The Sistine Chapel's magnificent ceiling, Michelangelo's masterpiece depicting God's creation of Adam, gazed down upon a scene of unholy devastation. Pope Clement XI, born Giovanni Francesco Albani, lay dismembered on the marble floor, his white papal vestments soaked crimson. The Fisherman's Ring—symbol of papal authority since the early Middle Ages—gleamed on a severed hand several meters from its owner's body.
Sam sat upon the papal throne, one leg casually draped over its gilded arm. The ornate chair, symbolizing Christ's authority transferred to his earthly representative, creaked beneath him as he shifted. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the ancient wood, adding to centuries of metaphorical stains now made literal.
"God's chosen voice," he mused, addressing the scattered remains of Vatican Swiss Guards and cardinals strewn across the chapel floor. "The Vicar of Christ himself. Yet when I silence this supposedly sacred voice, your God remains conspicuously absent."
The throne room's perfect acoustics carried his words clearly, bouncing his contemptuous observation off walls adorned with humanity's greatest religious art. Raphael's masterpieces stared down at the carnage, their painted eyes seemingly horrified at the sacrilege.
"Perhaps," Sam continued, examining the papal tiara he'd removed from Clement's head before decapitating him, "you were merely a greedy old man who loved spewing garbage about things you never understood."
He turned the triple crown in his hands, studying its intricate metalwork and jewels. The three tiers supposedly represented the Pope's authority as "father of kings," "governor of the world," and "vicar of Christ." Sam crushed it between his fingers, the priceless artifact collapsing into twisted metal and scattered gems.
"Gaudy nonsense," he observed.
The massive doors at the chapel's end burst open. A platoon of reinforcements poured through—Swiss Guards in their traditional blue, red, and yellow striped uniforms designed by Michelangelo himself, accompanied by armed Vatican officials and local Italian soldiers.
"DEMON!" shouted a cardinal, his red robes fluttering as he thrust a golden crucifix forward. "BY CHRIST'S HOLY POWER, RETURN TO HELL!"
Sam regarded him with mild curiosity. This particular exorcism attempt marked the seventeenth he'd experienced across various timelines. The script never varied significantly.
"Your Christ seems remarkably uninterested in enforcing his representative's commands," he replied calmly.
The assembled guards opened fire, musket balls and early flintlock pistols discharging in a cacophony of smoke and thunder. The bullets stopped mid-air before Sam, suspended by telekinetic force before dropping harmlessly to the floor.
"Technological advancement without corresponding cognitive evolution," Sam noted, rising from the papal throne. "You create increasingly efficient killing tools while maintaining primitive superstitions."
With a gesture, he telekinetically seized control of their weapons, reversing their trajectories. Guards screamed as their own musket balls tore through their bodies from behind, blood spraying across Renaissance masterpieces.
The cardinal continued his exorcism, voice rising desperately as Latin phrases echoed through the chapel. "EXORCIZAMUS TE, OMNIS IMMUNDUS SPIRITUS—"
Sam approached him unhurriedly, stepping over corpses with casual indifference. "Interesting hypothesis: that arranged syllables might affect metaphysical reality. Have you tested this empirically?"
Terror filled the cardinal's eyes as Sam reached him, but to his credit, the man continued his ritual, flinging holy water that evaporated before touching its target.
"—OMNIS SATANICA POTESTAS, OMNIS INCURSIO INFERNALIS ADVERSARII—"
Sam placed a finger against the cardinal's forehead. "I've encountered no evidence supporting supernatural causality, but I remain open to new data."
The man's exorcism prayers transformed into screams as Sam telekinetically disassembled him from the inside out, methodically liquefying organs while maintaining consciousness. The cardinal's body collapsed inward, bone and tissue compressing into an impossibly dense mass that Sam allowed to drop to the floor with a wet thud.
More soldiers poured through the entrance, these bearing more advanced weaponry—early grenades, refined firearms from French armories, even primitive incendiary devices.
"The technological progression remains consistent across timelines," Sam observed. "Escalating response capabilities without strategic adaptation."
