This is the story of how I became a cultist by accident and ended up serving an Evil God.

  And, naturally, it all started with my unreliable father.

  You see, Path Scrolls are rare. Expensive too. Especially the ones that lead anywhere other than the miserable Working Paths.

  Both my parents had one of those. Mother was a seamstress. Father a stone builder. Honest trades. Back-breaking ones.

  Like most parents, they wanted something better for their son. A Trade Path, maybe. If the gods were feeling generous, even an Administrative Path.

  Instead, my father decided to gamble on the black market.

  A brilliant plan.

  He was promised a good Path. The scroll even looked legitimate—fine parchment, silver ink, the usual ceremonial markings. But without an appraiser, all we really had was faith.

  Faith and my father’s terrible judgment.

  I’ll admit something, though.

  I agreed to it.

  Still, shouldn’t they have been the adults and ignored me? I wasn’t exactly in the best mental state to make life decisions.

  All my friends had already started on their Paths.

  Three years ago.

  For three years I had watched them move on with their lives while I remained Pathless, pretending I didn’t care while people whispered behind my back.

  Three years waiting for a miracle.

  And how else was a worker’s son supposed to climb the social ladder without one?

  So when the scroll appeared… I took the risk.

  I performed the ceremony. Pricked my finger. Let a drop of blood fall onto the parchment.

  Then came the surprise.

  No.

  The shock.

  The scroll revealed a Divine Path.

  But not a proper one, like Priest or Templar.

  No.

  My Path was Cultist.

  I stared at the glowing letters for a long time, convinced it had to be some kind of mistake.

  A bad joke.

  Shouldn’t unholy scrolls be black? Covered in ominous symbols? Maybe dripping with dark mist for dramatic effect?

  This one looked perfectly normal.

  If anything, it looked respectable.

  My only comfort was that I didn’t suddenly grow horns or start cackling maniacally. Physically, I still looked like the same unlucky idiot.

  Unfortunately, a Path isn’t something you can return for a refund.

  Once awakened, it becomes your life.

  And that was when the panic started.

  I looked around the room like a hunted animal, half expecting priests or peacekeepers to burst through the door.

  My chest tightened.

  Breathing suddenly became difficult.

  My legs felt weak.

  Fortunately, I was alone in the house.

  No witnesses to my spectacular collapse into quiet hysteria.

  Then the realization struck me with terrifying clarity.

  I wasn’t made for this.

  I couldn’t hide something like this. The priests would see right through me. They always did.

  Illegal Paths existed in town, of course.

  But those people lived like rats.

  Always hiding. Always running.

  Thugs, thieves, smugglers, assassins—people who grew up in alleys and gutters. Some of them even managed to build respectable covers for their crimes.

  But the ones who survived had experience. Training. Instinct.

  They had spent their entire lives learning how to survive in the shadows.

  I hadn’t.

  I wasn’t clever enough.

  Not cunning enough.

  Hard work? Sure, I could do that.

  Studying? Maybe, if I tried hard enough.

  But walking around town with an illegal Path while pretending everything was normal?

  That sounded like an excellent way to end up burned alive.

  Should I run away?

  For a moment, it seemed like the only option.

  But run where?

  The town was barely safe as it was. Outside the walls stretched wilderness filled with monsters, bandits, and worse.

  Even I knew that.

  My Path terrified me.

  According to the Great Guide, a Cultist was a servant of a Hidden God.

  Hidden didn’t necessarily mean evil… right?

  I tried very hard to believe that.

  Unfortunately, the Temples had a different opinion.

  For them, any god outside the Holy Five was automatically evil.

  Worshipping one was considered blasphemy.

  And blasphemers were burned on the pyre.

  The worst part was that I had no idea what abilities my Path would even give me.

  To obtain the first skill, I had to complete my First Trial, like everyone else.

  Mine was particularly disturbing.

  The trial required a sacrifice.

  Yes.

  A sacrifice.

  Apparently that was how my Path determined which Hidden God would claim me. The sacrifice would be judged, a matching deity selected, and then I would receive my first skill.

  Which naturally raised an important question.

  What kind of benevolent god demanded sacrifices?

  Exactly.

  I was no saint.

  But I was very far from being a murderer.

