Chapter 7: The Madonna’s Grip

Not long after leaving the basement, I was greeted by dazzling sunlight.

It was almost blinding after so much time in the dark. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes, breathing in the crisp air like it was the first day of spring after a long winter.

Outside was a bustling church hall, with crowds lining up to kneel and make wishes.

The place was a hive of activity—families in Sunday best, little kids running between pews, the low hum of whispered prayers. It felt strangely familiar, like the block parties and bake sales that marked every holiday back in Silver Hollow.

But their clothes were strange, just like those worn by Rachel and me.

Everyone wore the same uniform—modest, somber, a little out of step with current trends. There was something cultish about it, like the dress code was meant to erase individuality.

Stranger still, when they made offerings, they didn’t pay with cash, but used a rectangular device to scan a piece of paper, then said, "It’s done." Phones out, they scanned QR codes taped to the donation box—no cash, just a beep and a nod, like paying for coffee at the drive-thru.

This magical scene triggered memories from this body’s past.

A wave of nostalgia hit me—Daniel’s memories surfacing, blending with my own. I remembered birthday parties in this very hall, the smell of pancakes and cheap coffee, the sound of old hymns sung off-key.

In the thousand years before my rebirth, the world had changed dramatically.

It was like waking up from a coma and finding your hometown turned into a strip mall. Change was the only constant, and I was racing to catch up.

Due to certain events, the number of practitioners had plummeted, and now people placed their faith in technology.

The world had moved on from magic and miracles. Now, everything ran on apps and algorithms. Faith was a transaction, as quick and impersonal as tapping a screen.

Those people just now were using a device called a smartphone to scan codes and pay.

I marveled at how easily the sacred had become routine—wishes, prayers, donations, all reduced to a few taps. Even in the age of miracles, nothing beat convenience.

Unfortunately, while I could see even Daniel’s childhood memories clearly, everything recent was a blur.

It was like reading a book with half the pages torn out. I grasped at fragments, piecing together what I could.

"Believer Daniel, is your headache any better?" Just then, the old man and his assistant caught up. "If not, you’d better come back inside with me. It’s windy out here, and you might get worse."

His tone was sweet as molasses, but the look in his eyes was anything but kind. I forced a smile, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.

He wore a sinister smile, certain of his victory.

He reminded me of a used car salesman—confident, manipulative, always angling for the upper hand.

It seemed he was convinced I would die.

I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

"Pastor, the pill you gave me is truly miraculous!" I said with a grin. "After some fresh air, not only is my headache gone, but I feel completely rejuvenated!"

I bounced on my toes, spreading my arms wide as if to show off my newfound health. A few onlookers chuckled, and I caught Rachel’s eye—she rolled her eyes, but there was a smile on her lips.

The old man’s face darkened.

His jaw clenched, and he shot me a glare that could have soured milk. I almost laughed.

Provoking him wasn’t my intention, but just now I’d seen something that made me unhappy.

Some memories are hard to swallow, and jealousy is a bitter pill. I wasn’t about to let him push me around, not after everything I’d been through.

In Daniel’s memories, I saw how he and Rachel met, fell in love, and started a family. I was already so jealous I could taste it.

I tried to hide it, but I couldn’t help the little sting of envy. They’d built a life together—a life I was only just beginning to understand.

He had the nerve to bother me now—he was just asking for trouble.

I squared my shoulders, determined not to let him see any weakness.

Besides, when I raised my voice, many people turned to look.

I made sure the whole room heard me, drawing the eyes of every congregant. There’s safety in numbers, and I wanted witnesses.

This was why I ran out of the basement—I knew he wouldn’t dare make a move in public.

Public pressure is a powerful thing. No one wants to be the villain in front of a crowd, especially in a small town where everyone knows your business.

Not to mention, these were all potential believers here to pray.

He needed their trust, their adoration. One wrong move, and he risked losing everything.

"Everyone," he quickly changed his expression and addressed the crowd, "this man was once terminally ill, his soul lost, his body wracked with pain."

He switched gears with practiced ease, shifting into preacher mode. The audience leaned in, hungry for a miracle.

"No doctor in the world could save him. But in his despair, his faith moved the Madonna. He stands here today because the Madonna granted him a new soul."

He painted me as the poster child for redemption, a living testament to the church’s power. I almost wanted to laugh at the irony.

"The Madonna is merciful, saving all people."

The crowd murmured in agreement, a sea of nodding heads and whispered prayers. The energy in the room shifted, buzzing with expectation.

As soon as the old man finished, his assistant began chanting slogans.

He started softly, his voice gaining strength with each repetition. Soon, the rhythm caught on like wildfire.

Several others dressed like him joined in, and soon the whole hall echoed with their voices.

Their unity was impressive—and just a little terrifying. The sound rose and fell like the tide, threatening to sweep me away.

"The Madonna is merciful, saving all people."

The phrase took on a life of its own, becoming more mantra than statement. Goosebumps crawled up my arms. I’d seen pep rallies with less intensity.

"The Madonna is merciful, saving all people."

Over and over, the chant built, a wave of sound pressing in from all sides. I gritted my teeth, determined not to show fear.

…

The chanting rolled like waves, threatening to engulf everyone present. Even I felt a twinge of fear.

It was primal—a reminder that faith, in large enough doses, can be just as dangerous as any sword.

When the chanting subsided, the old man in black placed a hand on my shoulder and said, one word at a time:

He squeezed my shoulder, each word measured and heavy.

"Daniel, you may go home and rest today."

His tone was final, brooking no argument. I nodded, relief and wariness mingling in my chest.

"But remember, your new life was given to you by the Madonna."

A warning disguised as a blessing. I met his gaze, refusing to flinch.

"Just remember, Daniel—keep your nose clean, count your blessings, and don’t be a stranger at church."

It was clear enough—step out of line, and there’d be consequences. I forced a smile, determined to keep my cards close to the vest.