He allowed the explosives to detonate, curious about their improved formulations in this era. The blasts rocked the chapel, destroying priceless artwork and killing many of the attackers with their own shrapnel. Sam remained untouched, protected by an invisible telekinetic shield.
Through smoke and falling debris, a black-robed Jesuit emerged, carrying what appeared to be a silver box adorned with religious symbols. "We prepared for your coming, Antichrist!" the priest declared, his Italian accent thick but his English understandable. "This reliquary contains the actual blood of Christ, preserved since Calvary!"
Sam tilted his head with genuine curiosity. "A falsifiable claim. Let's examine it."
Before the priest could react, Sam telekinetically extracted the container from his hands and disassembled it in midair. The contents—ordinary human blood preserved with primitive techniques—hovered as a crimson sphere.
"O-positive blood type," Sam noted after molecular analysis. "Approximately seventy years old based on degradation patterns. Male donor with Mediterranean genetic markers. Hardly divine."
The priest fell to his knees, babbling prayers as Sam approached. "Perhaps your faith would benefit from empirical verification before absolute commitment?"
He touched the man's mind directly, causing the priest to experience a small fraction of Sam's accumulated knowledge—glimpses of civilizations across multiple timelines, the consistency of human suffering regardless of theological frameworks, the endless experiments conducted on Sam's regenerating body.
The Jesuit's sanity shattered instantly, his cognitive functions overwhelmed by perspectives beyond human comprehension. He collapsed, drooling and muttering mathematical equations interspersed with fragments of dead languages.
Sam surveyed the destruction surrounding him. The Sistine Chapel—humanity's monument to divine inspiration—lay in ruins. Bodies carpeted its floor, blood stained its remaining walls, and smoke rose from smoldering debris.
"No divine intervention," he concluded, speaking to the empty air. "No cosmic retribution for desecrating supposedly sacred ground."
He walked calmly toward the Vatican's core, determined to complete his experiment thoroughly. The papal apartments, the Secret Archives, St. Peter's Basilica itself—all would be eliminated, along with every supposed representative of divine authority.
"Perhaps more comprehensive destruction will provoke response," he reasoned.
The Vatican burned around him, ancient structures collapsing as Sam systematically targeted load-bearing elements with telekinetic force. St. Peter's magnificent dome—architectural marvel of the Renaissance—imploded under precisely calculated pressure, its destruction visible across Rome as the symbol of Catholic power disintegrated.
Citizens fled screaming through streets, soldiers mobilized ineffectively, and religious leaders prayed desperately to silent heavens. Sam observed it all with detached interest, analyzing patterns consistent across multiple timelines.
"Fascinating consistency," he noted as a priest died trying to save a reliquary rather than a wounded child. "Symbolism prioritized over actual compassion, regardless of theological specifics."
When the Vatican lay in complete ruins, Sam stood amid the devastation, extending his perceptions outward. No divine presence manifested. No cosmic force arose to challenge him. Reality continued unperturbed despite the elimination of God's supposed earthly headquarters.
"Experiment yields consistent results," he concluded. "Divine intervention: not detected."
He activated his Chronosphere, targeting the next European power center. The Spanish Habsburg monarchy awaited his experimental protocols.
---
King Philip V of Spain, first Bourbon monarch of the Spanish Empire, cowered behind a formation of royal guardsmen in Madrid's Royal Palace. At twenty-seven, the grandson of Louis XIV of France presented a pathetic contrast to his illustrious heritage. His elaborate court dress—embroidered jacket, silk stockings, and powdered wig—seemed ludicrously impractical as he sought shelter from the approaching threat.
"¡PROTEJAN AL REY!" shouted the captain of his guard, arranging his men in defensive formation before the gilded throne. "¡POR ESPAÑA Y DIOS!"
Sam entered the throne room unhurriedly, stepping over the dismembered remains of the outer guard. Blood soaked his simple black attire, giving him the appearance of having waded through a crimson sea. His silver eyes surveyed the opulent chamber with scientific detachment.
"Gold leaf on ceiling fixtures," he observed aloud, "while peasants starve in Toledo. Fascinating priority allocation."
