A New Gospel of Profit
It was a scorching afternoon. Pastor Simon sat alone in a cool ramen shop tucked inside a bustling shopping mall. The air conditioning was strong, the noodles were hot, and his mind was busy.
He wasn’t praying. He was thinking—hard.
How could he help the Humble Organization increase its profits?
As a devoted and ambitious member of the group, he truly cared about its future. His church was running well, with a steady stream of loyal donors, but it had hit a ceiling. There had to be more—new ways to grow, new revenue to tap.
His mind drifted back to a conversation from a few years ago—the day he first stepped down from his role as High Executioner.
He had been sitting across from Colin at headquarters. Colin’s arms were crossed, one leg swinging casually over the other. He stared at Simon with a raised brow and said:
“You sure you wanna give up such a high-level position? It pays pretty damn well.
I mean, we’re friends outside work too, so I’m telling you seriously—think it over.”
Simon nodded firmly. “I really don’t like killing people.”
He meant it. Every time he took someone out, he was crushed by guilt afterward. He just wasn’t built for that kind of job. Maybe it was noble work to some—but not to him.
Colin was quiet for a moment. Then he gave a small nod. “Alright. Then come up with a good way to bring in money for the Organization. If you figure something out, let me know.”
And so, Simon found his path.
Being a pastor wasn’t bad at all. He could make money. He could molest young female staff. He had seen enough tabloid scandals to know how often that worked. It seemed like a smart opportunity.
So he became what he is today—a successful church leader under the Humble Organization, generating steady income and managing his congregation with firm, fatherly authority.
But in recent years, things had stagnated. Business wasn’t growing.
And lately, things got worse.
Ever since that man-looking woman Betty got her head blown off by Dinero, he had lost one of his biggest, most reliable donors.
Betty used to donate hundreds of thousands a year—without fail. An incredibly dumb believer. A loyal sheep with deep pockets.
And now she was gone.
Simon slurped his ramen, face tight with frustration, thinking hard.
There had to be another way. Some new source of income.
Just then, he noticed a commotion in the mall.
Two gangster crews were fighting near the food court—punches, yelling, chaos.
Turned out it was a turf war. The winning gang forced the others to retreat, and soon after, they began walking around the shops, collecting protection fees from store owners.
Simon’s eyes narrowed.
He tapped the table with his finger and did a quick mental calculation. The mall had over a hundred businesses. If each one paid even a modest fee…
Interesting.
Maybe… just maybe… he could walk into the protection fee business himself.
After all, wasn’t it basically the same as religious donations?
Just a different kind of faith.
The Mall Crusade
The next day, the manager of the shopping mall received a strange letter.
It wasn’t from a tenant.
It wasn’t from the city.
It was a challenge letter—and it was from Pastor Simon.
In it, Simon formally declared war. He accused the current gangster crew in charge of being “agents of evil,” and stated his intent to take control of the mall in the name of righteousness and faith.
Canelo—the leader of the crew currently running the place—read the letter with a puzzled face.
He wasn’t new to this.
In a single year, he’d receive dozens of challenge letters from rival gangs, all trying to take his turf. But this was different.
A letter… from a church?
He frowned.
“What the hell?
Are churches broke these days?
They trying to snatch protection fees now too?”
Later that same day, in front of a ramen shop inside the mall, four young men stood around smoking. They wore ripped jeans, black hoodies, and each had a cigarette dangling from their lips. They didn’t look particularly dangerous—just scrappy and bored.
Right behind them, a sign on the wall read:
NO SMOKING IN THE MALL
Pastor Simon spotted them from across the walkway. He paused.
He recalled something he’d heard:
Canelo was always seen wearing a hoodie, with a cigarette in his mouth, and a violent, mean look in his eyes.
Simon narrowed his gaze at the four.
“One of them must be him…”
What surprised him was the size of their crew—just four guys?
“That’s it?
Just four people?
Pathetic.
But no matter.
This mall will be ours by sundown.”
He raised his hand into the air, subtly signaling his followers.
From the escalator and side corridors, Simon’s disciples began to emerge—dozens of them.
