For the glory of the one God of Paradise

In his early childhood, which he barely remembers, the only things that remain in his memory are the dull noises, the stench of blood, and the endless sermons of the cult leader. He was born and raised in a pseudo-religious cult located deep in the mountains, within a dilapidated building. Days filled with violence, coercion, and brainwashing. In a narrow space filled with a terrible stench and not a single ray of sunlight, he would simply repeat the cult leader's words, recalling what he considered his only god. And I saw it. Those who did not believe in the god, those who disobeyed his words, were called sinners and were all killed. Those who killed the sinners and offered prayers. He witnessed the scene through a crack in the door at a young age. His brain, not yet fully developed and lacking a complete way of thinking, accepted it as it was. At fifteen, the year he turned that age, he killed everyone there and offered prayers. When he came out of the place filled with the headache-inducing smell of blood, the first thing he felt was neither a sense of liberation nor relief, but emptiness. Dizziness from the dazzling light, the warmth that felt alien. That was the first time he had felt the sunlight. And he soon realized that it was freedom. His twisted ideology was deeply rooted. Yes, he needed a god by his side. He believed so. The harsh religious ideology from his childhood, even after he eliminated the source of it with his own hands, he couldn't escape it, and he sought a god on his own.