Zoji Kingdom

It is not merely a kingdom. It is a grave. A cathedral. A sentence written in blood across the stars.

The Zoji Kingdom is the oldest of the Five Galaxy Powers, and by its own decree, the only one that matters.

For they do not question who created the universe.

They know.

His name was Zoji. And the first sin of mankind… was killing their god.

Zojism is not faith. It is fact. It is guilt carved into blackstone, prayers etched in ash. The people rise each morning to confess their creation's crime and spend every breath thereafter trying to undo it. They build temples as apology, wage wars as penance, and dream only of one impossible thing: resurrection.

Saint Giuseppe leads them—prophet, general, martyr-in-waiting. It is said that through agonizing rituals, he communes with the soul of Zoji still drifting in the beyond. His words are scripture. His orders, holy writ. The people kneel not because they are weak, but because they are ashamed.

Their cities are somber monuments. Buildings of blackstone and greywood crowd together beneath grey skies. Important structures—cathedrals, sanctums, archives—gleam with gold and marble not for splendor, but as offerings. Beauty here is a sacrifice, not a luxury.

They eat from the land as it was before the Fall: rice and fish, simple and sacred. Every meal is part of a daily ritual, every harvest a symbol that they have not yet been forsaken.

But they do not celebrate. They endure.

The military serves the Church directly, its banners bearing the skull of Zoji—two curled horns encircling a weeping sun. Soldiers are not conquerors. They are guardians of guilt. Each battle is a sermon, every death a chant in the divine liturgy of regret.

Power flows through the Church. Status is not earned through strength or wisdom, but by donation. The more one gives, the closer they stand to absolution. Those with nothing give their labor. Those with much give their legacy. There is no greed in this economy—only the desperate hope that enough sacrifice might stitch the god back together.

And still, in sanctums buried deep beneath holy soil, machines hum and relics glow—scientific miracles made in secret, each one reaching through time and space like a child clawing at a locked door. If Zoji cannot be prayed back into existence… perhaps he can be engineered.

The Zoji Kingdom does not forget. It does not forgive.

It builds temples from bones and towers from guilt.

And somewhere in the dark,

it waits for its god to wake.