Chapter 3: The Library and the Outcry

Unexpectedly, we ran into him again soon after, in the church library.

The library smelled of old books, dust, and lemon-scented polish. Sunlight slanted through tall windows, painting stripes on the faded carpet. Aaron was standing by the reference desk, surrounded by a stack of hymnals and theological commentaries.

"Saint Thomas, good to see you."

He greeted me with a nod, voice smooth and practiced, the kind that belonged to someone who’d spent years leading prayers and speaking at luncheons.

"Hello. And who is this with you?"

I glanced at the man beside him—well-dressed, a little older, with graying hair and the look of someone used to being in charge. His hands were clasped politely in front of him, but his eyes were always moving, scanning the room.

I looked in surprise at the elegant young man in white following behind him.

Aaron turned slightly, gesturing with a practiced flourish—like a politician introducing a campaign manager on the trail.

"This is the chief administrator under the mayor. Since I'm new to the church library and unfamiliar with some things, Mr. Carter has kindly come to help me."

The introduction sounded almost rehearsed, as if they’d practiced it for a press release. Carter gave a small, tight-lipped smile, but didn’t say much, letting Aaron do all the talking.

Right then, I felt something was off.

There was an awkwardness in the air, a subtle current of tension. Their body language didn’t match—Carter’s jaw clenched, Aaron’s eyes darting away. It wasn’t just formality; it felt like a secret barely concealed, a story left untold.

Stranger still, the two stood very close, their sleeves brushing, and when their eyes met, there was a hint of... something ambiguous?

The way their shoulders touched was more than mere accident. Carter’s hand lingered on Aaron’s arm just a moment too long. I tried not to stare, but the air was charged—like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks, when you know something is about to shift.

Michael stood to the side, hugging his Bible, and said with a smirk, "Oh my, is the church library a pharmacy now?"

His voice carried across the shelves, half-mocking, half-curious. A couple of the youth group kids nearby snickered, quickly ducking back behind the stacks as they pretended not to hear.

"Hahahahaha." Paul laughed twice, but seeing everyone else silent, quickly shut his mouth.

The laughter died as quickly as it began, leaving the room feeling colder. Paul looked down at his shoes, embarrassed.

Aaron bit his lip, his eyes turning red as if he'd suffered a great injustice. Clutching Carter's sleeve, his voice trembled, "Brother Carter~"

The plaintive note in his voice was almost childlike. The moment felt oddly staged, like an actor reaching for sympathy from a tough crowd. Carter responded instantly, moving to block Aaron from view, his stance protective.

Carter immediately stepped in front of him protectively, glaring at Michael. "Watch your mouth! Aaron Sinclair is a master of scripture—how dare you slander him?"

His tone was sharp, all the more jarring against the quiet hush of the library. Even a librarian paused, glancing up from the circulation desk, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Michael hugged his Bible and sneered, "He's only a few years old and already a master? Even if he started writing sermons at birth..."

The sarcasm in Michael’s voice was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows as if to say, can you believe this?

"I've already completed one hundred and eight volumes," Aaron's gentle voice cut in, just in time to stop Michael's rant.

His claim landed in the room like a thunderclap. Even the air seemed to shift, the dust motes pausing midair.

"What?" This time it was my turn to be shocked.

I stared at Aaron, not sure if I’d heard him right. My mind reeled—one hundred and eight volumes? In twenty years? Even the most prolific of our theologians would have balked at such a feat.

He remembered nights hunched over sermon drafts, wrestling with every word. How could anyone write a hundred and eight volumes in less than a lifetime?

Even if Benjamin Franklin himself came back, he couldn't have written such a vast collection of sermons in twenty years. Besides, these aren't ordinary writings; every page requires deep wisdom and enlightenment. How could anyone do that so easily?

The thought left me breathless. Each sermon, each lesson, required not just time, but a life lived—failures, heartbreak, prayer, and stubborn, stubborn hope. Aaron’s accomplishment seemed not only impossible, but almost... orchestrated.

After they left, Michael and I checked the church library's catalog: one hundred and eight volumes, each with its own title.

The room was silent except for the soft click of keys as we scrolled through the digital catalog. I ran my finger along the spines of the books, the gilded lettering catching the light. Michael read aloud, sounding incredulous with each new title.

The volumes were arranged neatly, each one giving off a faint golden glow, and the contents were incredibly comprehensive.

The covers were pristine, untouched by time or coffee stains. Each volume was thick, organized, and seemingly untouched by any human hand except Aaron’s own. The golden sheen made them look more like trophies than well-loved books.

"The Healer's Guide to Medicinal Plants," "The Gospel of Redemption," "The Eighty-One Trials of the Faithful," "The Angelic Choir's Secret Hymns," "The Sublime Echoes of Faith"... there was even a "Mother Mary's Guide to Protection."

