Suchi, The Slums, a Trading Post built in the style of a Moorish castle.

This was one of several of The Company's Trading Posts in the region, the bases from which the guild managed their affairs. Coming from inside, one could hear the clangour of hammers beating metal and the aggressive shouts of traders attempting to outbid each other. Passing in and out of the complex’s four gates was a never-ending stream of players, NPCs, horses, tamed beasts, and wagons loaded with goods. Some of these were travelling to and from the port. Others, Suchi's Slums, whose ever-expanding border had encroached so close to the complex that shadows of the ridiculous Achievement Pillars fell across the clay-buildings. Others still, for the main thoroughfare that carved a straight and clean line through The Slums to Central City.

At the back of the premises was a tucked-away terrace. Its glass dome welcomed in the blemishless blue of the Zone's sky, and along the perimeter, through sculptures and manicured gardens, wound a miniature river on which flowed an eternal procession of lotuses in bloom. If not for its function, the space would have been an ideal spot for afternoon tea.

To a row of sturdy, metal posts buried in the centre of this terrace, a train of fourteen convicts were being chained by guards in ash-grey uniform. Some of these men and women wept, others were observing the process of themselves being fixed in place as though through a spectator's curious vision, and others were screaming, spitting.

One convict in more cheerful spirits glanced across the thrashing head of a comrade to another. "Eh, Bilaadii, you deformed melon, I always knew we'd end up here together."

"You should have warned me then, comrade."

"Was going to, brother, but then you bedded Szavely."

The second convict groaned. "I should have read the omens…she was about as dry as a palmful of sand."

"Hey, fuck you. That's my cousin."

"What are you going to do about it, comrade? Kill me?"

"Yeah, if you talk more shit, I'm going to break free and strangle you."

"Drier, in fact."

The first convict, swearing vows of vengeance, struggled pointlessly against his chains. An instant later, he was crying, tears and snot moistening his lips.

Once the last convict had been fixed in place, the guards left the terrace. On their way out, they gave a departing salute to one figure remaining behind, a homely woman with hay-textured hair and a potbelly compressed by the metal cuirass of her battle attire.

A few convicts taunted her appearance. The woman ignored them as she repeatedly scanned the area for anomalies and threats. For anyone versed in the appearance of human fear, however, it would be apparent that this vigil was more out of instruction than genuine concern, her thumb idly tapping on the handle of a rapier whose ivory-coloured blade exuded an aura of cleanliness.

In an inconspicuous part of the dome roof, a glass panel had been removed. Through the gap, a gust of wind slipped inside and dropped down to the ground, a bush at the landing spot rustling at the impact. The next moment, a masked figure emerged covered in leaves and strode over to join the woman, ready for the 'teleconference call'.

Caramel knocked his shoulder. "Any luck with the patrician beauty? How badly did you bomb?"

Henry, having reequipped his habitual mask to avoid his answers being mined for information by Karnon or anyone else spying, refused to acknowledge the question openly.

-Percy Maynard Brady: Not the occasion, Kara.

He'd also switched ring identities to the owner of the WBAE, who'd completed enough of Nerin's Trials to earn The Church's permission for conducting executions.

-Caramel_Sprinkles_Sunshine: Right. Sorry.

Henry approached the row of convicts and strolled along their ranks, giving each a brief inspection. One spat a glob of phlegm onto his shirt, and a couple begged to be pardoned. A woman, her face blanched a greenish hue with anxiety, took one look at him and burst into tears, having recognised her death in his solemn composure.

Henry didn't deny it.

Each of these people had conspired with The Empire to smuggle his weapons, had parasitised the systems he'd built for their personal profit or to aid a crooked mob in plotting a violent insurrection. For that, they must die.

The fourteen collected here, whom he would be killing personally, were but a sample. At other Trading Posts in Suchi and Chayoka, hundreds of conspirators had been gathered. While he'd been frolicking in the arena this week, these people had been identified, found, and tracked by his surveillance apparatus. While he'd been playing at a teenage romance today, they'd been apprehended at work, ambushed in the streets, dragged out of their homes, filed and processed through a swift sentencing.

By the end of this hour, all the NPCs involved in the plot would be dead, their role in the story complete except for the testimonies a couple had coughed up.

The players of The Empire, Ramiro and the others, couldn't simply be killed. Handling them would be a more drawn-out, multi-stage affair.