Royal musketeers fired in disciplined volleys, their weapons representing the finest European military technology of 1710. The bullets stopped mid-air, hanging suspended before Sam's outstretched hand.
"Projectile weapons utilizing expanding gases to propel lead spheres," he noted. "Effective against baseline humans, utterly inadequate against evolutionary advancement."
With a casual gesture, he reversed their trajectories, sending the bullets back through their originators with precision that ensured maximum damage to vital organs. Guards collapsed in sprays of arterial blood, their bodies convulsing across imported marble floors.
Philip V scrambled backward, falling from the dais as his legs tangled in his elaborate court dress. "¿Qué eres?" he whimpered, his French-accented Spanish betraying his foreign origins. "¿Qué quieres?"
Sam switched to flawless Castilian Spanish, his perfect recall allowing instant language adaptation. "I'm conducting an empirical investigation regarding divine protection of supposedly ordained monarchs."
The king's eyes widened. "God protects the rightful king of Spain!"
"A testable hypothesis," Sam replied, approaching steadily. "Let's examine the evidence."
Outside the throne room, the royal artillery had been positioned in the palace courtyards. Sam detected their movements telepathically—sixty-three cannon, the finest Spanish and French foundries could produce, loaded with grapeshot and chain shot, aimed at the palace walls.
"Fascinating tactical decision," he observed to the trembling king. "Willingness to destroy your own residence to eliminate a threat. Perhaps you possess more strategic thinking than your Habsburg predecessors."
Philip crawled backwards, his expensive clothes soiling on the blood-slicked floor. "FIRE!" he screamed, hoping the command would carry to his artillery commanders. "FIRE EVERYTHING!"
The palace shook as cannon roared in unison, their projectiles tearing through centuries-old stone and plaster. The throne room's eastern wall collapsed entirely, daylight streaming through choking dust and debris. Guards and courtiers died buried under masonry, their screams cut short by crushing weight.
Sam remained standing, untouched within a sphere of telekinetic protection. Cannon balls had stopped in mid-air around him, suspended by psionic force.
"You destroyed priceless cultural heritage and killed dozens of your own people," he noted with detached interest. "Yet I remain unharmed. Does this evidence support your hypothesis regarding divine protection?"
Philip's face contorted with terror as Sam telekinetically lifted him from the floor, suspending him at eye level.
"Your family claims divine right to rule," Sam continued conversationally. "The Salic laws of succession, the Catholic Church's blessing, the elaborate ceremonies reinforcing your supposedly sacred authority—all predicated on supernatural endorsement."
He began methodically dismantling the king's body, starting with non-essential extremities. Fingers separated bloodlessly along cellular boundaries, telekinetically extracted one by one while the monarch screamed.
"The molecular composition of royal blood appears identical to peasant blood," Sam observed, examining the floating crimson droplets with scientific precision. "No detectable divine markers or unique cellular properties."
Philip's screams intensified as Sam continued the systematic deconstruction, removing arms at the shoulder joints while maintaining the king's consciousness through psionic intervention.
"Please," the monarch begged, his composure shattered by unprecedented suffering. "I have a wife... children..."
Sam tilted his head. "As did many victims of Spanish colonization. Indigenous populations systematically exterminated under your family's authority. Enslaved Africans separated from their families to serve Habsburg economic interests. Your divine mandate apparently endorsed these actions."
The dismantling continued methodically, Sam's dispassionate commentary accompanying each extraction of bone, muscle, and organ. Throughout the process, he maintained the king's consciousness, ensuring complete experiential documentation.
"No divine intervention detected," Sam noted as Philip's torso finally collapsed, vital organs removed and suspended in telekinetic fields around his disembodied head. "Your God appears remarkably selective about enforcing divine right."
The king's head remained alive, psionic energy maintaining neural function as his eyes darted frantically between his own floating organs.
"Perhaps," Sam suggested, "your entire theological framework represents elaborate justification for ordinary human power structures? An interesting hypothesis worth exploring."