  My first idea was sacrificing a monster.

  That should count, right?

  The problem was obvious.

  I had no idea how to kill one.

  A Pathless person stood no chance against monsters, and although I technically had a Path now, I might as well still be Pathless until I completed the trial.

  I had heard stories of people with combat Paths slaying monsters during their first trial.

  But those people were trained.

  Armed.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Prepared.

  Perhaps if I had a proper weapon.

  Or someone helping me.

  In the end, sacrificing a monster wasn’t an option either.

  Regret began to creep into my thoughts.

  Why did I use the scroll?

  Why?

  I should have done what my friends did and taken a Working Path.

  All this misery because I got greedy.

  I collapsed onto my straw bed, ignoring for once how horribly uncomfortable it was.

  My world felt smaller.

  As if the very air in the room had thickened and was pressing down on me.

  No matter how I looked at it, every future ended the same way.

  A pyre.

  Sure, I could refuse the trial.

  But then I would remain Pathless forever.

  And there was no place for a Pathless adult in town.

  My parents still had my two younger siblings to raise. Once they realized I had failed to awaken a Path, they would eventually push me out.

  Not out of cruelty.

  Just practicality.

  On the streets I might last a few days.

  Maybe a few weeks, if luck favored me.

  After that, the peacekeepers would collect me as a vagrant.

  Detention.

  Conscription.

  They would attempt to force a low military Path on me.

  And sooner or later they would realize I already had one.

  Then they would discover what kind of Path it was.

  And I would burn.

  There was no escape.

  I allowed myself to sink into despair.

  Just for a moment.

  But beneath the panic, something else was already happening.

  Acceptance.

  I wasn’t particularly smart.

  Or talented.

  Or capable.

  But I was stubborn.

  If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have endured three years of being Pathless while everyone else moved forward.

  The truth is that part of me had already accepted the Path almost immediately.

  Another part insisted on performing a proper tragedy first.

  Suffer.

  Despair.

  Only then reluctantly accept the inevitable.

  It was easier that way.

  I could pretend I had no choice.

  Pretend I wasn’t the kind of person who would do anything to survive.

  But I knew the truth.

  I wasn’t evil.

  Not really.

  I just wasn’t willing to die.

  Even if survival meant killing someone.

  While I continued my dramatic internal breakdown, my mind was already working on the real problem.

  Who could I sacrifice?

  A bandit would be ideal.

  But fighting one and winning seemed… unlikely.

  Then who?

  The question absorbed me so completely that I forgot about despair altogether.

  A character slowly appeared in my thoughts.

  No.

  They didn’t deserve that.

  Did they?

  My mind immediately began constructing a convenient narrative.

  Gamblers ruined families.

  They stole.

  They drove their children into hunger and debt.

  I had seen it happen more than once.

  And I knew exactly where they gathered.

  There was an entire street dedicated to vices not far from our house.

  If I went there, I could certainly find someone… unpleasant.

  Someone who might even try to rob me if given the chance.

  Someone I could provoke.

  Someone who would prove they deserved it.

  A person like that couldn’t be saved, right?

  They would destroy themselves eventually.

  And probably take others with them.

  In that case, my intervention would practically be a public service.

  A few minutes.

  That was all it took for me to convince myself I wasn’t doing something evil.

  Just something… morally inconvenient.

  I didn’t truly believe it.

  But my desire to survive was stronger than my conscience.

  And once I had a plan, I felt calmer.

  After all, even if I provoked them first…

  Then it would technically be self-defense.

  I glanced out the window.

  The sun was already sinking toward the horizon.

  My parents would return home soon.

  I had to leave.

  My siblings were probably still near the fields, earning a few coins doing small chores.

  But it wouldn’t be long before everyone was back.

  No one could see me like this.

  I didn’t want to see their faces either.

  And sooner or later my parents would ask about the scroll.

  Since I had already used it, hiding the truth wasn’t an option.

  I couldn’t face them before solving this myself.

  I loved my family.

  But I had no illusions about what my parents would do if they discovered my Path.

  They had the rest of the family to protect.

  I grabbed the only things I needed.

  A cloak.

  A knife.

  Anything more elaborate would be pointless.

  I was already struggling to keep my hands from shaking.

