Chapter 7 – Which God Do I Bme This On? Asking Online—Kinda Urgent

  “Divine revetion?!”

  Captain Karen’s eyes lit up instantly.

  The healing magic earlier had already revived his spirits, and now this news sent a surge of excitement through his body. Even his pale, blood-drained cheeks flushed with faint color.

  “Divine revetion? That’s incredible, Little Gret!”

  Gret’s heart warmed.

  He understood why Uncle Karen was so genuinely happy—because in this world, to become clergy, even the lowest-ranking member of the priesthood, was a huge leap in status. For someone like the original Gret, just a rank-and-file guardsman, it was nothing short of a miracle.

  It meant ascending straight from the peasant css to the middle tier.

  Just look at their clothes—the rough burp vests worn by the soldiers, versus the fine linen robes worn by the young cleric John. That contrast said it all.

  And now, divine revetion—without church training, without temple schooling—

  A miracle worker. A chosen one. A blessed of the gods.

  A future wide open and paved with gold.

  Some people get jealous of others’ fortune. Some dismiss it. But Uncle Karen?

  He was truly, deeply happy for the boy he raised like his own.

  That genuine warmth softened Gret’s heart. He returned a small smile.

  Then immediately regretted it.

  Because Uncle Karen, beaming with pride, followed up with the question:

  “Which god?”

  Gret: “…”

  …Oh. Right. Which god, exactly?

  By logic, this would be a healing god.

  So… Shennong? Bian Que? Hua Tuo?

  Nope. Those are all Chinese deities. Everyone around him looked very much Western. Dropping a Chinese name here would just confuse the hell out of people.

  Maybe Apollo? Asclepius? Hippocrates?

  Still no good. This wasn’t Earth—it was another world. He needed to reference local gods.

  Which local god would be okay with getting bmed for this? Preferably one who wouldn’t smite him with holy lightning.

  Time was ticking. Pressure mounting. He had to find someone to take the fall—fast.

  Gret—v2.0, now running on transpnted surgeon OS—scanned his inherited memories at lightning speed.

  Okay… Hartnd City had a few temples.

  Temple of the God of War.

  Temple of the Spring Maiden.

  Temple of the God of Nature. (Wait, didn’t that st one not actually have a temple?)

  What did these gods even do? Which one had a mild temper? Which clergy looked trustworthy enough not to push for a heresy trial?

  Nothing. His mind came up bnk.

  Why couldn’t he remember?!

  A dull, pulsing pain throbbed in the back of his head.

  Gret reached back instinctively—and felt a swollen lump. Still damp. Probably blood.

  His breath hitched. His pulse spiked.

  Head trauma.

  Memory loss.

  He couldn’t remember what had happened before he passed out. Was this retrograde amnesia?

  Was this body concussed?

  Could he have a brain bleed? Would he colpse again in a day? Three days? A week? Would he get nausea, vomiting, migraines, facial paralysis?

  And of course, this godforsaken pce had no CT scans…

  CALM. DOWN.

  Gret forced himself to breathe. If I transmigrated, I refuse to believe I’d die again from a leftover injury! Memory issues were just part of the merger—not a sign of brain trauma!

  C’mon, transmigrators have survived worse. Gunshots to the temple? No problem. I just hit my head—I'll be fine.

  He coached himself through the panic, eyes squeezed shut, digging through the scattered, half-merged memories of the body’s original owner.

  Somewhere in this fog—somewhere—there had to be a name…

  There was no way around it.

  Worshipping gods was a luxury—a pastime for the rich and idle. The original Gret? Dirt-poor. The kind of guy who, maybe twice or thrice a year, would join the crowds outside a temple and crane his neck just to catch a glimpse of a priest’s robes.

  Getting healed by divine magic? Learning to read under the clergy’s care? Never happened. Not once.

  Oh, right—there was once a glorious Lightbringer Temple at the center of Hartnd City. Its steeple towered higher than even the Lord Mayor’s residence.

  Now?

  Completely abandoned. The priests had all been expelled three years ago.

  As far as Gret could remember, there weren’t many temples left.

  Great. Three options.

  First to go: The God of War.

  Gret instinctively gnced to the side, suddenly nervous. It all came rushing back.

  That freckled little cleric—John—he was from the War God’s temple. The shield emblem stitched on his chest? Basic version, standard for low-ranking clergy of that faith.

  Lying about this in front of one of their own? Gret felt a bead of sweat form. The psychological pressure was real.

  And let’s be honest—the God of War didn’t exactly scream warm and gentle. The whole vibe of that temple was basically “solve it with steel.” Pick a fight, fight the fight, honor the fight.

  If they found out he was making this up? A whole church full of warrior-clerics might show up to carve him into communion bread.

  So that one’s out.

  Next up: Spring Maiden.

  Yeah, no. That name screamed “minor deity.” Soft, watery, obscure. The type that would be stuck at low-tier godhood for ten thousand years and still never break through.

  No future there.

  Which left one option.

  The God of Nature.

  Broad portfolio. High potential. In Wu Zhou’s webnovel-reading experience, nature gods often turned out to be major pyers in the pantheon.

  He steeled himself.

  Eyes forward. Voice steady. Not a trace of hesitation.

  “The God of Nature.”

  “…The God of Nature, huh…”

  Captain Karen’s face dimmed just a little. The warmth faded from his gaze.

  Around them, sighs echoed one after another.

  Raymond. Ton the archer. Wally the shieldbearer. Even little freckle-face John the priest.

  All of them looked disappointed.

  Gret’s heart sank.

  That look—they couldn’t be more familiar.

  He’d seen it in his previous life, again and again, at every critical juncture where he’d had to make hard choices that weren’t gmorous, but were the best he could do.

  His advisor. His mother. His ex.

  “Not going for the PhD? …Well, your family is struggling financially. I suppose that makes sense.”

  “The ER? I mean, it’s hard to stay in the provincial hospital… If it has to be emergency medicine, then okay.”

  “Volunteering in Africa for a year? Just to fast-track your promotion? …Fine. Do what you want.”

  God… Did he just screw up again?

  Was the God of Nature a me pick?

  Could he still change his answer? Maybe say it was the God of War after all? Or even the Spring Maiden?

  But he’d hesitated too long.

  Captain Karen’s brief disappointment passed. He brought his hands together, fingers steepled in prayer, and whispered solemnly:

  “Praise the grace of the God of Nature…”

  The others followed suit without question.

  “Praise the grace of the God of Nature!” came the chorus of warriors.

  Even John bowed his head with respectful gravity.

  Gret stood there, frozen.

  One sentence. No take-backs.

  He’d said it. The God of Nature it was.

  Now he had to live with it. Lie in the hole you just dug, Gret. Time to build a whole fake religion on top of it.

  He stared into the void of his own thoughts.

  He needed to figure out how to coexist with this so-called patron deity—how to milk it for benefits while not getting exposed as a total fraud.

  But before he could dwell on it, the prayer ended.

  Everyone lifted their heads. All eyes nded on him. Expectant.

  Raymond stepped forward as their unofficial spokesperson and asked:

  “Little Gret… What now? Do we continue the journey?”

  Gret snapped out of it.

  He looked around in a panic. Aside from Captain Karen—still too weak to move—and John, who didn’t seem too emotionally invested, everyone else was looking straight at him:

  Raymond. Ton. Wally.

  Three sets of eyes. Wide. Trusting. Waiting for his command.

  What? No. No no no.

  This “divine revetion” was fake!