Kane found a toy—a toy he loved, a toy bestowed upon him by God—so he could finally carry out God's divine blessing.
The toy was a boy, the only thing his cruel brothers had not ruined, a lamb God had preserved just for him.
Kane recited, "'Where is the lamb?' the son asked."
"God will provide!" he chuckled as he rolled the boy onto a table—the same table his mother used to roll bread; now, it served a divine purpose.
Kane was no fool; he cleanly cut off all major muscles and tendons. No, he wasn't afraid that the boy would run away. After all, who can escape God's purpose? No one. Yet, he feared the boy would jump and dance once God's spirit entered him.
Kane smiled, humming a hymn as he worked, carving inscriptions—no, God's words—onto the boy's skin. A story from the Holy Book came to him.
Once, there was a man who tried to flee from God. He sought shelter beneath a giant tree, but God struck it down with lightning. He dug a hole under a mountain, but rain flushed him out. He ventured to sea, yet the ship capsized in a storm. The man cursed and begged God to end his life, but God refused. Instead, a sea monster swallowed him for seven days before spitting him onto the shore God had chosen.
Kane couldn't recall the purpose of this tale, but he wondered if it was God's way of showing His love for man.
He scratched his head and chuckled—"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!"—thinking about his own colorful cusses directed toward both man and God moments ago. How foolish of him to question God's purpose, to be troubled by abandonment.
"No one can flee from God," he asserted, dousing the boy in black, slick oil. "No one!" He set the boy ablaze.
Fwoosh— "Aaahhhhhh!"
Kane danced and clapped with delight. Somehow, his smile grew even wider as the fire consumed the boy until screams turned to silence.
When the boy's jaw finally hung still, his limbs no longer twitched, Kane mashed together stolen herbs and crushed monster ores into a bitter paste. He scooped it into a bowl etched with the exact blasphemous words that adorned the boy's skin. A whispered prayer, a puff of noxious smoke, and the bowl's contents transformed into a rotten, swamp-green mess that seemed to writhe and twist like a living thing.
Kane shoved the mess down the boy's gaping throat before lashing him awake with a torrent of icy water that burned deeper than the flames.
"Graspe-ah-ah-ah-a-a," the boy lurched back from the blink of death—still grasping. Still screaming. His jaw, locked in place, clayed open by the charred skin.
Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! An iron claw scraped across the charred skin. Rusty-pink flesh stretched, tiny strings of tissue snapping as the skin was flayed away.
"Ggggg-AAAAHHH…! Rrrrr-EEEEE…! Kkkkk-AAAAHHH…! Hhhhh-NOOOO…!"
Kane flipped him over. Skrreeeetch! Charred skin ripped from his back. "Ee-ee-ee-AAAAHHH!"
Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! The iron claw scraped again, the boy's teeth chattering in a silent scream as his body trembled on the brink of collapse, but his mind remained vivid, bound by the poison Kane fed him.
When the last charred skin was scraped away, Kane's hands moved with a twisted gentleness, carving a new passage of God's words into the naked flesh before brushing the same corrupted oil over it. The boy's eyes rolled, his gaze flattered as he whispered a silent plea for mercy. His skinless flesh wept in agony, soaking through the table—Drip-Drip-Drip—FWOOSH!
Screams turned to silence. Kane mashed together the same mess, but this time, he added a little seasoning, a touch of love—the boy's own peeled skin. A recipe of Kane's creation, a deviation from God's instruction. But will God blame him when he did it out of love?
SPLASH!
Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! The claw scraped. Gnk-Gnk-Gnk-Gnk! Teeth chattered in an endless cycle of torment.
Skeleton emerged after the fifth peel. Screams died. The jaw no longer chatter. The throat can no longer swallow.
"Skeleton... Skeleton..." Kane murmured, searching desperately for guidance from God. Panic overtook him—he yanked out a fistful of hair, stomping and hopping like a frantic child holding in his pee. Then, with a sharp slap to his thigh, realization struck—of course!
Gaunt palms slammed onto the skeletal mess; he prayed—and God answered—with light, with holy magic. It restored the boy's flesh, knitting back his skin.
"Hhhhhaahhh!" The boy surged back to life, gasping like a drowned man fighting away death's grip.
Kane rejoiced, his heart ablaze with joy as he danced and clapped in celebration. God had blessed him with a gift—holy magic that not even his captain could wield. He could see the envy flicker in the captain's eyes as the cruel whip lashed against him. They tormented him like demons, yet God bore witness to their wickedness and understood his suffering. And still, no saving grace came to him. Why?
When Kane lost all hope, God blessed him with His divine words. Yet, the torment did not end. Why?
Through tears, Kane smiled, then wept openly, singing, "How great is God's love!" until his throat grew hoarse and dry. At last, he understood God's plan.
When Kane returned to himself, his loving and gentle hand began the carving, the brushing, and—Fwoosh.
Ggggg-AAAAHHH...!
Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk...!
Gnk-Gnk-Gnk-Gnk...!
Fwoosh.
Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk! Skrrt-crkkk!
...
Days blurred together as the stench of charred flesh and vomit filled the tent. Kane didn't notice, nor did he care. He scribbled something into his journal each time Hmu Hmo howled in a new pitch. The journal bulged with observations: Skeleton—every fifth peel—needs healing. Skin charred faster after the third healing, screams cease after the 10th, pupils shrink when...
For the first time, Kane grinned at his work. Every whimper became a puzzle piece, every charred patch of skin, a breakthrough. An art piece wholeheartedly devoted to God.
As the days passed, Kane's creativity knew no bounds. Everywhere he looked, he saw ingredients, all provided by God. Charred flesh, rot-leaking eyeballs, maggot-breeding wombs, and gut-soaked intestines were all repurposed to feed the boy. All to keep him alive. To be worshiped. To be anointed. To be offered to God.
But even holy knights get called home, and when the order came, Kane stared at the scroll as though it had cursed him. His fingers trembled—not with guilt but with rage at the interruption. He spat and stomped like a child throwing a tantrum but ultimately obeyed. Thou shalt become less, that I may become greater, saith the Lord.
Hmu Hmo now resembled a half-cooked chicken left to rot in the sun. The burns had warped his arms into distorted shapes, resembling melted wax dripping over bone. Chunks of flesh hung loose where fire hadn't sealed the wounds. His jaw sagged, exposing teeth frozen in an eternal scream. Only one eyelid twitches now—a dying moth's flutter.
Kane stirred his last bowl—thick liquid bubbling swamp-green. "Almost... perfect," he whispered, pouring it over the exposed ribcage. The solution hissed, chewing through bone like termites devouring rotten wood.
Hmu Hmo didn't scream. Couldn't. But his twitching eye leaked thick yellow tears as Kane recorded: Final test: 77% skeletonization. Nervous system still responds. Number of deaths…
Afterward, Kane painted a large magic circle outside the tent using a foul stew of parched blood, reeking herbs, and glittering monster cores. He dumped Hmu Hmo's tattered body at its center, whispered prayers that made the air taste like burnt hair, and marched off without glancing back.