Each title more impressive than the last. I felt a twinge of envy, but also a strange pride—after all, if even one of these books was genuine, it would be a gift to the congregation.

A genius! A true all-rounder!

Michael snorted softly, unconvinced, but I let the feeling settle over me. Maybe it was possible. Maybe Aaron was that once-in-a-generation talent the church had been waiting for.

I felt happy for the congregation, that such a genius had appeared.

For a second, I imagined all the good that could come from someone so gifted—new programs, outreach, inspiration for the next generation. A spark of hope flickered inside me.

"Michael, look at these works he wrote. Even after enduring eighty-one trials, I couldn't compile them. I feel deeply ashamed."

My voice was barely a whisper. I thought of my own journey—how many sermons had I written? A handful, maybe, scattered between funerals, weddings, and late-night prayer sessions. Aaron had eclipsed me, and it stung.

"If he’s a genius, I’ll eat my Cubs cap right here."

Michael’s sarcasm pulled me back. He tapped his battered Cubs cap for emphasis, drawing a half-hearted laugh from me. He never did like unexplained miracles.

"Father, look at the signature on this 'Great Gospel'—" He yanked open the title page and pointed at the gilded line:

[Chief Editor: Aaron Sinclair, Saint of Good Works]

[Co-editors: Pastor Lawrence, Reverend Smith, Sister Abigail...]

Michael’s finger jabbed at the page, the gilded letters shining mockingly back at us. I felt my gut tighten. The other names—all respected elders—were listed below Aaron’s in smaller type, as if they were just footnotes to his accomplishments.

I frowned deeply.

The realization settled on me like a shadow. Something about this didn’t add up.

Michael slammed his Bible onto the table with a heavy thud, making the library shelves tremble.

A librarian peeked over her glasses, lips pursed, but Michael didn’t back down.

"These hypocritical officials are up to their old tricks. Nothing ever changes. If they want to promote this so-called great preacher, I have no objection. But if they want to call him Saint of Good Works alongside you, Father, then I do!"

Michael’s voice rose, anger coloring his words. His sense of justice, always strong, had never tolerated dishonesty—especially not in the church.

"Michael, watch your words!"

I tried to calm him, glancing nervously at the door. I didn’t want gossip to spread, or worse, for Aaron or his supporters to overhear us.

"Father, see for yourself. Even if he could write sermons, as a mere kid, what right does he have to put his name ahead of all these respected leaders?"

Michael’s eyes burned with indignation. His words stung because I knew there was truth in them.

"Maybe he compiled them together with the elders..."

My voice trailed off as I tried to defend him, but even I didn't believe it. Even with my experience, I wouldn't dare claim to have compiled sermons with these greats; for now, I only help organize the library and haven't reached the level of authoring my own.

Aaron Sinclair is simply too young. At twenty, it's impossible to achieve such things unless...

I let my words hang in the air, the unspoken accusation thick as humidity on a July afternoon.

"Isn't it obvious? These sermons were probably written by those greats, and he just added his name."

Michael’s voice was hard, certain. He crossed his arms, lips pressed tight, waiting for me to contradict him. I couldn’t.

I wanted to tell Michael to stop, but could only let him continue. "Isn't he from a prestigious family? Naturally, his parents want him to inherit the family honor. Hmph, these methods are all the same old tricks. Are there few second-generation leaders in the church? Not to mention others—wasn't Paul a preacher's son? But in the past, those elders still had to put on a proper show and send their kids to be tested. I didn't expect that now they don't even bother to pretend!"

Michael’s rant was half anger, half sorrow. In our town, everyone knew about the ‘legacy kids’—the ones whose last names opened doors, who got scholarships and internships their classmates only dreamed of. The church, I’d always hoped, was supposed to be different.

Paul snorted, "Those hands look softer than a bakery roll—he’s never dug a ditch in his life."

Paul flexed his hands for emphasis, rough and calloused from years of construction work. His voice was dry, but the message was clear: Aaron had never known real hardship.

"Exactly. So they take some elder's sermons and add their own names, racking up good deeds so they can be named Saint of Good Works."

Michael nodded vigorously. “It’s the same old song and dance. They get the credit, we do the work.”

"These ingrates, they want to parade him around and make us pretend we're blind!" Michael slammed his Bible onto the glass table with a bang, cracking it.

A jagged line snaked across the surface, startling everyone. For a moment, nobody moved.

I stayed silent, rubbing the rosary beads on my wrist, knowing my friends had probably already guessed the truth. But so what? All I could do was urge them to let it go.

Thomas looked away, thinking of the times he’d quietly benefited from a friend’s recommendation or a well-timed favor.

I ran my thumb over the beads, each one worn smooth by decades of prayer. My heart ached, but I kept quiet. Sometimes, silence is the only way to keep the peace, even when the truth feels heavy on your tongue.

