Les was gone. There was no other way to say it. There was nothing else she could have done. . . but they were Manji. Their god would rise again, and so would their souls be reborn. It was their cost of life, their trade. They were all waiting for this moment, and having failed once, they would have to try again, harder.
She had collected the lives of many having worked with the graveyard so frequently. Bodies of old mages of mixed lifestyles had filled a hole hidden deep under the temple. It was saved for this moment. The sage and mounds of incense burned to mask the smell. On this day the temple would be empty as they would all remain outside. The doors kept open to welcome the guest that was to soon arrive.
She awaited, her head bowed to the altar within the back of the small church. The Manji temple was simple, wooden with other mixed materials. They were not wealthy people and strived on donations for the most part. They had no relics to fund themselves, not any longer. Here, their suffering would end and they would be presented a new solution. This was just how the Manji lived.