At this time, dawn was already approaching. More people were gradually stepping out of their houses with confused expressions, some pleased, some irritated by the commotion outside.
The representative of the Church of the Most High let out a quiet sigh. He raised his hand, and the murmurs ceased. Questions died. Arguments withered. Silence took the plaza.
"To think your faith is this weak," he began, addressing the crowd. "When questions arise, your composure falters. When evidence is presented, you question your belief, your faith, even your sanity."
"I will present you evidence," he intoned, his voice carrying across the plaza.
He gestured toward the blind man and said,
"You have all seen this man before, stumbling, falling! I am certain most of you here have seen him, some have even tried to help him.
This man was born blind. Yet! Look at him now.
Tell them yourself, Arisha."
Arisha, the blind man, stepped forward and bowed his head before the crowd.
He squinted slightly, as though even now the light was something unfamiliar, something that did not fully belong to him.
"Good afternoon, everyone!" he began, his voice steady, yet weighed down by something far heavier than pride. "My name is Arisha, and I have been blind since birth.
As you know, being blind is like having light turned against you. But being born into poverty… that is the world itself turning against your happiness, your future, stripping away every blessing before you can even reach for it.
I used to think I was simply an unlucky man.
That perhaps this was the life I was meant to endure.
But even then… even then, it was not the darkness that hurt the most.
It was you.
I knew your voices. I knew your footsteps. I knew the silence that followed when I passed by.
Some of you looked at me with disgust, as though my existence itself was something shameful.
Some of you helped me, quietly, hesitantly, as though kindness itself needed permission.
And some of you… some of you struck me.
Not because I had done anything.
Not because I had wronged you.
But because I existed as I was.
Tell me… what disgusted you so much?
Why did you hate me?
What had I ever done to you?
Nothing!
Absolutely nothing!
Was it because I was poor?
Because I was sick?
Because I was blind?
If that is so… then look at me now! I am healed! I can see! I can hear! I can speak!
And yet…
Do you know what has not changed?
The memory of how you looked at me.
The weight of your voices.
The silence that told me I did not belong in the same world as you.
I may still be poor… but I am no longer poor in faith!
So, tell me… now that I can see you…
Do you still hate me now?!"
His voice cracked, as though something within it had fractured.
A faint distortion lingered in the sound, unnatural, almost imperceptible.
He exhaled slowly and stepped back.
The crowd watched him. Their gazes were sharp, unyielding. Some turned away, unable to bear what they had heard, their faces shadowed by guilt. Others lingered, caught between sympathy and unease, as if unsure which emotion they were permitted to feel.
A voice rose from within the gathering.
"If this is true, then why do we doubt this miracle?"
Another followed, firmer, almost defensive.
"We are followers of the Lord. Our faith should not waver because of questions we cannot answer."
A third voice cut through them, edged with resistance.
"So we are to believe blindly, simply because a man can see now?"
"I saw it with my own eyes," someone insisted. "I will not doubt the Lord!"
"Nor will I!"
"Yes, I agree."
"Indeed."
Agreement spread, not like fire, but like something quieter, something heavier. It settled into the space between them, pressing down upon doubt until it had nowhere left to stand.
The representative smiled.
He lowered himself to his knees, slow and deliberate, as though each movement carried weight beyond the body. His white robe spilled onto the ground, soft and unblemished, brushing the stone like silk drawn across still water.
He folded his hands. Closed his eyes.
"Lord… why do they doubt what stands before them?" His voice softened, reverent, yet threaded with something deeper, something pleading. "I do not know. But their faith trembles. Even among the devoted… even among the representatives… even among those who claim to stand closest to You."
A breath passed through him, unsteady.
"Grant us Your light. Let Your holiness descend upon us. Even if our eyes must close to this world, let them open to You. It is better to walk this earth blind than to stand in heaven without sight."
His words rose, not as sound, but as something carried upward, drawn beyond the limits of hearing.
And the sky answered.
The heavens parted without violence, without thunder or rupture. It was a quiet unveiling, as though something vast had simply been waiting for permission to be seen.
Light emerged.
A cluster of stars descended, slow and measured, circling one another like silent guardians gathered around something sacred and unseen. Their glow was immense, yet gentle, as if it had been tempered by a will that refused to harm.
Rays of brilliance spilled downward, touching the plaza, the stone, the people.
Yet nothing burned.
The air did not tremble.
No heat rose.
No eyes were blinded.
It was light without consequence.
Power without destruction.
It was only… beautiful.