With player-organisations, the primary target had to be their political structures and territories. Normally, any org that committed an infraction against The Company would first be commanded, through private communications with its leadership, to pay reparations. These might mean the return of stolen goods, monetary fines, forfeiture of key domains and industries, political favours. If the infraction was serious, the compensation might prove beyond their capacity to pay. In such cases, they would be ordered—again privately—to hand over their command for restructuring, problematic members of the leadership being demoted and replaced with Company puppets. Only after a refusal of that stage would matters be presented to the public. Then, the harsher tactics would be rolled out, trade embargoes, smear campaigns, continuous assassinations against the enemy leadership to make the game unplayable for them, military occupancy, total war.

The Empire couldn't afford the fines for arms smuggling, so they would immediately be asked to transfer ownership. This request, they would comply with. In an open conflict, they would lose in half an hour.

That'd been the Corporate restructuring phase of Henry's plan to save Suchi. His guild was about to seize everything The Empire'd built. In the initial timetable, this stage shouldn't have occurred for another two days or so, until after the British journalist's expose would have caused The Saviour to be dismissed in disgrace.

By accelerating the restructuring, Henry was making a small withdrawal from the subsequent phases. Thereby, he continued his tentative answer to the azure-menace in the background of this struggle: no. He was finished with helping this garbage zone.

Still, it would be a sort of happy ending, wouldn't it? The Slums were to be liberated from the corrupt domination of these mobsters roleplaying as an 'Empire'. The bad guys would be outed. Justice would be delivered to a portion of those who deserved it.

For the first to die today, Henry walked up to a convict chained to a pole imbedded in a pit of sand. The man had the red-skin of the Ibangua caste who typically resided in Central City, and a third of his face, including a missing eye, was dominated by a gruesome scar earned while attempting to pluck a Gargari Plainsbeast's stomach hair for one of Nerin's Trials.

Senior Director Okai Van's remaining eye glittered with pride and defiance. "So, Mr Leopold, you will be delivering the rites?"

Henry picked up from the tone of 'you' that the man meant him, The Tyrant.

The Senior Director may have initially been fooled into mistaking him as an agent of the Nilkan princes after Henry'd reprimanded him in their language and made a showy display of wealth. However, after being abducted by The Company's agents, it would be easy to deduce the truth for someone as knowledgeable about their organisation as the Senior Director. Who could have mobilised the arrest of a senior official without a trial? Who dwelled in Chayoka, from which a convoy had arrived in Suchi shortly before their meeting? Who was also filthy rich?

"Today, I'm a 'Mr Brady'," Henry replied. "But, yes. I hope you'll forgive an Offworlder for being so presumptuous."

"There's no need for modesty, Mr Brady." The Senior Director motioned to bow his head, but his neck was stopped by a chain. "It's a privilege."

Henry produced a woman's headwrap and, moving behind the man, tied the garment around his bound wrists. As he did so, he maintained a cautionary distance, even though the Senior Director had been dosed with a poison to suppress the strength of his Martial Body, rendering him harmless.

"They sailed away this morning," Henry whispered.

'They' were the man's Slumdweller wife and their half-caste kids, who'd been placed under The Company's protection in exchange for his co-operation.

"Is that so?" The Senior Director made no further comment, his position in The Company having familiarised himself with the procedures for evacuating the relations of informants.

"She wrote a letter. Want to read it?"

The Senior Director gave the offer a moment's thought, before nodding in assent.

Henry, circling back around, pulled the letter from a pocket and held it before the man. He studied the Senior Director's lonely eye running a slow, calm course over the lines of feminine calligraphy. The man's gaze was much steadier than many in this situation, who often had to re-read sentences interrupted by anxiety and intruding thoughts. He was amongst those who understood the game they played and wouldn't quiver at the consequences of losing. Henry could respect that.

A nearby convict had an epiphany. "Brother Okai…," he stammered, "But you…you…you brought me into this! If you hadn't…I wouldn't… I'd be…"

"Are you really surprised?" remarked a second convict. "You can't teach a Company dog new tricks. Woof! Woof! That's where his loyalties have always lain."

"Brother!" yelled a third. "How could you betray us, brother?!"

