The gunmen hesitated, exchanging wary glances.
One squinted at us. "Them?"
"They are not normal," the hooded man replied, a strange reverence lacing his words. "They are the reason you are here."

Seth shifted slightly closer to me, every line of his body loose but potent, a living conduit of barely contained force.
Alec’s fists clenched at his sides, lightning flickering faintly at his fingertips, unseen by the terrified crowd.
Jamey stood steady, his face composed, lips moving soundlessly, already amplifying, already strengthening us.

It was not that we were outnumbered. They had weapons. Many. And I did not want the parishioners’ blood on my hands.
The lead gunman snarled, spitting on the floor. "Fine. Step away from the altar!"

Still, we did not move.
We remained standing like sentinels before the altar, under the weight of Heaven’s gaze and the world’s judgment.

My heart thundered, not from fear, but from something sharper.
Something holy.
Righteous fury.

This was God’s house. God’s domain. And they had no right to blemish this holy place.

The Living Scripture stirred across my skin, warmth rising, pulsing with purpose. Its fury mimicked my own, and I knew then and there that they were going to get their due.
Behind us, the candles no longer flickered like panicked flames. They stood upright, burning taller, steadier, alive, crackling with unseen power.

And in that trembling stillness, when the world seemed to hang by a single thread, I heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Gentle. But carrying the force of a thousand storms.

"Let it all go."

The command felt welcomed by my Scripture, as if it sensed familiarity. I scanned the crowd to see who it came from, but my sixth sense told me to look up. I did.
Then I saw him. Tall, his lithe athletic build too relaxed at the scene below as he stared down at us. Was it confidence or something else?

The invisible weight pressing on us lifted, and with it, the chains around our power broke.
We were no longer merely seen.
We were unveiled.

And as the first steps of the gunmen crunched forward, unaware of the reckoning they had summoned, a single thought seared into my soul:
They came hunting lambs, but they found lions instead.

I grabbed Seth’s hand and squeezed. "Fog up the place, will you?"
He understood immediately. Moments later, the entire church was filled with Seth’s breath, and like fog, it hid us from the enemy.

I leaned closer to Alec and whispered, "Get the parishioners out of here."
Alec answered without hesitation. "Got you, boss."

Lightning burst free from his entire frame, arms, chest, and even the air around him, flickering with snapping blue veins of raw power.
He vanished, a phantom of electricity, appearing and disappearing with every flash, lifting parishioners like feathers, depositing them safely through a back door.

Within minutes, the pews stood empty.
Only the priest and a few stunned service guild members remained, clutching protectively onto the priest.

Now we stood.
No longer hidden.
No longer restrained.

The first sound was not a gunshot, but my breath.
A slow exhale, quiet and deliberate, and the air itself shivered.

From my lips, gold slipped like mist.
It traced my throat, flowed down my chest, coiling around my arms in thin, molten streams that pulsed to the rhythm of my heart. The glow deepened as it reached my fingers, then spilled down my legs, wrapping my boots before touching the stone beneath me.

The floor breathed back.

Light rippled outward in wide, golden circles, soft at first, then steady, pooling around my feet like calm fire waiting for reason to burn. The men froze, their weapons trembling as the radiance thickened, shimmering like sunlight under water.

When the first muzzle rose, the pool moved.

Ripples lifted, forming slender tendrils of light that rose from the floor like living flame. They glided forward, graceful and certain, carrying the heat of judgment rather than anger. Every breath I drew pulled them higher; every exhale sent them sweeping across the nave.

The bullets never reached me.
They met the golden current and vanished, unmade as if mercy itself had erased them from existence.

The Scripture’s light wound around the nearest man, looping his chest and arms. He gasped as his weapon clattered away. The glow pressed him down, not to kill, but to bow the pride out of his spine. Another fell beside him, choking on fear.

I never moved.
The Living Scripture needed no command. It sought justice on its own.

When only one remained, shaking and crawling backward, the pool of gold slid toward him, quiet as breath. Strands coiled up, wrapping his arms and dragging him from the floor until he hung before me, caught in the radiance he had tried to outrun.

I turned to him, the light spiraling down my arm, curling around my hand like a flame that knew my name. My gaze met his, unwavering.

My voice was low, steady, unyielding.
“Speak. Who sent you?”

His answer came not in words but in defiance. He bit down hard on his tongue until blood spilled over his lips, running dark across his chin. His eyes locked on mine, stubborn and unyielding, as though pain could silence truth.

