NTN 07

The Sermon

Shim Do-hwan chuckled.
“Then let’s go together. Be careful…”
Instead of finishing his sentence, he simply tilted his head toward the ceiling, a silent warning to stay cautious.

Each floor of the residential zone had security cameras, but not many—only at major intersections or shared indoor spaces.
By comparison the internal ecology and factory zones had far more cameras, though still nothing like the heavily monitored research or administrative areas.

Watching the junction ahead, Sung Geon-woo grinned.
“Maybe they’re switched off anyway.”
“True,” Shim agreed.

This was common inside the company: equipment left in place long after it had broken down, kept only for show.
Rumor had it this traced back to the chaos when the “old world” collapsed and the lucky survivors first fled underground.

Forty-six years had passed since the rise of “divine power,” so failures in aging systems were inevitable. But with production shortages, lost technology, and missing records, repairs or replacements were out of reach.

“Still, we need to be careful. The company is strict about anything to do with religion,” Shim warned, raising his lantern as they moved on.

At a crossroad he switched off the lantern and pressed himself to the wall, carefully turning right.
Following close, Geon-woo glanced up at a ceiling camera. A red light blinked lazily.

He raised both hands, tugged at his cheeks, and stuck out his tongue in a ridiculous face, then massaged the muscles pressed by the lantern and slid along the wall after Shim.

Another turn brought them to Door 35 of Sector A. Shim lifted his left hand and knocked lightly three times.
“New life is like the sun,” a deliberately low voice answered from inside.
“Life is most precious,” Shim replied just as softly.

The door creaked open, letting out a dim yellow glow.
“This one?” asked the woman who appeared, her eyes shifting to Geon-woo.

She looked about thirty, with straight, dark brows and a proud nose; the slight upward tilt of her eyes lent both beauty and character.
Geon-woo stepped forward, speaking earnestly.
“It’s my first time attending. Mr. Shim Do-hwan guided me.”

Her furrowed brow eased.
“A new friend, then.”
After a quick look up and down the corridor, she stepped aside.
“Come in quickly, before anyone notices.”

Shim strode in without suspicion, switching off his lantern. Geon-woo followed, taking in the room.

It was far larger than his own quarters, with an inner door—perhaps to a bedroom, bath, or small kitchen.
He couldn’t help recalling his previous home; a space like this meant both occupants ranked at least D4, or one held a D7 team-leader post.

The outer room measured roughly 2.5 m wide and 5 m long. Against the far wall stood a wardrobe and a display cabinet, with a double bed set crosswise between them so that anyone entering the inner room would pass its foot.
In front of the bed a small sitting area held chairs, a bench, stools, a tea table, a desk, and a fabric sofa.

Two candles flickered on the tea table, bathing the gathering in amber light. Men and women of all ages crowded the space—at least ten people, Geon-woo guessed.

“Geon-woo, sign in first,” said the woman, producing a notebook from nowhere.
He took the pen and wrote his name.

“You know me?” he asked.
She smiled. “When your parents lived here we were neighbors of a sort. You won’t remember me. Call me Aunt Lee.”
“Yes, Aunt Lee,” he answered without hesitation.

“Good. Sit there; the guide’s sermon will begin soon.” She pointed to a low stool.
“Where will you sit?”
“I’ll take the edge of the bed,” she said with a gentle smile.

Geon-woo asked no more and sat where directed.

Two or three minutes later, the inner door opened.
Out stepped someone familiar: Im Gyeol, a D3-level strategist Geon-woo had met at the activity center the night before.

She still wore a terylene shirt, now paired with gray trousers. Time had touched her beauty, but her expression remained serene and dignified.
Walking between bed, wardrobe, and cabinet, she scanned the room.

“Geon-woo?”
He rose and stepped forward.
“Aunt Im, I just registered. I came with Mr. Shim Do-hwan.”

Her eyes flicked as if weighing something, then she smiled.
“I see. You’ve already passed the check. Sit.”

Once he returned to his seat, she addressed the others.
“Since we have a new friend, I’ll briefly explain our order.”

Clap, clap, clap!
Geon-woo applauded enthusiastically.

Others—Shim among them—turned, startled. Even Im Gyeol, who’d heard of his quirky nature, blinked before giving a small laugh.
“No need for that. This isn’t a company meeting.”

When his clapping stopped, her voice softened.
“Everyone here has never left the company’s domain, never set foot on true soil.
All we know of Ashland comes from company broadcasts, textbooks, and the explanations of Security staff—information carefully filtered beforehand.

“So we cannot truly understand Ashland, just as we have never seen the sky with our own eyes.

“We know that after the old world’s fall, humanity endured long chaos and conflict before establishing a fragile new order and measuring divine power.
We know darkness still shrouds Ashland: pockets of disorder, uninhabited zones, wilderness and mountains amid which ‘lands of order’ stand like islands in a wide sea.
Pollution, mutation, famine—they surge like endless waves.

“The deadliest threat is the disease textbooks call beastification—or mind-loss. We still don’t grasp how it begins or spreads. Overnight we or those we love could regress into true beasts, unable to communicate, ruled only by the instinct to hunt.”

She exhaled slowly.
“That is what we know. What we don’t know is how the old world perished and how the new order arose.

“Among Ashland’s people runs a rumor:
‘The old world committed some act that angered the spirits, who destroyed it; the lucky survivors were tested and saved.’
Part of this is true, part false.

“The truth is that a host of spirits does exist. They govern time together, each presiding over a different moon. Hence we call them Moon-Keepers. Others name them Perfect Ones, Gods of Time, the Pale, the Saviors, the Painter of the Past, or the High Priest of the Present.

“The falsehood is that the Moon-Keepers destroyed the old world in anger. Its end was natural, inevitable—like a year closing to make way for the next.

“Our order, the Rite of Life, venerates one Moon-Keeper above all: Saimyŏng, Keeper of December. December marks both the end of a year and the promise of a new one. Saimyŏng ended the old world and began the new.”

At this, everyone except Geon-woo stretched out their arms as though cradling an infant and gently swayed, chanting:
“To the End, all returns to Saimyŏng.”

Their deep, unified voices filled the room.

Im Gyeol looked back to Geon-woo.
“The new world is not yet here. The spirits are still testing us. Only by truly believing in Saimyŏng and devoting ourselves to him can we enter that world, break the cycle of time, gain eternal life, and escape suffering.”

“Praise your mercy!” the followers intoned, swaying again.

Geon-woo mimicked them.
“Praise your mercy.”

Im nodded in approval and continued.
“Good. Now let’s begin the formal sermon.

“Our Rite of Life worships life and fears death. We revere both birth and funeral, but today’s teaching is about new life.”

Geon-woo straightened, listening intently as the others did.
Im’s voice grew gentle, her expression radiant.

“We must lay infants down to sleep.
We must help them play by day and sleep by night.
We must hum lullabies as they drift off.
We must learn to read their cries:
—short, heavy wails rising and falling mean hunger;
—fierce cries mean anger;
—sudden loud, sharp cries that fade to a calm, sad tone mean pain.

“We must pat their backs lightly to help them digest.
We must always support the back of the head when we hold them.
And we must breast-feed.”

Geon-woo sat slack-jawed, unable to close his mouth.