Chapter 23 — A World Without Prayers
Victoria did not know what frightened her more—
The silence…
Or the noise.
The city roared around her.
Metal beasts sped across black stone roads, their glass eyes glowing. Towers of silver and crystal pierced the sky, reflecting sunlight instead of stained glass.
No church bells.
No hymns.
No kneeling crowds.
No one bowed.
She stood there in her torn white gown, stiff with dried blood, hair tangled, feet raw. People brushed past her as if she were invisible.
Invisible.
The word felt strange.
In the Holy Region Kingdom, she could never disappear. She was watched, guarded, judged—every breath recorded in the name of "holiness."
Here?
She was just another stranger.
A group of young people passed her, laughing. One of them glanced at her.
"Is she filming something?"
"Maybe it's cosplay."
"She looks crazy…"
Victoria lowered her eyes, expecting shame to crush her.
It didn't.
For the first time, whispers carried no weight. No doctrine followed them. No punishment waited behind them.
She was free to be misunderstood.
The Moving World
A loud horn blared, and she flinched violently as a sleek vehicle stopped inches from her.
The driver leaned out.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!"
Victoria stumbled back, heart racing. The machine smelled of smoke and oil.
No horses.
No magic circles.
How does it move…?
She turned slowly, overwhelmed. Giant glowing screens clung to buildings, flashing images of smiling faces, food she didn't recognize, numbers counting upward endlessly.
A woman nearby pressed a glowing rectangle to her ear and spoke.
"Yes, I'm on my way."
Victoria froze.
She's talking… to no one.
She scanned the sky, expecting angels.
Nothing.
This world ran on something else.
Not prayer.
Not faith.
Knowledge.
Hunger
Her stomach growled painfully.
She hadn't eaten properly in days.
In the Holy Region, food had always been placed before her. Blessed. Measured. Offered as tribute.
Now she stood outside a building that smelled warm and sweet. Through the glass, she saw people laughing over plates piled high.
Her hands trembled.
She stepped inside.
The noise intensified—music, chatter, clinking dishes.
A young worker approached her cautiously.
"Miss… are you okay?"
Victoria opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
How do normal people speak?
"I…" Her voice cracked. "I would like… bread."
The worker blinked. "Uh… sure."
A few minutes later, warm bread was placed into her hands.
She stared at it.
No prayer.
No blessing.
No holy ritual.
Just bread.
She took a bite.
And burst into tears.
It tasted like freedom.
A Name Without a Title
"Miss, do you need help?" the worker asked gently.
Victoria hesitated.
For years, her name had not belonged to her.
Saint Victoria.
Holy Vessel.
Chosen One.
She swallowed.
"…Victoria," she said softly.
Just Victoria.
The worker smiled. "Nice to meet you."
Nice to meet you.
No kneeling.
No reverence.
No chains hidden inside politeness.
Her chest hurt.
If Max were here…
She imagined him awkwardly standing beside her, confused by the machines, suspicious of everyone. She imagined laughing at his serious expression.
"We'd find work," she whispered to herself.
Maybe cleaning. Maybe carrying boxes. Something simple.
They would rent a small place.
Two cups on a table.
Children.
Growing old.
No gods.
No blood.
Just life.
The Pull
As the sun began to set, the city lights flickered on like artificial stars.
Victoria stepped back outside, holding the small paper bag of leftover bread.
And then—
Her heart skipped.
A warmth spread through her chest.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"…Max?"
She turned instinctively, scanning rooftops, crowds, shadows.
He wasn't there.
But something in the air had changed.
The world felt… thinner.
As if something powerful had just entered the same layer of existence.
Victoria hugged herself, smiling through tears.
"I'm alive," she whispered.
And somewhere beyond sight—
Something ancient
had begun
moving toward her.