They wore formal white robes, the kind normally worn only during church ceremonies and sacred rituals. But today, those same robes fluttered like battle flags as they moved with purpose.
They weren’t here to worship.
They came to fight.
Simon stepped forward and declared loudly:
“We are the embodiment of justice!
Today, we have come to purge this mall of wickedness!
We will cleanse this space and claim it as our sacred territory!”
One of the young men dropped his cigarette out of surprise.
He looked genuinely spooked. His voice stammered.
“W-We were just… smoking, man…
Is that really wicked?”
Simon didn’t even acknowledge him.
He had no interest in explanations.
He didn’t come for debate.
He came for the turf.
The protection fees were all he cared about. Control of this mall would mean a steady, sacred income stream.
Simon raised both arms, his voice echoing with religious zeal:
“In the name of Humbleism…
In the name of faith…
We—fight!”
And with that, his robed followers surged forward like holy warriors on a divine mission.
Holy Overkill
The swarm moved like bees.
Simon’s followers rushed in from all directions, overwhelming the four young men in seconds. They didn’t stand a chance. Their casual slouching turned into screams and flailing limbs as they were dragged down like prey.
One follower grabbed a boy by the hair and began slamming his head against the wall—again and again, the impact loud and rhythmic, like a perverse hymn.
Another follower pinned a skinny youth against a vending machine and started slapping his face wildly, each slap faster than the last, until the boy’s head jerked like a bobblehead.
One of the young men was dragged, kicking and choking, into a nearby restroom.
Inside, three robed followers held him down, forcing his head into a toilet bowl.
His face submerged beneath the grimy water. Bubbles frothed to the surface as he kicked violently, his screams reduced to muffled gurgles.
Another boy was thrown to the ground by two more followers. One of them calmly grabbed the boy’s arm, twisted it like a screwdriver, and—
CRACK.
The elbow snapped in a clean spiral. The youth shrieked in agony, his voice echoing through the food court as he writhed on the floor, clutching his ruined arm.
And then—clapping.
A slow, sarcastic round of applause echoed from behind them.
“Wow,” a voice said. “Now that… was a great show.”
Everyone turned.
Standing at the edge of the chaos was a man in a black hoodie, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled from his mouth as he smirked beneath low-hanging bangs.
Canelo.
The real boss.
The man they thought was already one of the beaten.
The followers froze in place, momentarily unsure if they had attacked the right people.
Kyle blinked, then turned toward the youth lying on the floor, clutching his snapped arm.
He pointed at him, demanding:
“Who the hell are you guys?”
The injured boy looked up through tears, pale and trembling.
“W-We were just passing by…
We ate a bowl of ramen and smoked a little…
We didn’t even see the sign!
Please… forgive us… we weren’t trying to cause trouble…”
Silence followed.
Canelo exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
Then he lifted his hand.
From beneath benches, inside shops, and behind food stalls, more black-hoodied figures began to appear—his crew.
Two dozen at least, emerging like a shadow army. Now the numbers were even.
The two groups stood face to face:
Simon’s robed followers vs. Canelo’s street gang.
Tension filled the air.
Kyle stepped forward, chest puffed out, trying to reclaim momentum. He pointed straight at Canelo.
“We are the embodiment of justice!
In the name of faith, you evil men will never win!”
Canelo didn’t respond.
He just calmly walked up to Kyle—
And slapped him across the face.
Kyle’s entire body lifted from the ground, flying backward as he skidded several meters across the tile floor like a ragdoll.
He landed in a heap.
And then—he began to cry.
Loud, wet sobs filled the mall, echoing beneath the flickering fluorescent lights.
Holy Chaos Unleashed
The mall exploded into chaos.
Both sides charged forward, and in seconds, the hallway turned into a full-on street war.
Canelo led the charge, bulldozing through the robed crowd like a wrecking ball. He grabbed the nearest follower by the collar and slammed him straight to the floor, then spun and kicked another so hard he flew across the corridor.
Simon, meanwhile, was swarmed by hoodie-wearing gang members. One youth lunged forward and punched Simon square in the chest—but instead of staggering, Simon’s massive pectoral muscle rippled, then recoiled with a shockwave, sending the attacker flying backward several meters like he’d hit a trampoline made of meat.