The representative of the Church of the Most High began to weep.
Tears flowed freely down his face, unrestrained, his expression softening into something almost childlike. His lips curved into a trembling smile, as though he had been waiting his entire life to witness this moment and had never truly believed he would.
Around him, the people broke.
Groups dissolved. Distance vanished. Titles, doubts, arguments, all of it collapsed beneath the weight of what they were seeing.
They fell to their knees.
Some wept openly, shoulders shaking beneath quiet sobs.
Some raised trembling hands, whispering gratitude into the light.
Some smiled through tears, their expressions fragile, as if joy itself might shatter if held too tightly.
Others bowed their heads and prayed, their voices low, urgent, desperate to be heard.
For a moment, they were no longer divided.
They were one.
United.
Certain.
Unshaken.
And yet…
That feeling did not last.
The representative of the Sacred Sanctum of Redemption and the Eternal Covenant of God, the House of Blessings, Truth, and Grace, rose to his feet as though the moment had been prepared for him long before it arrived.
(AN: will be called Sacred Sanctum from now on)
He stepped forward, composed, measured, every movement restrained with deliberate control.
"This was not granted. It was forced," he said. A faint edge of distaste lingered beneath his voice, subtle, but impossible to miss. "This light that descends upon us, dressed in the likeness of glory, was not given in answer to prayer, nor in response to their wavering faith. It appeared because He favours you."
His gaze sharpened.
"And only you."
The representative of the Church of Worship stepped forward as well, his presence firm, unyielding.
"These are false miracles," he declared. "Divinity is not something that should be imposed upon those who cling to blind faith. They may walk toward the light, but they will also walk toward illusion."
His eyes swept across the plaza, lingering briefly on Arisha, then on the descending radiance above.
"The Lord's glory is said to be absolute, undeniable. And yet… this does not feel real."
A pause settled into his words, heavy with quiet accusation.
"That man, and the others who claim to be healed… they feel whole, but they are not truly healed."
His voice lowered, deepening as it turned toward the Herald of the Church of the Most High.
"Remind me. What is your truth regarding a true miracle?"
The Herald's brows drew together, but his gaze did not falter.
Instead, a smile appeared.
It was wrong.
Too sharp.
Too deliberate.
(AN: representative will be known as Herald from now on)
"A true miracle does not bend reality," he replied calmly. "It is accepted by it."
The two Heralds standing before him exchanged a glance, then inclined their heads in quiet agreement.
"Then answer plainly," the Herald of the Sacred Sanctum said. "This light… it is false, is it not?"
The Herald upon the altar stiffened.
For a moment, silence stretched thin.
Then it snapped.
"How dare you!" he roared, his voice breaking free with sudden violence. "You stand before all who have gathered here and accuse me of deception?"
His hands trembled, though whether from anger or something deeper was unclear.
"Because He answers me, you believe I am false? Because grace descends where I stand, you call me a liar?"
His voice rose further, raw, unrestrained.
"I deny you! I deny your accusations! I speak truth before every soul in this plaza. This man is real. I am real. This miracle is real!"
His breath faltered.
"Huff…"
He drew in air sharply, forcing it into his lungs as though steadying himself against an unseen weight.
When he spoke again, his tone lowered, but the strain beneath it remained, barely concealed.
And his calmness did not hold.
"I agree with the Herald of the Sacred Sanctum. I also believe you are lying," the Herald of the Church of Worship said.
"What?" the Herald upon the altar asked, the word leaving him in quiet disbelief, his expression tightening with confusion that bordered on something far more fragile.
The crowd shifted.
Not violently, not all at once, but in fragments.
Like something once whole was beginning to fracture along invisible lines.
Voices returned.
Low at first.
Uncertain.
Then rising.
Questions collided with one another.
Faith met doubt, and neither yielded.
Some fell to their knees before the Herald of the Church of the Most High, their heads bowed as though refusing to see anything that might shake what they had chosen to believe.
Others stepped back, slow, cautious, as if distance alone might protect them from being drawn into something they did not understand.
Some lingered in between, caught in hesitation, unable to commit, unable to retreat.
The unity from moments before unravelled.
Not completely.
But enough.
…
At the altar, Arisha swayed.
His body faltered, his knees buckling as though something within him had momentarily given way.
For an instant, it seemed he would fall.
Then he caught himself.
His hand trembled as it pressed against the surface of the altar, his breath uneven, sharp, as though the air itself resisted entering his lungs.
Slowly, he straightened.
But something about him was no longer steady.
Not quite.
Not anymore.