"And lo, did the Holy Priestess carve into Deepwood bark the Divine Calculation:

  'Ninety-two is halfway to ninety-nine'

  The people and System-branded from all around did marvel in awe at this doctrine; for they saw that it was truth."

  - Sermon on Leveling Distribution

  "In the beginning, all was darkness," boomed Pryor Yordan of Riverglen. "Mankind was alone, with neither clothing against the elements, nor weapons against the beasts."

  "Life was suffering, cold and without hope." Faithful among the pews nodded solemnly.

  "But rejoice! First, there was nothing. And then, there was the Menu!" Pryor Yordan raised his hands upwards, beckoning to the stained glass mural at his back.

  "Hark! The System and its Menu! Divine blessing from on high! Forcing order over the natural world! As the Holy Priestess decreed: All shall be Branded without exception!"

  Outside, it was nearly noon. It was a beautiful day in Riverglen, this first among towns. The titular river lazily flowed through the idyllic city's strong brick walls. A natural moat separated walled, secure Riverglen from the gently rolling hills of the countryside. Adjacent to the city’s central square stood the spacious halls and grand towers of the First Cathedral of the Menu.

  The good pryor’s sermon was precisely timed to match when the sun refracted through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows. An early-spring sun peeked out over the thatched roofs of Riverglen, bathing the choir stands, pews, confessional hall, and buttresses in a kaleidoscope rainbow of divine beauty.

  "Indeed, my flock. Not but two miles south of this very holy ground, our blessed forefathers perfected the System, the Holy Interface. And with this Interface and its Blessed Menu, they did rescue this tepid hollow from beast and devilry both."

  "The Warrior, Oh Martyred Paladin, Who Did Build Our First Walls," the congregation droned in a monotone chant.

  "The Battlemage, court magician for hire. Who Did Puzzle Out the Intricacies of The Holy Interface."

  "The Scout, Who Did Trailblaze the Great Pilgrimage."

  "And the Priestess," concluded Pryor Yordan with a nod to his flock. "Oh Cleric, Who Did Establish This, Our First Church of The Menu."

  The great church bells would sound soon. A team silently worked in the high belfries, preparing to wind and release the massive bells entirely via Interface. It was a feat that would be nigh impossible for such a small crew by hand. But through the Menu, all things were possible.

  "Together, these great heroes did push back the forces of devilry and heretical doubters both. We are blessed with their Holy Interface forever more." The Pryor clasped his hands in prayer. "My flock, do open your Menus and prepare for communion."

  Dozens, nay, hundreds of unobtrusive menus opened before the congregation. A fluid mirage wafting about a foot and a half in front of each congregant, fully visible only to the faithful via a System Brand.

  What the throngs of churchgoers could see, up at the podium, was this:

  Light from the stained-glass windows stopped dead at this translucent bluish shimmer held aloft before Pryor Yordan’s face and duplicated before the throngs of churchgoers. For it was not of the world, but a holy blessing from on high. Yordan’s Brand, passed on from Pryor Yonathan and a long line of deacons and clerics before him, glowed a faint blue on the palm of his right hand.

  Via this Brand, be they fresh converts or born into the church, all were marked. To possess the Brand was to be blessed with the Menu and its Interface. The Interface Brand made man strong – made man transcend the boundaries of mortal strength and agility; a holy force even demons dare to cross!

  "And so, my flock, if you would follow the example of that ancient hero of yore, our Besainted Priestess, and thumb over to Inventory, then scroll down to Food, and filter for 'Communion Wafers'..."

  Simultaneously, in a thought-to-be empty confessional booth...

  "Ahh, they used to have full orchestras for every sermon."

  A woman wearing a thick eyepatch covering everything from her cheek to her left temple to the bridge of her nose closed her remaining good eye. Her hair was dark and curly. Her good eye was a rusty red. She mimed a string instrument in her hands, swaying to some old choir no one else could hear.

  "At least, that's how I remember it, back at home." The woman hummed along softly to an imaginary tune, audible only to her. "Now it's all boring sermons and droning choirs."

  A gruff, muffled voice came from the priest's confessional booth. Too harsh and guttural to come from some kindly old pastor.

  "Missing the orphanage?"

  "What? No." The woman's face contorted into a frown. "I mean, not like that."

  "You're not going to be able to run in that dress."

  "Relax, good sir.” The woman chuckled to herself. "I've got to blend in with the crowd until the opportune moment."

  Mass was held twice weekly. All Menu-branded citizens – nearly everyone – on the first town of the holy pilgrimage route – would be here today. There would be no shortage of witnesses. No mugging the pryor behind the cathedral after hours. The pair would have to be loud.

  There was a begrudging grunt of approval from beyond the confessional shade. "Time it for when the bells ring."

  "Not my first operation, 'Kido~" the woman said with a singsong voice.

  Another less approving grunt.

  "Don't let your guard down, Jelena."

  The woman, Jelena, swung up from her perch on the confessional booth. Almost showtime.

  "Keep that back door open for me." Jelena snickered.

  Outside, there was a mass of wavy, flickering sounds. The congregation was busy flipping through its myriad menus. The bells would ring right around the time they began eating their weekly communion.

  "Ah, bit of a familiar feeling," Jelena said.

  Need about six seconds from the moment I walk out of this booth. Columns will mask my approach, and everyone else who could see me will be too buried in their menus to react. Jelena adjusted her eyepatch.

  "Hallowed is the Interface," she said glibly. "Just another day at the ol' haberdashery..."

  Up at the altar, Pryor Yordan held his hands aloft.

  "As our Great Heroes of Yore did in those ancient days, do we select these communion wafers in your honor, oh Lord. And we do select these wafers, then hover over to 'eat,' as instructed in the holy commandments. And we do consume these wafers as offering to you in prayer, so that our faithful may follow in our heroes' footsteps down the road of the Grand Pilgrimage."

  A woman in an austere dress, indistinguishable from any other worshiper, rounded an interior buttress. If anyone in the pews wasn't distracted by their menu, they may have assumed she was a late adherent attempting to sneak in through a side door.

  The great bells sounded high above. Noon had struck.

  A woman in a thick eyepatch covering about half her face scurried into the cathedral's central aisle, standing before the altar, at the steps at Pryor Yordan's feet.

  The Pryor opened his mouth to speak, his voice inaudible over the din of the bells. A squat, cylindrical object was pulled out of this mystery woman's dress. Smoke accompanied a shrill and blinding flash that rang off the acoustic stone of the cathedral.

  What the flock saw, in the blink of their eyes, was this:

  Dead.

  No warning. No turns at death's door, where the congregation could summon healers or apply a salve. Dead, permanently, his most dishonorable foe not even allowing her victim the church-sanctioned rite of turn-based combat.

  This murderer looked upon the now frightened faithful with her good eye. She put a finger to her lips.

  "Simply business."