I smiled at the idiocy of it. Leaning closer, I touched a single finger to his mouth. The Scripture flared, and I whispered one word.
"Reverse."

The wound sealed instantly. Flesh knitted, blood retreated, the taste of iron banished from his tongue. He glared at me with the same defiant eyes, but I read the truth in them: he would not break easily.

Then footsteps echoed behind us.
Steady. Certain.

The tall man from the upper gallery stepped forward. His presence pressed into the room like a tide. He did not hesitate. He walked past me, calm as a shadow, and stopped before the bound gunman.

I extended my left arm toward him without taking my eyes off the captive.
"I don’t care what your intentions are, but right now, I suggest you stay right where you are."

He lifted both hands slowly. "I come as a friend, not as a foe, Max. Right now, without you crushing him for answers, I can get them quite easily."

He took a careful step forward.

Alec landed beside him in a flash of blue, lightning still crackling faintly over his shoulders. "Careful, buddy. Step closer, and I’ll burn the courage right out of you."

The man froze, half a smile ghosting across his lips. "Noted."

Seth moved to my side, his hand brushing my shoulder, grounding the fury that still simmered through my Scripture.
"Max… give him a chance," he said quietly. "I don’t think he’s foolish enough to risk his life after witnessing this."

I met Seth’s gaze, weighing the calm in his voice. Then I looked back at the stranger.
"Fine. You have thirty seconds to show me what you’ve got."

Without ceremony, he reached down, lifted the captive’s chin with a single hand, and leaned close enough for his words to pierce like a blade.
"Speak the truth. Who sent you?"

The man gasped, torn between resistance and surrender. His pulse fought against the Living Scripture’s grip until the stranger’s voice touched the air again.
"Speak the truth."

The words were soft, but they carried weight. It wasn’t command. It was persuasion, like a tide coaxing the shore to move.

The captive’s defiance faltered. His breathing slowed, eyes glassing over as if clarity itself was being whispered into him. Even the Living Scripture loosened, recognizing the gentleness of the intrusion.

And then I felt it.
Not a strike of light. Not a flare of power.
A pull.

The stranger’s aura unfolded around him like a tide drawn by unseen moons, silver and gold interwoven, yet threaded with faint hues of amethyst and ash. It did not blaze. It breathed. Each ripple brushed against my own aura, coaxing rather than colliding, beckoning instead of conquering.

Seth’s Breath stirred in answer, silver threads bending toward it, cautious yet curious. My Scripture followed, its golden light trembling as if caught in the stranger’s gravity. Alec’s lightning flared faintly, drawn forward, while Jamey’s soft resonance pulsed like a heart in harmony.

The air between us rippled.
Push met pull.
Power recognized persuasion.

The moment was neither violent nor gentle. It was inevitable.

Our auras met and pressed together, caressing, shaping, learning.
A thousand silent voices whispered in the seams of our souls as gold and silver dust blossomed between us, rising, then falling like divine rain.

It was not conquest.
It was communion.

When the light faded, the captive slumped, his lips trembling around unspoken truth.

The stranger looked up at me, calm and certain, the faint shimmer still clinging to his skin.

Seth exhaled slowly, his silver breath curling in the holy quiet.
"One of the Twenty-Eight," he murmured. "Finally revealed."

Jamey blinked, eyes wide, the lingering gold dust catching in his hair.
"Yeah… just like the glyph that moved beside the silver one back at the Sepulcher. The one with no color."

He elbowed Alec lightly. "You should be nice to him, man. He might just be your newest best friend."

Alec groaned. "Perfect. Another overpowered saint to babysit."

The light between us dimmed into peace, leaving the faint scent of sanctity in the air.

And for the first time that night, the Sepulcher’s prophecy didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like an awakening.

Somewhere deep within the silence, the floor beneath us hummed.  Once, then twice, as if something ancient had heard its cue.

Seth’s hand tightened on my shoulder. His voice barely broke a whisper.
"Max… tell me you felt that."

I nodded, eyes lifting toward the unseen heavens. The golden dust still drifted through the air, drawn upward, fading into nothing.
"Yes," I said softly. "One has risen."

The quiet that followed was not peace.
It was a promise.

If you thought Heaven’s prophecies were all talk, think again.

The first of the Twenty-Eight has stepped into the light, and with it, the shape of Heaven’s design begins to unfold.
Max may believe this was just a rescue, but destiny has its own schedule, and Heaven rarely moves without reason.