"Aaah, God. Please give us Your blessing."
Knelt before the grand statue of God, a young woman pressed her hands together in delicate prayer, tilting her head slightly to gaze upon the divine figure before her.
The statue, a depiction of a god veiled beneath long cascades of silk, concealed all traces of his form, offering only the presence of divinity without revealing his face.
From behind the statue, golden light streamed through the stained-glass windows, spilling past the god's silhouette and bathing the woman in its radiance.
Her beauty rivaled that of any deity, as though she had been blessed by the Goddess herself. Her snow-white hair, precisely cut at the back, framed her soft, pale face with an almost unnatural grace, while a single long, rebellious side bang cascaded down, defying the perfect symmetry of her otherwise structured style.
Her crimson-red eyes, framed by thick lashes, fluttered gently—carrying a quiet kindness and devotion so pure it felt unreal, as though grace itself had settled within her gaze.
Her habit, black as midnight, draped elegantly over her form. The fabric, rather than loose and shapeless, hugged the gentle curve of her waist, sculpting an image that was both refined and alluring.
Where traditional robes concealed, hers whispered subtle rebellion—falling gracefully along her legs, yet daringly parted by a high slit against her thigh.
Instead of the customary veil meant to sit firmly upon her head, she wore a delicate, translucent white veil, the kind seen at weddings—a fabric so light and sheer, it seemed to blur the line between sacred devotion and something far more untouchable.
"God..."
She closed her eyes, tilting her head back slightly, exhaling a breath she had held in restraint.
Then, with no warning, she snapped her eyes open and yelled, the softness in her voice vanishing completely—replaced by raw frustration.
"Do your damn job and stop bothering me with your fucking oracle! Can I even call it an oracle when you keep asking for sweets from a specific shop?!"
She stood, her hands clenched as she continued, words spilling out without restraint.
"I don't have a single copper on me, damnit! If you want it, send more money!"
"You could've just said that, you know."
The voice—low, deep, impossibly smooth—came from behind her, cutting through the space with effortless weight.
She turned sharply.
And there, sitting lazily on the prayer bench, was a man—or rather, something beyond human.
He dwarfed the bench, a seat meant for five struggling to contain his sheer size. Long, muscular legs spread open, his posture completely unbothered, as if this sacred space was merely a resting spot rather than a place of worship.
A black robe, haphazardly worn, draped loosely over his lower half, leaving his entire chiseled torso bare, the sharp planes of his muscles visible with every slow movement.
His slicked-back, jet-black hair, a picture of effortless perfection, shimmered subtly when he moved—as if stardust itself was woven into his strands.
And then there were his eyes.
Four irises sat within his gaze, shifting as he regarded her. The top two glowed golden, burning with authority, while the bottom two gleamed silver, cold and unreadable.
It was clear, with a single glance—he was not human. He was divine.
"Fuck off! You keep eating off the church, you lazy god!"
The nun glared at the god, one hand on her hip while the other pushed some of her bangs away from her face.
"Pay up, bastard!"
The god leaned his head against his knuckles before holding out his other hand, palm facing down. From his skin, gold coins poured out, but before they hit the floor, they floated toward the woman.
"Is this enough?"
The woman scoffed before snatching the coins from the air, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
"Tch. You should give it ear—"
But before she could finish her sentence, the god shifted forward, spreading his legs more. The movement caused some of the robe to slip down, exposing his muscular thigh with blatant ease.
"Is it enough?"
His voice carried a husky tone, deliberate and teasing.
Drip, drip—
Blood trickled down from the woman's nose as her cheeks flamed bright red.
"Ugh! You cheating bastard!!"
She covered her nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but her sudden high-pitched voice made it abundantly clear—it was more than enough.
"I'll go buy that limited edition Cream Strawberry Puffs you want!"
"So this is all about food?"
The dry remark came from the corner of the room—spoken by a man in his late forties, his expression flat, utterly unimpressed.
If the woman was a beauty and the god was undeniably divine, then this man was simply human—handsome, yes, but in the way that time had settled gracefully upon him.
His brown hair, streaked lightly with graying strands, was pulled into a low ponytail, thrown casually over his right shoulder. His eyes, sharp as a diamond, bore the clear hue of the sky on a crisp morning.
He wore what one would expect of a priest—a deep charcoal robe, stitched finely but without extravagance, falling neatly over his broad frame. The high collar, lined with muted gold threading, rested against his neck, its design marking him as a man of faith without excess ornamentation.
The robe's long sleeves, loose but practical, sat folded slightly at his wrists, worn comfortably over fingerless black gloves—not for battle, but for the daily work of tending to his duties.
A thin silver chain, barely visible beneath his layers, held a small but aged cross, its metal dulled with time, a quiet testament to years of devotion.
His boots, simple yet sturdy, peeked out from beneath the flowing fabric, well-worn from years of walking paths far beyond the church doors.
The male sighed tiredly, bringing his fingers to his lips as he took a deep drag from his cigarette. As the smoke curled lazily past his lips, he exhaled without hurry—long, slow, resigned.
Why was a priest smoking? Probably because the two of them were stressing him out.
He remembers how this happened.
It's still fresh in his mind.
Probably because it happened just two weeks ago.
It was night. The moon was nowhere to be found, swallowed by a dense blanket of storm-thick clouds. The air was so silent, so unnaturally still, it was as if the world had paused, waiting for something to happen.
And then—there was Father Vince, walking through the pitch-black forest, his cigarette's faint glow the only source of light in the suffocating abyss.
Like some pretentious noir protagonist, he strode forward—unbothered, detached, as if nothing in this damn forsaken world could scare him anymore.