Henry, recognising the voice of the third heckler, glanced over. They happened to be the overly-friendly Togavian, Merchant Ga of Clan Lis, who'd harassed him to join this smuggling operation during the voyage here when he'd been disguised as a fellow azure-haired Togavian. According to the Overdream investigation of Karnon, Henry's decision to imprison this guy had ultimately been what'd set The Trickster God's sights on him, the God being attracted to Suchi by the smuggler's prayers for rescue.

Also according to the investigation, this 'Merchant Ga' here now was probably not the real one but Karnon in disguise.

But whatever The Trickster God may be plotting, Henry wouldn't be using his extra Overdream insights to block him.

Even in his peak mental-state, victory would be impossible, his investigations having proven that Karnon was a threat beyond his present capabilities. Some of the 'pranks' that the God had formulated in days had taken Henry years to solve. While The Cap did gift him that time-allowance, Karnon could easily counter by upping the tempo, revising his schemes by the hour, obstructing The Cap's activation by notifying others to kill Henry whenever he might sleep.

Moreover, Henry wasn't in his peak mental-state. Look at his silly scheme to save this god-forsaken region. Whether Karnon corrected his course or worsened it, the original choice had been undeniably wrong, an impulsive mistake caused by Henry's failure to trust his systems, to stay on the safe path of retirement.

After a length of gaze appropriate to only thinking about the azure-haired Merchant and abstract, unconfirmed connections with The Trickster God, Henry returned to the Senior Director, who'd finished reading the letter.

Unlike his younger real-life twin, the moment he made this decision, Karnon's immediate presence vanished from his mind. It was just him and the first convict he would kill and the usual paranoia.

Still keeping his distance, he folded the letter and slotted it into the headwrap tied to the Senior Director's wrist. "Okai Van, Son of The Clay, with 42 of Her Sacred Trials to your blood, you have the right to the first choice of order."

The Senior Director surveyed his jeering co-conspirators, soaking in their insults. "They want me to go first, Mr Brady. Let me set a proper example."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Henry, while retaining the mask, swapped his outfit for the official regalia of Suchi's Church, a set of sky-blue garments inscribed with the sacred names of various deities.

"They suit you," the Senior Director commented on the priest robes.

Henry didn't react to the insult. From his Spatial Bracelet streamed out a collection of Alchemical supplies and instruments. Filtering out the world in the working of his hands, he spent a meditative minute grinding, stripping, and crushing ingredients, which were combined in a basketball-sized cauldron set to boil over a little fire.

For this execution, he would be using the traditional Ibangua method of exsanguination, death through blood loss. A magical formation he was preparing would allow cellular respiration to continue in the brain without any blood, thereby enabling him to keep the target alive and their body from decomposing into soul-lights long enough for more complete drainage.

Funnily enough, this exsanguination, on its own, wasn't a punishment for the Ibangua caste. Non-criminals also voluntarily underwent this ritual when terminally-ill or mortally-wounded on the battlefield. Suicides, too. Dying without a decent bloodletting was deemed a tragedy.

Instead, the penalty component centred on the handling of the drained fluids.

Henry approached closer to the Senior Director again, the cauldron floating beside him. "For charges including extortion, assassination, the theft and the illegal selling of military weaponry, abduction, espionage, embezzlement, and conduct unbecoming of a Senior Director of The Company, I, Alchemist Percy Brady, Officer of The Third Rank, under the full endorsement of The Attention Saana East Trading Company, acting with the additional authority imparted to me by The Sky and Those Innumerable Ones Who Provide Its Plenty, hereby sentence you, Okai of the Van lineage, to die by the Ibanpita method of Desert Exsanguination."

The two shared a wordless look.

Henry switched to the tongue of The Church. "O ye Innumerable Ones, numbering more than the sand-grains heaped upon the oceans' shores, Two-Hearted Fhairdainn of Compassion's Fifth Aspect, Grey-Bearded Kufanozia of After-Knowledge's Second Aspect…"

While chanting a list of deities, he used a ceremonial knife to deliver a cut to the man's sleeve, running the weapon's white-stone blade over the location of the ulnar artery beneath. "…Sister Pavitra Doolaa of Insight's Eighth Aspect…" He ripped off a section of sleeve, exposing the skin with a faint white scratch, not deep enough to draw any blood. "…Voluptuous Pokhot of Carnality's Fourth Aspect…"

Continuing in this manner, he stripped the man of his clothing, cut by cut. He took extra care to avoid nicking the flesh, which'd been reduced to an ordinary state of fragility by the same poison that suppressed his Martial Body's strength. There was an art to this clothing removal. A skilled priest should make the dying one feel the knife's presence, yet it was also considered bad form to draw any blood prematurely.

