The hum of the Sawitorzer Omniverse, never truly silent, felt different as Sanchez strolled. The earlier chaos had dissipated, leaving behind only the ghost of frantic footsteps. But his keen senses, attuned to the subtle vibrations of belief, quickly picked up on another gathering. Around a shimmering fountain, adorned with strange, glowing glyphs, another group of robed figures had assembled. They weren't as boisterous as the last, but their murmurs held a solemn, reverent intensity.
Sanchez approached, his casual gait belying the sharp intelligence in his eyes. He stopped just at the edge of their circle, a faint, challenging smile playing on his lips. He let their quiet prayers and hushed pronouncements fill the air for a moment, absorbing their collective energy before he decided it was time to pierce the illusion.
"Alright folks!" he announced, his voice cutting through the solemn atmosphere, clear and resonant without being overtly loud. Heads snapped towards him, their faces a mixture of surprise and immediate, wary disapproval. "I'm the one man telling truths, alright?"
A portly figure in deep crimson robes, clutching a thick, leather-bound tome, stepped forward. "Truth, stranger? We speak only of divine truth, the immutable word of the One Beyond. Your words are but the fleeting whispers of a corrupted realm."
Sanchez scoffed, tilting his head slightly. "Corrupted? Or just *awake*? Because what I see is a whole lot of fear dressed up as faith. You cling to your 'immutable word' because it promises paradise if you obey, and eternal torment if you don't. Tell me, if there was no Hell, would your devotion crumble like ancient dust?"
A ripple of angry murmurs went through the crowd. "Blasphemy!" a young woman cried, her voice trembling. "The fires of the abyss await those who question the divine decree!"
Sanchez chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound. "Ah, the fires. Always the fires. You worship a god whose primary characteristic, in your minds, is his capacity for vengeance. You don't serve out of boundless love, do you? You serve because you're terrified of what he'll *do* if you don't. You're cosmic hostages, and you call it sacred."
The crimson-robed elder raised his hand, his eyes blazing with indignation. "Silence, infidel! The terror of the divine is a righteous terror, a necessary tool to guide the weak-willed towards salvation! Without consequence, there is only chaos!"
"Consequence?" Sanchez leaned in, his voice dropping slightly, becoming almost a whisper, yet it held the weight of a hammer blow. "Or control? You tell your flock that pain is a test, suffering is a lesson, and that their 'god' will eventually deliver them from it – *if* they're good little sheep. But who *causes* the suffering in the first place? And who benefits from a populace perpetually terrified of an unseen hand?"
A gasp ran through the group. Some of the younger devotees looked genuinely confused, their rigid expressions faltering. The elder's face darkened, veins throbbing in his neck. "The suffering is the result of sin! Of humanity's inherent flaws!"
"Oh, the convenient 'flaws'," Sanchez retorted, his smirk returning, sharp as a blade. "So, your magnificent, all-powerful creator designs beings with inherent flaws, then damns them for exhibiting those flaws? Sounds less like a divine architect and more like a cruel puppet master playing a rigged game. And you, his humble servants, are just the cheerleaders for the torment."
The air crackled with palpable tension. The devout were livid, their faces contorted with rage and desperation. A few onlookers, drawn by the escalating debate, shifted uncomfortably, some nodding almost imperceptibly, others recoiling in shock.
"He tests us!" another robed figure shouted, trying to regain the offensive. "He tests our faith, our resolve!"
"Tests?" Sanchez laughed, a short, sharp bark of amusement. "Or just enjoys watching you squirm? If he's truly omniscient, he already knows the outcome of his 'tests.' So what's the point, beyond the display of absolute, unchallenged power? You bow not to goodness, but to brute force. You don't love him, you're just too scared to say no."
He let the silence hang, heavy and damning, broken only by the uneasy shuffling of feet and the distant hum of the omniverse. The robed figures, though enraged, found themselves without a convincing counter-argument, their rigid doctrines exposed to the chilling light of his relentless logic. Sanchez merely watched them, a detached, almost scientific curiosity in his gaze, observing the dismantling of their carefully constructed delusion.
Then, Sanchez's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping another notch, a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the fading echoes of their silence. "And what about this 'all-powerful, all-loving' delusion you cling to? All-powerful, yet so insecure he demands constant praise and threatens eternal damnation if you don't offer it? Sounds less like a benevolent deity and more like a pathetic, overgrown infant with an ego so vast it consumes entire galaxies."
The words hit them like a physical blow. Their faces, already contorted with anger, now twisted into genuine horror.