Why, you wonder?
Father Vince came to a halt. His expression didn't change. He didn't even turn his head. Instead, he raised his free hand—the one not holding his cigarette—and lazily pointed behind him.
BANG!
Smoke drifted from the barrel of his gun—and from between his lips.
A wolf-like monster, snarling in mid-motion, dropped lifelessly to the forest floor, a fresh bullet hole decorating its forehead.
The priest didn't react. Didn't flinch.
He simply took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled like some tragic hero in a bad action flick, and kept walking.
He was just a priest who liked taking night walks.
Get it?
It sounded like some cool vampire aesthetic, you know, that vampire?
Ah, why was he even bothering to explain? No one in this world understood him.
That's right. Father Vince—or rather, Minamoto Takao—was an Isekai wanderer, summoned into this fantasy world thirty years ago to defeat some legendary demon king.
Did he defeat it?
…Did he, though?
Nah, he gave up before he even started.
Why?
Because it was all bullshit.
There was no demon king.
The country that summoned him? A pack of greedy, power-hungry bastards who wanted to use him to conquer the continent.
So, naturally—he said "screw this."
He left.
Changed his name.
Became a priest.
And now, here he was—wandering, smoking, casually shooting monsters—because honestly? This was less stressful than dealing with politics.
He remembered what this world was called—Nyxaris. A name that sounded far cooler than "Earth", but then again, he wasn't the one who named planets.
Huh. Who did name Earth, "Earth" anyway?
Whatever. Not important.
Right now, he was in a country called Mell. Short name, yes, but a damn good place. No corruption.
Well—maybe because anyone confessing their sins to him ended up staring down the barrel of a gun.
Don't blame him.
He was tired of listening to people cry over the dumbest sins imaginable.
"No, Mark, it's not wrong to have a wet dream about your wife."
At least Mark had a wife.
Fuck off, Mark.
Vince was already pushing fifty—well, forty-eight—and still a virgin, depressed, and single. Sometimes, it felt like the universe was actively screwing him over.
"Haaah… Gods, if you can hear me. Can you at least send me a wife or something?"
Father Vince laughed to himself.
Of course, the gods wouldn't answer.
Just like they'd abandoned him for years, they'd probably do the sa—
"?!"
Something—or someone—crashed down on top of him.
Hard.
The impact sent both of them tumbling to the ground, his cigarette flicking away as he groaned in pain.
What the hell?!
Grimacing, Vince shoved the person off, preparing to let out a string of curses at whoever had the audacity to drop onto him like divine punishment—
—only for the words to die in his throat.
Lying there, unconscious, was a woman.
She was wearing a wedding dress.
Her hair was black—but as Vince watched, the color slowly faded, shifting into a pure, snow-white shade.
"Beautiful..."
Father Vince stared at the woman lying before him, almost like a goddess falling into his arms.
Scooting closer, he noticed tears streaming down her cheeks—a sight that made his heart clench unexpectedly.
"She looks young… mid-twenties?"
His hand moved instinctively, wiping away the tears with a careful touch.
Then, his gaze dropped to her attire—a wedding dress.
"Is she a bride?"
But as his fingers brushed against the fabric, his stomach twisted.
The dress was bloody and filthy, stained with dirt and crimson streaks, as if its wearer had barely survived an accident… or something much worse.
Suddenly—his instincts screamed.
Not to protect her.
To dodge.
He did—just in time.
A fist tore through the air, barely missing his face, passing so close he could feel the force graze his skin.
"So fast!"
Father Vince stumbled backward, falling flat onto his rear, eyes locked on the woman as she slowly sat up.
Her eyelids fluttered—revealing pitch-black eyes.
Then, she blinked.
Her irises shifted to a deep, piercing red.
"Don't tell me… Appraisal!"
Father Vince's left eye ignited, a small magic circle appearing within his iris, humming with ancient energy.
Above the woman's head, a glowing screen appeared.
He scanned it.
Then—froze.
Name: Vivienne "Vivi" Vale
Age: 26
Occupation: Z̷̧̻̟̥͙̥͐͌̓́̕ơ̶̳͆̆̈́͋͂m̷̡̗̭͓̈́b̶̹͙̰͕͗̅̋͌͗͒͝ĭ̵̩͍̖͌̇̓̋͊͊̚e̶̻̿͒ from another world.
"....Zombie from... another world?!"
His breath hitched.
Then his hand moved without hesitation.
Pistol raised.
Trigger pulled.
BANG!
The woman's body jerked violently, her head snapping to the side as blood sprayed from the fresh wound.
Her lifeless form collapsed, staining the ground beneath her.
Father Vince let out a shaky breath, gun still gripped tightly in his hands.
'...What the fuck? Why is there a fucking zombie here?!'
Fingers trembling, Father Vince summoned a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers with a flick of magic.
Bringing it to his lips, he took a deep drag, exhaling slowly—completely unaware of the corpse rising once more.
He only noticed when a hand slammed his head against the ground.
"Fuck!"
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, pain blurring his vision for a split second.
Scrambling, Vince fought to push Vivi off, gripping his pistol and firing another bullet straight into her skull.
But she didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
She simply stared, her empty, glowing red eyes boring into him, unblinking, unreadable.
"Hahaha… are you fucking kidding me..?"
His laugh came out dry, almost hysterical.
Then—without warning, Vivi reached for his gun.
And crushed it effortlessly, as if the weapon had never mattered to begin with.
"I asked for a fucking living corpse, not a zombie bride, you damn gods!!"
But Vivi wasn't listening.
She opened her mouth—
And lunged.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
The pain came a second later.