!"
"Underestimating me, huh? Promoting so-called fictional creations—it's just bio-synthesis. You are kidding; I am the true God of Fiction."
Ashur held a promotional flyer in his hand, one sent by Maya. In addition to the flyer, there were various pamphlets filled with differing opinions and perspectives on sacrifice.
It was obvious—the God of Sacrifice was dead set on claiming dominion over the faith in this world. Or rather, he had been steadily expanding his influence without ever stopping.
'Is it to ascend to the rank of Supreme God?'
The level of a Supreme God couldn't be reached through mere faith
'Good luck with that.'
While the God of Fiction's lecture was scheduled for tomorrow, tonight, Ashur had to attend the online promotional event.
"How's my new look?"
Previously, his appearance as the God of Confusion was that of a faceless god, draped in a white cloth, resembling those cliché ghost costumes in old children's stories—like someone wearing a bedsheet to cosplay a ghost. It was classic, albeit with a circle of hazy black shadows surrounding him to distinguish himself from the low-level grunt ghosts.
But that look belonged to the God of Confusion, not the God of Fiction.
The God of Confusion's avatar was an ancient relic from a bygone era. The effects were outdated—like something fished out from the bargain bin.
Since the Church of Fiction had no temple, no statues, no rules, and no decorations, from the pope down to the regular followers, they lived solely off their own imagination. In fact, despite Ashur having been around for over a week, not a single follower had asked what he actually looked like.
Ashur even overheard a wild theory: while the God of Fiction was indeed real, his appearance must be fictional, meaning he had no actual form. This way, they could avoid the costs of building and maintaining statues.
'Isn't that a bit disrespectful?'
'They aren't supposed to imagine my appearance out of thin air.'
So, Ashur decided that in tonight's online event, he would reveal his form, giving the world a clear image of what he truly looked like, instead of letting them fill in the gaps with their wild imaginations.
Of course, Ashur didn't mind changing appearances now and then—it opened up the possibility of a "sell skins" event in the future. It was also a kind of disguise. Most gods had a fixed appearance, rarely changing, but those who could alter their forms stood out as unique.
Take the Iron God, for instance. Not only could he shift into the form of the "difference engine man," but he could also transform into a carriage, a boiler, a mechanical arm, a crane, a ship, a lathe, or even an ancient mechanical city, a clockwork doll, or a gear dragon. He was basically a divine Transformer.
[Fiction is the product of artistic imagination.]
Ashur's appearance began to change. His features slowly emerged from behind the faceless veil of the God of Confusion. Though the facial details remained simplistic, a basic outline of his features took form. The cloth-like body transformed into a structure as hard as white marble.
Various fantastical elements started appearing on Ashur's body, reflecting the earliest forms of human artistic expression.
His marble body symbolized the ancient art of sculpture, representing the primal beauty and creativity of early aesthetics.
Around him, abstract patterns, like splashes of paint, began to materialize—deep blue, light red, snow white, pale yellow—symbolizing humanity's rudimentary appreciation of color and their early, clumsy attempts at art.
Ashur snapped his fingers, and these colors, like tiny stars, started to orbit around him, forming a dazzling effect. However, the stars were so small they looked more like colorful jellybeans.
A cloak made of white feathers draped over the marble body, symbolizing early human attempts to imitate birds in dance and adorn themselves with their feathers.
At his waist, a vertical flute appeared, representing one of the earliest known musical instruments.
Finally, a tall top hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his face. The top hat was a staple in theatrical and film productions post-Industrial Revolution—an iconic symbol.
Lastly, countless overlapping virtual lines appeared around Ashur, forming an outline identical to his marble figure, covering it like a second layer of clothing.
However, these lines lacked color or substance, making Ashur look like a living sketch. His movements appeared comical and distorted, like an unfinished animation.
[All the earliest forms of imagery are born from lines.]
The God of Fiction was now a sketchy figure draped in a white feathered cloak, with colorful jellybeans orbiting around him.
This was the final form of the God of Fiction.
"Something's missing." Ashur stretched out his hands, realizing they were empty.
A god should always be holding something; it gave the followers something to exalt as a divine artifact.
Quickly, lines began to sketch out, and in a flash, a classic white game controller appeared in Ashur's hands.
.
.
.
.
'Hah! It's finally Saturday. Church of Fiction must be busy for their online promotion. What did they say again?'
General Manager Litt remembered the instructions given by the folks at the Church of Fiction.
All he needed to do was sleep.
Since the experts insisted it would work, Litt looked at the clock, returned to his room, and closed his eyes.
*Snap*
Litt opened his eyes, but he wasn't waking up in his bed. Instead, he found himself in a blank space.
He was certain he hadn't fallen asleep yet.
Litt looked around, noticing rows of chairs. Some were already occupied by people curiously glancing around. Litt recognized many of them—important figures in the city cluster.
Big merchants, investors, politicians, church officials, factory owners, retail shopkeepers…
Then, he saw clerics from the War God Medical Church.
Priests from the Iron Church were present as well.
Even the Night Owls from the Pain Church.
And there, drifting like ghosts through the hall, were members of the Church of Impurity, wrapped head to toe in bandages like mummies, shrouded in white robes.
But there were also some noticeable absentees.
Litt looked around again but couldn't spot anyone from the Sacrifice Church.
"What is this place?"
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Litt. How are you?" A familiar voice called out, and Litt turned to see Professor Harley, already seated and clearly having been there for a while.
"Professor, you're here too? Is this...?"
Professor Harley's eyes gleamed with excitement. "That's right. This is the venue for the online promotional event. We made reservations in the real world, but we gather here in a dream."
"Incredible! But it doesn't feel like a dream... more like some kind of strange 'mental space.'"
"You're right. After all, the domain of dreams is governed by multiple gods, and usually, dreams influenced by them are filled with all sorts of bizarre, nonsensical scenes."
"But here, we've never been so clear-headed."