Simon didn’t stop there.
He extended both arms and spun on the spot like a divine drill, slamming his fists into two more gangsters, launching them in opposite directions.
They crashed through tables and display racks, landing in a tangled heap of broken plastic and bruised limbs.
As the battle reached its peak, Simon suddenly stepped back from the crowd.
His eyes narrowed. He knew the time had come.
He leaned toward a robed follower standing beside him and whispered:
“You will become… a Human Missile.
For the glory of Humbleism.
In the name of faith.”
The follower immediately snapped to attention, arms stiff at his sides, back ramrod straight. He became still—like a weapon waiting to be launched.
Simon exhaled deeply.
Then, with a grunt of godly effort, he grabbed the rigid follower with both hands and lifted him over his head.
His triceps flexed violently, and the fabric of his button-up shirt tore at the sleeves as his muscles swelled with explosive tension.
The seams ripped open, baring his arms like a divine executioner unveiling his true form.
With a mighty roar, he hurled the man forward.
The Human Missile soared through the air, legs-first, head trailing behind.
He flew like a living spear, slicing through space in a straight line.
When he landed—he landed hard.
His legs slammed into the crowd of black-hoodied youths, knocking over ten or more in a single impact.
Bodies flew in all directions—into walls, through glass, smashing into benches and ramen shop counters. Some gangsters crashed straight through storefronts. One or two followers were accidentally hit and knocked out in the crossfire.
The Human Missile finally came to a halt when his legs punched into a tiled wall, collapsing part of it with a thunderous crash.
He lay there, embedded in the rubble.
His legs were broken in several places.
But his mission had succeeded.
The balance shifted.
Canelo’s crew, overwhelmed and outnumbered, began to fall back. The righteous side now had three times their numbers, and the momentum had turned.
Within minutes, the surviving gangsters were pushed into a ramen shop—the last outpost before complete defeat. Canelo and five or six of his men took cover behind overturned tables, wounded and breathing hard.
There was nowhere left to run.
Pastor Simon calmly approached the ramen shop entrance.
His robed followers blocked every possible exit, lining the storefront like pale sentries. The place was surrounded.
Simon raised his hand and pointed directly at Canelo.
“You are surrounded,” he said with a cold smirk.
“There’s no way out. Surrender now, and I’ll go easy on you.
You might still walk out of here upright.
Otherwise…”
His smile widened.
“You’re going out horizontal.”
The Divine Lock
The ramen shop was sealed off.
Simon’s followers surrounded the building like saints at a sacrifice.
Inside, the last remnants of Canelo’s gang crouched behind broken tables and shattered chairs. Their backs were to the wall—literally and figuratively.
Canelo stood near the counter, breathing hard. His face was bruised, his hoodie soaked with sweat.
He pulled out a cigarette with shaking fingers, flicked his lighter, and took a long drag.
Smoke curled from his lips.
“Over my dead body,” he muttered.
It wasn’t bravado.
It was a promise.
Outside the shop, Kyle approached Pastor Simon with burning eyes.
“Divine Master,” he said, bowing slightly, “please instruct us.
Shall we burn them to oblivion?
In the name of faith, in the name of God…
in the name of Humbleism?”
Simon didn’t respond immediately.
He looked troubled.
He never liked killing—not even now. But he believed he had a way to break Canelo without drawing a drop of blood.
He placed a firm hand on Kyle’s shoulder.
“We have no choice.
But you… must serve Humbleism.
Use everything you are to fulfill our purpose.
Become the chain.”
Kyle trembled slightly.
Then, like receiving a divine message, he stood tall. His eyes shimmered. His posture stiffened.
He became still and focused—like a body being guided by pure doctrine.
Simon pointed forward.
“Kyle. Go and lock it.”
Kyle charged with no hesitation.
Canelo raised a fist and threw a brutal punch—smashing directly into Kyle’s face.
Kyle’s cheek swelled instantly.
But he didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
He leapt forward, slammed his entire body against Canelo’s, and wrapped his arms and legs around him like a human straitjacket.