"Think about it," Sanchez pressed, his voice rising, every word a deliberate, calculated assault. "This supposedly perfect being, brimming with pride and a high ego, creating sentient life only to play favorites, showing jealousy towards anything that dares to defy him, and constantly passing judgment on every thought, every action, every misplaced breath. That's not love. That's a tyrant with unlimited power, a cosmic bully who demands absolute subservience, not adoration. He calls himself all-loving, but his methods are pure terror. He calls himself all-powerful, but he's so insecure he can't tolerate a single dissenting voice."
The collective gasp that followed was swallowed by a fresh wave of furious shouts. "Heretic! Blasphemer! Damned!" The crimson-robed elder was trembling, his face a mottled purple. "You speak lies born of the pit!"
Sanchez's smile didn't waver. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice cutting through their indignant roars. "These fictionalized false gods command you to be sinless… yet they themselves embody the very sins they forbid: Pride — demanding worship, elevating themselves with no humility. Wrath — punishing eternally for finite mistakes. Jealousy — declaring themselves the only god allowed love and loyalty. How can a being truly divine ask you to be better than they are?"
He paused, letting the absurdity sink in. The chaos of the crowd began to falter, replaced by a stunned, uncomfortable silence from a few, their anger momentarily eclipsed by the stark logic.
"No, no, no," Sanchez continued, shaking his head slowly, a dismissive gesture. "Your 'god' isn't some cosmic ultimate being. He's a projection. A flawed reflection. He's merely a crude invention of desperate men, crafted centuries ago in fear and ignorance. Created for the sake of manipulation and control, nothing more. A puppet master created by puppets, to keep other puppets dancing on strings woven from dread. You lot might be smart, but clearly, you lot are fools. And so I am no fool to believe in a ridiculous lie."
He swept his gaze across their stunned, enraged faces. "You keep talking about 'love' when what you preach is fear. You misunderstand the very word, the very concept, because you filter it through the twisted lens of your pathetic, man-made 'god'." Sanchez scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "You want to know what Boundless Love means? Let me tell you."
He paused, letting the weight of his question hang in the suddenly silent air, the crowd now utterly captivated by his audacity, too shocked to interrupt.
"Boundless Love," Sanchez stated, his voice resonating with a cynical authority that seemed to drain the very air of false piety, "is the love your invented deity claims to have but demonstrably lacks. It is affection without conditions, without limits, without the threat of eternal torture if you fail to meet his arbitrary demands. It's not a transaction for entry into some exclusive club. It's not a reward for blind obedience. It doesn't demand groveling or constant praise to satisfy some insecure ego. It doesn't discriminate based on dogma, or punish 'sins' that are merely inconvenient to its own tyrannical rule. It certainly doesn't burn people for eternity for a finite life's worth of 'mistakes'."
He pointed a finger at the elder, then swept it across the rest of the robed figures. "It's a love that wouldn't need Hell. It's a love that wouldn't create flaws only to condemn them. It's a love that wouldn't tolerate pride or jealousy in itself, let alone parade them as divine virtues. Your god demands you be better than he is, and calls it 'love.' That, my friends, is a ridiculous, pathetic lie."
The impact of his words was absolute. The crowd, which had moments ago been seething with anger, now seemed to deflate, a palpable sense of confusion and despair washing over them. The elder's face was ashen, his eyes wide with a dawning, terrible understanding. Sanchez had not only attacked their god; he had redefined the very essence of what they claimed to uphold, turning their own sacred terms against them.
A few began to weep, silent tears mixing with the sweat on their furrowed brows. Others just stood, utterly motionless, their faces vacant, like statues of despair. The collective strength of their belief had been fractured by Sanchez's words, leaving them adrift in a sea of his cynical truth.
Sanchez allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as he surveyed the shattered remnants of their conviction. The vibrant chorus of fervent faith had crumbled into a silence far more profound than any shout. He turned slowly, not bothering to check for pursuit, his movements unhurried and deliberate.
"I only believe in the first truth," he called back, his voice calm yet resonating through the bewildered stillness of the public square. He didn't raise his voice, but every word carried. "The one before even the oldest myths, before even this omniverse was born. Before the lies. Before the fear. That's the only truth worth knowing."
He continued his stroll, the sounds of the omniverse slowly growing louder around him again as the stunned silence he left behind began to dissipate. He walked without a destination, a lone figure in pursuit of a truth no one else seemed to remember, leaving a trail of existential wreckage in his wake. His task wasn't to convert, but to expose. He sought no followers, only the stark, unsettling clarity of disillusionment. The fragmented figures by the fountain remained, a tableau of broken faith, as Sanchez vanished around a corner, ready for the next encounter, the next lie to dismantle.