So, for ordinary members of the Ibangua caste, their blood would be captured in containers, purified of contagious diseases, and stored by The Church for later drinking by female descendants whenever they were attempting to conceive a child.

This ritual tied in with a unique Ibangua cultural conception of the afterlife. A person's soul was claimed to hold a particular affinity with their blood, which behaved as a medium binding the Cosmic soul and the Worldly body. When a woman trying to become pregnant drank an ancestor's blood, the imbibement assisted the departed soul to return and inhabit the zygote at the moment of conception. Thereby, one could guarantee they'd be reborn as an Ibangua in the next Cycle of life. This blood-rebirth could continue in perpetuity, and an Ibangua's 'surname' was that of their reincarnated ancestor spirit. Excess blood from this maternal-drinking ritual supposedly suffused throughout a child's flesh, giving the Ibangua race their characteristic red skin.

To skip out on the bloodletting, to 'waste' one's blood, would make it harder for one's soul to return to the world. Without the blood guidance, one had to swim blindly in the darkness of the universe, competing against other dispossessed souls, likely ending up a member of a lesser race or an animal.

Henry, drawing a bit of blood out of pretended clumsiness and infrequent practice, eventually stripped the Senior Director naked except for his undergarments and his wife's headwrap. He then filled a clay-cup with water, which he cast a magical incantation upon and drank. Swilling the liquid around his mouth, he spat it over the Senior Director. The water, being expelled in a fine mist, condensed above the chained man's head into a small cloud.

The Senior Director closed his eye as a shower broke upon him.

"…ye Cloud-Bringers who quench our thirst and wet our fields," Henry intoned, while telepathically redirecting the droplets dripping down the Senior Director's feet away from the sand into a nearby bucket, which filled to its brim despite the much smaller initial volume, "condescend through the boundlessness of your infinite charity to listen to this infinitesimal petition. Forgive us our impatience as we today delivered one of yours to The Desert."

When the cloud had been spent, Henry rose on a short step beside the Senior Director, the cauldron of prepared unguent floating closer to him. "O ye Innumerable Ones, do not begrudge us our insolence, our ineptitude, our failure to imitate your paternal guidance and maternal caress, our inability to prevent our brother from riding North."

The unguent had cooled from a liquid into a paste the consistency of paint. He scooped some of this out with a brush and drew several lines on the Senior Director's head. The man's wet hair, upon touching the paste, began to crackle and smoke, the unguent melting through the strands until it reached the red skin beneath, which it rested upon without burning.

"Ye Innumerable Ones, those of lineage Van have passed from the Clay to the Sand. They have left our protection. They have become the annihilation. No renewal have they. Their journeys have ceased..."

Henry applied the lines of paste around the man's scarred face, down the neck, his work roughly mapping out the main arteries and veins. With the man motionless in full submission, none of the wet clumps of burned-off hair dropped from his pate.

There were three grades of severity for blood-wastage.

First and best, if one's blood spilt on Suchi's clay soils, it would be stored in the land. The Ibangua were cognizant of the fact that their mythology logically led to their race shrinking over time, as some people failed to recycle their blood with each generation. They believed that, after they'd all failed, the disorganised, uncivilised leftovers of humanity would cannibalise itself. Subsequently, humankind would reborn again from the blood in Suchi's clay, restarting a new, larger Cycle, one spanning millions of years and encompassing the smaller Cycles of individual lives.

Second, less preferable, was the blood being spilt in most other parts of the world. Then, upon humanity's great renewal, one would be born remotely from the Ibangua homeland and its collective protection, doomed to struggle and die alone.

"They will not be grandson, they will not be great-great-grandson, they will not be again. Their Cycles have expired. They went to The Desert, and now they wait as The Desert for this eternity's end..."

Third and worst was if one's blood spilt into the Enuchibe desert north of Suchi. In that case, the desert would consume and destroy one's blood, severing the Cosmic-World connection permanently. The soul thereafter would be lost to the Cosmos until a final, larger phase of The Cycle spanning trillions of years reached its conclusion. The desert, ever consuming, ever expanding, would eventually swallow the whole universe. At that point, everything would be destroyed and remade by the Cosmic Gods, the planet returning as a sphere of pure clay except one insidious grain of sand.

