In a world darkened by spiritual decay, the Modern-Day Christ walks alone. Not a martyr. Not a victim. But a witness—the last luminous rebel on a planet gone numb. He’s not here to die for anyone. He’s not here to be worshipped. He’s here to sweep. To clear the rot. To awaken the ones who might still wake. And to dodge the swarm of zombies that gather wherever truth dares to breathe.

Zombies don’t know they’re zombies.

They look like your neighbors, co-workers, yoga teachers, social media influencers. Their teeth aren’t dripping with blood—they’re polished. Their eyes don’t roll back in their heads—they’re glued to screens, silently absorbing, consuming, mimicking, ghosting.

They think they’re “just surviving,” but they are actually feeding. On what? On the light of the living. On the words of the few who still speak truth. On the strength of anyone willing to live authentically.
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Christ doesn’t carry a cross this time. He carries a broom.

A broom of truth.

He sweeps the delusion, the programming, the endless gunk calcifying the collective soul. And every time he sweeps, the zombies hiss. They call it judgment, ego, blasphemy. But he keeps sweeping. Because truth isn’t about approval. It’s about clearing.

Each truth he shares costs him. His energy depletes. His skin weathers. His heart cracks a little more. But he doesn’t stop.

He didn’t come to build a fanbase. He came to witness. To complete. To hold the line of divine order in a world addicted to chaos.
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It’s not the pain of crucifixion. It’s the pain of being unheard by those you came to help. The pain of bearing witness to a humanity that’s been hijacked by parasites and can’t even see it.

Eventually, the divine ones intervene.

Throne ships descend, not for battle, but for evacuation. The Christ is lifted. He has done his part. He is complete. The zombies are left behind to consume each other in a pit of their own forgetting.