Chapter 5: The Last Defiance of Michael

The young preacher said, “Father Ambrose, God sent me to guide you in seeking the wild man.”

His words were stiff, but his eyes flickered with wariness, like he was sizing me up for danger.

I nodded, and followed him through the church gate. Legend says holy magic can shrink the earth to a single step; so it was here—one step and the world blurred, the prairie folding away until we stood before an ancient city in the mountains.

The landscape twisted around us, like I was seeing the world through a fever dream. My heart hammered as the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet.

The young preacher gestured for me to go on. The mountain road was lined with scarecrows, each holding a brown pinwheel spinning in the wind—weather vanes and old windmills creaking nearby.

But that was what Father Ambrose saw. In my eyes, the road was littered with corpses—wild men skinned and stuffed with straw, pinwheels replaced by stillborn wildlings. Every step squished on flayed hides, every stride a reminder of sin.

The stench of death and rot was everywhere, prairie dogs darting in and out of the blood-soaked earth. I forced myself to look ahead, not down.

After climbing what felt like a thousand steps, we reached a huge platform, the grass stained red, a great curtain of water unable to wash it clean. The young preacher led me forward; the water parted, revealing a broad avenue. Beyond it was a city of wild men, all dressed in choir robes, sitting in pews, eyes vacant, chanting, “Hallelujah.”

The sound was haunting, a broken hymn echoing off stone and stained glass. Their faces were empty, all hope drained away.

At the front stood a preacher in a gray robe, “Faith” stitched on one side, “Obedience” on the other. His gavel read “Preach the Word” and “Impart Teachings.” He recited scripture again and again; with every word, the light in the wild men’s eyes faded.

The words washed over them like a cold tide, snuffing out whatever spark was left. It was like watching candles blown out, one by one.

When a wild man’s eyes went blank, he was led away. If one acted up, a bigger wild man beat him with a switch. If he still rebelled, a fat preacher zapped him with thunder magic, leaving him blackened and broken, then dragged him off to be skinned.

The cruelty was cold, methodical—like suffering was just another box to check in the order of service.

Further on, I saw the wild men who’d been taken away. They were repairing the golden body of the True God in the main hall. Huge gold bricks needed dozens to lift; brick by brick, they built the steps beneath the True God. The True Gods compared their steps—those with fewer bricks flew into a rage. Some wild men were dragged away, hearts gouged out, bones ground to powder to fill the cracks.

At last, I saw the legendary wild man. As I approached, his eyes dimmed and he sighed, “You have come!”