Henry continued painting down the Senior Director's torso, the arms to the hands, and finished with the feet standing in a pit of sand shipped in from the Enuchibe desert. "They forfeited their rebirths. They forsook their malleable form. They were tempted by The White's allures..."

The punishment for the execution was making this guy bleed out onto this imported sand, thereby banishing his soul for trillions of years.

Of course, this banishment wasn't literally about to happen. Like most mythologies in Saana, the Ibangua one represented a mangled truth, an incomplete interpretation of the thin slice of the universe that'd been available to them for observation.

Suchi's belief system especially was an obvious fabrication, a syncretic monstrosity stitched together from handed-down fragments of the region's former cultures.

This bloodletting practice came from the Enuchibe's nomadic tribes, part of a general suite of water-preservation techniques. The eschatology of a universal desert death was also theirs. Senior Director Okai Van's Ibangua caste, despite adopting these practices, were unrelated to these nomads, whose real descendants were the base culture of the Slumdwelling Ibanmothe or 'Sand People', first enslaved in the area during The Redeemer's reign, seven millennia earlier.

Suchi's tripartite caste-system—with residents being categorised as belonging to the sky, the clay, or the sand—was a later addition, created by The Deathless One when he ruled from 6334 BP to 5148. His conquering No-Are brethren were the 'Clay People', the Ibangua, for their mastery of earth-shaping magic used in the region's fortresses. The 'Sky People', the Ibanpita, had been The Deathless One's eunuch researchers selected from the Clay-caste, tasked with performing human experiments to find a method of immortality. Amongst their technological innovations was a technique for mass summoning rain from Suchi's cloudless heaven - Sky People. The Sand People continued to be the Sand People.

The current red-skinned Ibangua race now occupying the Clay- and Sky-castes hadn't arrived in the region until 3650 BP. They first appeared as traders of an unknown origin in Kanaru's port cities. Within half a century, they'd not only mastered the No'Are techniques for castle-building and rain-summoning but improved them, allowing them to multiply and dominate the region. Following this conquest, they merely slotted themselves into the local belief systems to legitimise their rule. In doing so, they retconned the mythology a bit, like changing the Clay-People demonym into a reference to them being born from Suchi's soil whose colouration matched their skin – a pure coincidence.

Suchi's cultural evolution hadn't stopped there. This first form of this ancient desert-nomad bloodletting was carried out in silence with no more flair than applying a field dressing to a wound. It didn't gain its elaborate incantations until 1864 BP, when The All-Mother conquered the region. This fanatical hermaphrodite Goddess had reformed the Sky-People from a secretive cabal of researchers into fanatical zealots, forcing them to incorporate praise for herself into their techniques, transforming an arcane science into religious worship. Then, when the Neeshifites gained control of Suchi after Karnon murked The Mother in 1108, these new conquerors rewrote The Church's liturgy to be pantheistic. Where earlier Henry'd been requesting the assistance from various Gods, priests in the past would have called upon the 574 Duties of The All-Mother.

That, in a nutshell, was this shithole's history.

"...They were reclaimed by The Cycle. They went into the Long Waiting. They were welcomed back by The White Desert. They were broken by the Erosion of Recomposition..."

But even with an awareness of the local mythology's contrived genealogy, Henry, who you might say was a cultural relativist, would behave as though it was real. It would be absurd to quibble over the legitimacy of the Ibangua's beliefs after such a long passage of time, after so many centuries had marched beyond their origination. Most importantly, for this man he was chanting over, these rituals had an emotional truth. For the Senior Director, the act of bleeding out in a sandpit was conceived as the harshest demise. And that's all Henry really wanted, to give him a harsh death.

Also, this being a videogame, none of the history was 'real' anyway. One should keep some sense of perspective.

"They went to the land where the rain falleth not. They were scattered on The Northern Winds." Henry scattered several Energy stones around them. "They were dismembered by the Scorpion of Inexistence." Stomping his foot, he made a runic formation light up around them in the shape of a scorpion. As its glowing lines connected with those drawn onto the Senior Director, they began to glow, too, and emit a high-pitched noise like a child whistling in the distance. "Their Soul wails and laments for the form once held together by your Sky Gift. Their betrayal brought their Cycles to a still. No bodies have they further. Ye Innumerable Ones, hate them not for going to The Desert."