“What the hell?!”
Canelo stumbled back, dragging Kyle’s full weight like an oversized koala fused to his chest.
He struggled. He twisted.
But Kyle’s grip only grew tighter.
His arms locked under Canelo’s, his legs wrapped around his waist, and his head buried under Canelo’s chin like a religious parasite.
They collapsed.
Canelo was forced to his knees, locked and immobilized by a man half-crazy, half-enlightened.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” he yelled.
“Are you stupid or something?!”
Time passed. A minute. Two. Maybe more.
Canelo tried every trick—shrugging, rolling, leaning, swinging—but nothing worked.
Kyle wouldn’t let go.
He just held on. Silent. Devoted. Wrapping tighter and tighter like a velvet noose of piety.
Canelo was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged.
He looked down at himself, then at Kyle stuck to him like some holy tumor.
He looked ridiculous.
Then again—so did the guy latched onto him.
In fact, the whole scene was absurd.
Utterly, irredeemably absurd.
Canelo sighed deeply.
“…Okay. I give up.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve never seen anything this ridiculous in my entire life.”
And with that, the fight was over.
The siege was broken.
The righteous side had won—not by power, not by blood…
…but by the Divine Lock.
Ashes of a Believer
After the battle, Canelo and his remaining men walked with their heads down to the center of the shopping mall.
They moved slowly, limping, bruised, exhausted.
Together, they helped lift their wounded comrades from the floor—some from shattered glass, others from ramen-stained tile.
When they finally counted, the numbers were grim: over 90% of their crew was injured.
In less than fifteen minutes, they gathered their last strength and quietly withdrew from the mall.
No last words.
No threats.
Just silence.
Only Pastor Simon and his followers remained.
They moved in orderly lines, tending to the wounded and counting their own.
To Simon’s delight, they had lost no one, and had fewer than ten injured. His strategy had worked.
Victory, without bloodshed.
Or so he thought.
“Kyle!” someone shouted. “Pastor Simon, come quickly!”
Simon hurried toward a broken section of the mall wall. Several followers gathered around something collapsed in the corner.
It was him—the Human Missile.
He lay against the cracked wall, coughing violently, fresh blood spilling from his mouth. His face was pale and damp with sweat, his eyes fluttering.
He hadn’t spoken since his flight.
Simon knelt beside him, gently took his hand.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
The man smiled weakly.
“I think… I’m dying. Beyond saving.
But I’m happy, Pastor.
I made a sacrifice for Humbleism.
I helped us win.
I have no regrets.”
Simon nodded solemnly. His hand trembled.
“Kyle,” he said softly, “record this.”
Kyle pulled out his phone and began filming.
Simon gently cradled the man’s hand, putting on a perfect expression of compassion.
He wiped the sweat from the man’s brow, whispered soothing words, and even let a few tears roll down his cheek—just enough for the camera to catch.
It was beautiful.
Heartbreaking.
Perfect.
The dying follower coughed hard, his voice cracking.
“Thank you, Pastor Simon…
Please promise me one thing.”
Simon leaned closer.
“I have two children…
Please… take care of them for me.”
Simon nodded gravely, giving the man’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
Then the man’s fingers relaxed.
His hand fell from Simon’s grasp.
His eyes turned blank.
The light was gone.
He was dead.
The next day, Kyle uploaded the footage to YouTube with a title that read:
“True Faith: The Final Sacrifice – Humbleism Lives On.”
Within hours, the video gained traction.
Thousands of views.
Then tens of thousands.
Moved by the pastor’s compassion—and the follower’s unwavering loyalty—new believers began flooding in.
Donations increased.
Volunteers arrived.
Humbleism’s numbers swelled.
A new wave of faith had begun.
And after days of searching, Pastor Simon found the man’s two children.
They were young—too young to understand what had happened.
Simon knelt beside them, gently placed his hand on their heads, and gave them a warm, fatherly smile.
Then he stood up, took them both by the hands…
And delivered them to a local human trafficking hub.
He sold them for a modest profit.
And walked away humming a hymn.