  Before I knew it, I was walking toward the vice district.

  Then I stopped.

  Too early.

  The setting sun still cast enough light for people to recognize me.

  I needed darkness.

  Since I couldn’t return home, I turned toward quieter streets.

  I walked slowly, keeping the cloak wrapped tightly around my body.

  My head stayed low, shadowing most of my face.

  Thankfully I had the foresight to mess up my hair. It was long enough to hide part of my features.

  Mother had insisted on cutting it short.

  Good thing I refused.

  I was tall, but not unusually so.

  My build was average.

  The only thing that might stand out was my face.

  More specifically, the lack of scars.

  Among poor young men, that was almost suspicious.

  I had to admit something slightly embarrassing.

  I was vain about it.

  People had always told me I was handsome.

  Naturally, I preferred keeping it that way.

  When I reached an empty corner, I crouched down and scooped up a handful of mud.

  A few smears across my cheeks and forehead quickly ruined my appearance.

  Better safe than sorry.

  My nerves begged for a moment of stillness.

  Just a little time alone in the dark.

  But that wasn’t an option.

  Standing idle made people curious.

  Curious people noticed things.

  And noticed people got targeted.

  So I kept walking.

  An hour later, I realized it was still too soon.

  My target needed time to gamble. Preferably time to lose. Even better if they got drunk in the process.

  So I kept walking.

  Aimlessly.

  The next three hours were the longest of my life—a slow, self-inflicted torment.

  But necessary.

  When I finally arrived, the mood of the profane street had changed completely.

  Men staggered along the walls, leaning on each other just to stay upright. Laughter echoed from doorways where women pulled customers inside with practiced familiarity. A boy—far too young to be there—was vomiting in a corner while a group of older men laughed at him.

  Everywhere I looked there were crooked smiles.

  Lecherous eyes.

  The air smelled of sweat, cheap alcohol, and poor decisions.

  I also noticed a few people who looked genuinely dangerous. The kind who scanned the street the same way a wolf watches a flock.

  I made sure to keep my distance.

  None of them would be my target.

  Somehow, I crossed the street without incident.

  No confrontations. No traps. No thieves deciding I looked like easy prey.

  But I also found no target.

  Stay calm, Will. Take your time. Don't rush.

  Three times.

  I had to circle the street three separate times before I finally found him.

  There were two incidents along the way. One of them even earned me a punch to the ribs when I accidentally bumped into the wrong man.

  It didn’t matter.

  I had a goal.

  I had to complete the First Trial.

  My target wasn’t drunk.

  Just slightly tipsy.

  But I knew I had a chance the moment he was kicked out of a gambling house.

  There was only one reason people were thrown out of those places.

  No coins left.

  He stumbled through the doorway while the bouncer shoved him into the street. The man turned back for a moment, staring longingly at the entrance like a starving dog watching someone eat.

  Then he sighed and staggered away.

  Probably heading home.

  Perfect.

  I walked ahead of him, pretending not to notice.

  At the mouth of a narrow alley, I leaned against the wall and adopted my best drunk impression.

  A few exaggerated steps.

  A stumble.

  Then I collapsed into the alley like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  While falling, I made sure to shake a small but full coin pouch.

  Loudly.

  Loud enough for him to hear.

  Then I waited.

  Time slowed to a crawl.

  Seconds stretched into something unbearable.

  I even found myself whispering a prayer to whatever Hidden God might be listening.

  Whether by Their grace or simple luck, I got the response I wanted.

  “Are you okay, man?”

  The voice dragged its words together in the unmistakable tone of someone who had drunk a little too much.

  It sounded annoyingly normal.

  It reminded me of some of my father’s drinking companions.

  I tried to imagine him as a villain.

  A monster.

  But he just sounded like a tired man.

  I felt a flash of irritation.

  At him.

  At myself.

  I moved clumsily, letting the pouch jingle again.

  That did it.

  Footsteps approached.

  Quickly. Take the chance. You just have to—

  “Let me help you stand up, man.”

  He grabbed my shoulder and leaned over me.

  His other hand immediately began searching my pockets.

  Hiding my face from his sight, I opened my eyes and smiled.

  Then I quickly replaced it with the most confused drunk expression I could manage.