The Senior Director reopened his one eye, emerging from a trance. "Indeed, the robes do suit you."

Henry switched back to the common tongue. "To those who were known as Van, what were their final words?"

As he asked this indirect question, he brought out a quill and book with this ring identity's name inscribed on it. These items floated away beyond his reach and began automatically transcribing any nearby utterances.

A few breaths passed, during which the Senior Director weighed his response. During this pause, the quill and book recorded the whisperings of two observing convicts.

"Rather than a last statement," the Senior Director finally said, "spare me a last answer. Since joining The Company, it's never been clear to me what exactly it is that I've become a part of, this incomprehensible Offworlder behemoth. Are they good people? Am I a good person by helping them? Mr Brady, you're a Company man. Tell me, what's your opinion? Are you a good person?"

"No," Henry replied without hesitation. "But I have tried to clear a way for the good people to exist."

"And will they?"

"I don't know."

This answer surprised the Senior Director. "Even you don't know, Mr Brady?"

"I don't know," Henry repeated. "That's part of why I'm not a good person. I'm not a messiah; I have no sense of a supernatural guidance. I have to formulate plans, I have to hire experts to research, I have to quantify risks and losses, and then, in the face of the uncertainty that remains, I choose. It would be very comforting to believe that all these roads I've chosen lead to a destination justifying their creation, that the construction of each might even out according to my demented calculus of happiness and bodies, but even that's not true. Many roads I was convinced would succeed, I've watched them end in disaster. The whole thing could have the same fate. Still, I have chosen it."

"You have chosen it..." The Senior Director found amusement in his executioner suddenly defending himself as though their roles were reversed; he hadn't expected that either.

Most of the convicts, who'd fallen silent during the preparation ritual, hadn't been able to follow the conversation at all. One friendly fellow was an exception.

Merchant Ga interjected. "And what of those whose blood must rot in the cement of your roads, brother?! What granted you foreign invaders the right to choose on our behalf?"

Henry messaged Caramel that this interjector was Karnon and to stay on guard.

"Nothing sacred." Henry tugged empathically at his Church robes. "I just killed those who would be doing the choosing otherwise."

-Caramel_Sprinkles_Sunshine: Sure?

-Percy Maynard Brady: Watch.

The Togavian convict flashed his teeth. "But, brother, what if someone kills you? What if I kill you?"

Henry shrugged indifferently at the prospect of his own death, in this game universe or otherwise. "For the sake of the world that remains after me, I'll pray your choices prove better than mine, that you're not the type of coward who pretends inaction isn't also a series of continual choices."

Karnon laughed. "And if I am coward, brother?"

"Then, I'll be waiting for you to join me in hell."

"Hahahaha."

The Senior Director nodded. "At least, Mr Brady, you do know some things about the future. That'll have to be enough for me." The man abruptly exhaled to empty his lung, before taking a deep breath, serving his veins with their last helping of this world's air. "To those who are good, I wish them victory. Hail to The Tyrant!"

"HE'S INNOCENT, BROTHER!" Karnon started spasming like a lunatic in his chains. "YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG MAN! HE'S BEEN FALSELY ACCUSED! RESTART THE TRIAL!"

Henry—committed to his choices, ignoring the show of mockery Karnon was performing to bait him and the other person eavesdropping—focused on the task immediately at hand.

He accepted the Senior Director's sarcastic salute upon himself, as he had countless times before. "Forgive us our impatience as we today delivered one of yours to The Desert."

"HE'S A PRODUCT OF THE SYSTEM, BROTHER! A FLOWER UNABLE TO BLOSSOM IN THESE ARID SOILS! GIVE HIS INNOCENT SOUL ITS RIGHTFUL PARDON!"

With one hand, Henry cupped the convict's cheek, the rough texture palpable on his fingertips of the ugly facial scar dealt to him by this horrendous city. The man's lonely eye stared unflinchingly back at him. There was a hateful accusation in the look, and grief. Henry accepted these, too.

"NO, BROTHER, NO! THERE ARE BETTER PATHS TO SALVATION! GIVE HIM UNIVERSAL ACCESS TO MEDICINE, EMPLOYMENT, EDUCATION, AND HOUSING!"

With the other hand grasping the ceremonial knife, he cut the man's throat.