He allowed Philip's consciousness to fade, the experiment completed with consistent results. The head dropped to the floor alongside the deconstructed remains of Spain's divinely appointed monarch.
Outside, Madrid's military forces had mobilized in full—regiments of Spain's finest troops surrounding the palace with artillery, cavalry, and massed infantry. Church bells rang in alarm throughout the city as priests led public prayers for deliverance.
Sam walked unhurriedly through the palace's shattered wall, emerging onto a balcony overlooking the assembled armed forces. Thousands of soldiers stood in formation, their weapons trained on his singular figure silhouetted against the ruined palace.
General Miguel Francisco de Miraval, commander of Spain's central army, raised his sword. "¡FUEGO!" he commanded, his voice carrying across the tense silence.
What followed was the most comprehensive military response Sam had encountered in this particular timeline. Thousands of muskets discharged simultaneously, hundreds of cannon fired in coordinated battery, specially blessed silver bullets crossed paths with conventional lead projectiles—the combined firepower of Europe's once-greatest empire focused on a single target.
Sam allowed himself to experience the full assault, curious about this timeline's specific technological variations. The projectiles struck his telekinetic field with measurable force, their kinetic energy dissipating harmlessly against psionic resistance.
"Approximately 7% greater muzzle velocity than the corresponding British firearms of this era," he noted with academic interest. "Spanish metallurgy retains certain advantages despite economic decline."
When the smoke cleared, Sam remained untouched amid a circle of cratered stone. The assembled soldiers stared in horror at the impossible scene—a single man, unharmed by the combined might of Spain's military.
"Your technological development outpaces your philosophical evolution," Sam observed, his voice projected across the palace grounds. "You create increasingly efficient killing mechanisms while maintaining belief systems from pre-scientific eras."
With systematic precision, he began eliminating the assembled forces. Telekinetic force crushed internal organs without external marks. Soldiers collapsed by the dozens, blood pouring from eyes and mouths as their cardiovascular systems imploded.
"You maintain hierarchical power structures justified through supernatural frameworks," Sam continued, walking calmly down the palace steps as death radiated outward from his passage. "Kings rule because gods ordain it. Peasants suffer because divine will demands it. Empirical evidence contradicts these assumptions, yet you persist in organizing societies accordingly."
General Miraval charged forward on horseback, his ceremonial sword raised in a last desperate assault. The animal collapsed mid-stride, its heart telekinetically crushed, sending the commander tumbling across blood-soaked cobblestones.
Sam approached the fallen general, who struggled to extract himself from his dead mount, hampered by ornate armor and injuries from the fall.
"Your monarch cowered behind others before dying," Sam informed him. "Despite supposedly divine appointment and protection. Perhaps this empirical outcome warrants reconsideration of your operational assumptions?"
Miraval spat blood. "Spain will never surrender to Satan's agent!"
"I'm conducting scientific investigation, not requesting political capitulation," Sam clarified. "Though your conflation of empirical inquiry with theological constructs proves my point regarding cognitive limitations."
The general died as telekinetic force separated his spinal column into individual vertebrae, consciousness maintained long enough to experience the complete systematic dismantling of his own nervous system.
For three days, Sam methodically destroyed Madrid's power structures. The royal family, the Church hierarchy, the nobility—all systematically eliminated while ordinary citizens were permitted to flee. Buildings representing authority—palaces, cathedrals, government ministries—collapsed under precisely calculated telekinetic pressure.
He observed patterns in the population's response: initial religious fervor giving way to pragmatic survival instinct; power vacuums immediately filled by opportunistic individuals; theological frameworks instantly adapted to explain unprecedented phenomena.
"Remarkably consistent social reorganization despite contextual variations," he noted, watching from a hill as Madrid burned below. "Hierarchical structures reassert regardless of specific ideological foundations."
No divine intervention manifested. No supernatural agency emerged to protect supposedly sacred institutions or divinely appointed rulers. Reality continued unperturbed despite comprehensive dismantling of theological power structures.
Sam activated his Chronosphere, targeting England next. The British monarchy's claims of divine sanction awaited empirical examination.