  “Go away…” I slurred weakly. “Let me be…”

  His hands grew bolder.

  His movements quicker.

  I reached for the pouch as if trying to secure it.

  In reality, I made sure he could see it clearly.

  The man immediately tried to grab it.

  I resisted.

  My heart hammered violently in my chest.

  Fear.

  Excitement.

  Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.

  And that somehow made me even more nervous.

  None of my backup plans were needed.

  That felt… suspicious.

  We struggled over the pouch.

  He was clearly stronger.

  Probably the advantage of having a Path.

  But he was also drunk.

  And I wasn’t.

  I held on stubbornly, muttering curses under my breath to avoid drawing attention.

  He unknowingly helped maintain the illusion.

  “Relax… relax…” he murmured drunkenly. “I’ll help you…”

  I waited.

  Any moment now he would punch me.

  Or kick me.

  Anything I could use to justify defending myself.

  I was certain it would happen.

  After all, he was trying to rob me.

  That meant he couldn’t be a good person.

  Right?

  Then I felt it.

  Cold.

  A sudden sting in my stomach.

  Sharp.

  Then cold again.

  Another sting.

  And another.

  And another.

  Then only cold.

  The man suddenly pulled away.

  Footsteps echoed as he ran out of the alley.

  I hadn’t even noticed when I released the pouch.

  I was leaning against the wall now.

  The pouch didn’t matter anyway. It was filled with scrap metal I used for games as a child.

  My anger flared briefly.

  Then dizziness drowned it.

  Why is it so cold?

  Why do I feel like…

  I touched my stomach.

  Wet.

  My fingers slipped.

  Wet?

  The alley was too dark to see clearly.

  But I didn’t need to.

  Blood.

  I was bleeding.

  I had been stabbed.

  Why wasn’t it hurting more?

  Why hadn’t I reacted?

  My thoughts became sluggish.

  Heavy.

  Before I realized it, I was lying on the ground, staring up at the narrow strip of sky between the alley walls.

  And for some reason…

  I started laughing.

  How could I have been this stupid?

  I came here to kill a man.

  Yet I spent the entire time worrying about provoking him into attacking me first.

  Justification.

  I wanted justification.

  Meanwhile, I never once considered the possibility that he might simply stab me and run.

  What was I thinking?

  Who cares about justification?

  If he was a good man, he wouldn’t have been there.

  He wouldn’t have tried to steal from a drunk stranger.

  And if I were a good man…

  I wouldn’t be here either.

  Why was I even pretending?

  This was the end.

  I could feel my life slipping away.

  Slowly.

  But my mind refused to accept it.

  Logic told me I was dying.

  Fear screamed the same thing.

  But somewhere deep inside, a stubborn voice insisted I could still survive.

  Desperate ideas flooded my thoughts.

  Should I scream?

  Someone might come.

  Though that seemed unlikely.

  And even if they did…

  What then?

  I’d be arrested.

  Eventually they would discover my Path.

  And I would end up on the pyre anyway.

  Still…

  I couldn’t accept death.

  Among the chaos in my mind, one idea began to grow stronger than the rest.

  A sudden burst of strength pushed me onto my stomach.

  I crawled.

  My hands smeared blood across the ground as I moved.

  Slowly.

  Painfully.

  Using trembling fingers, I began to draw.

  A circle.

  It took minutes.

  Minutes I probably shouldn’t have had.

  But somehow, I finished it.

  A crude circle of blood surrounding me.

  My voice came out as a dry whisper.

  “I… offer… this… sacrifice… in… Thy… name…”

  With shaking hands, I pulled the knife from my belt.

  Using the last strength I had left, I drove it into my chest.

  My vision darkened instantly.

  The words I couldn’t speak echoed inside my fading mind.

  I sacrifice myself.

  Better to die trying than simply accept fate.

  That was my choice.

  I refused to die by that man’s hand.

  It was a long shot.

  Even if it worked, I would probably still die.

  Strangely…

  I didn’t feel sad.

  If anything, I felt satisfied.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so completely in control of my own life.

  Then something stirred within my soul.

  The Great Guide.

  It revealed something to me.

  But I was already too far gone to understand it.

  And finally…

  Darkness took me.