Unexpectedly, at the routine meeting that night, Michael confronted them directly.

He burst into the meeting room, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with conviction. Everyone turned to stare, the soft murmur of conversation dying away. The council sat at the head of the table, their faces unreadable.

"The church library is the source of wisdom for the community. Every sermon requires great enlightenment and compassion to be completed. I want to ask: how did this young Aaron Sinclair write one hundred and eight volumes in just twenty years?"

Michael’s voice carried, echoing off the cinder block walls. Some of the old-timers exchanged nervous glances; others looked impressed by his boldness.

Aaron's smile froze, the crystal glass in his hand trembling slightly. The mayor's wife suddenly narrowed her eyes. "If you're interested in Aaron's works, you can inquire privately."

The atmosphere in the room turned brittle, tension sparking between the rows of folding chairs. The mayor’s wife, always the consummate politician, offered her warning in the sweetest voice, but her eyes promised trouble.

"Let the whole congregation be the witness! The title of Saint of Good Works has always required enduring eighty-one trials and attaining true faith. He's only twenty—when did he go through trials? When did he finish them?"

Michael’s voice grew louder, refusing to be silenced. Some people in the back row nodded; others shuffled their feet, uncomfortable with the confrontation. A few folks in the back whipped out their phones, ready to catch the next viral church showdown.

Michael's challenge thundered through the hall, causing a stir among the churchgoers and guests inside and outside the fellowship hall.

You could feel the ripple—people whispering, looking around, wondering what would happen next. It was as if the whole building held its breath, waiting for someone to break the spell.

A crack appeared in the crystal glass in Aaron's hand. The mayor’s wife’s fingers tightened around her peach until juice dripped down her wrist, sticky and unnoticed. Father Benedict, who had always kept his eyes lowered, finally looked up—

"Saint Thomas."

Benedict’s voice was low but commanding, cutting through the chatter like a bell at midnight.

I stood up. "Yes."

My chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. All eyes turned to me, the weight of the room suddenly pressing down.

"Is this what you wish to ask?"

He spoke with the gravity of a judge, his words making it clear that my answer would carry real consequences.

"Yes. I also want to know why the young Aaron Sinclair doesn't need to undergo trials."

I squared my shoulders, voice steady. If I was going to stand for something, let it be for honesty. The congregation deserved answers.

"Pastor Lawrence, explain to Saint Thomas."

Father Benedict’s tone left no room for argument. Pastor Lawrence sighed, glancing down at his notes as if hoping the answer would appear there.

"Not just to me, but to the whole congregation."

I gestured to the room, making sure everyone knew this wasn’t just about me. We all had a stake in the truth.

Pastor Lawrence put down his wine glass and stood up. "I know many friends here have doubts about Aaron Sinclair's promotion. Since Michael has asked today, I will explain.

This rule was personally issued by the mayor four years ago—the 4+4 Program. This program greatly shortens the time required for trials, which used to take decades or even a lifetime. Its purpose is to cultivate leadership talent for the community."

He cleared his throat, voice growing more official, as if reading from a script. The room quieted, every ear tuned to his explanation.

"4+4 Program?" Michael's eyes narrowed. "How come I've never heard of it?"

Michael’s skepticism was clear. He leaned forward, eyes hard. The program sounded more like a fast-track MBA than anything remotely spiritual.

Pastor Lawrence waved his hand, and a proclamation from the mayor appeared on the projector, golden letters shining:

A deacon hurried to dim the lights, and the projector flickered to life, illuminating the screen at the front of the room. The mayor’s seal glinted in the corner, lending the proclamation a false sense of gravity.

[New Rule for the Community: Saint of Good Works Promotion Outline]

Four years of trials in the main world: Must endure natural disasters, man-made hardships, and personal struggles across four regions.

Four years of trials in a simulated environment: With special approval from the council, enter simulated communities to quickly accumulate good deeds.

Total duration: As little as eight years to succeed.

Each line was met with murmurs from the audience, some people nodding in approval, others whispering doubts. The idea of a ‘simulation’ trial felt more like a game than a calling.

"Although Aaron Sinclair is only twenty," Pastor Lawrence said solemnly, "he served in the South for four years, and with the mayor's special approval, entered the 'Everyday Life Simulation' to live four lifetimes, each time perfectly completing his missions and accumulating boundless merit!"

The statement hung in the air like incense—sweet, cloying, almost unbelievable. People glanced at each other, some with awe, some with suspicion. Four simulated lifetimes in four years? It sounded like something out of a virtual reality retreat, not the path to sainthood.

Michael snatched the proclamation and scanned it, then suddenly sneered:

Michael’s lips curled as he held the proclamation up to the light, as if expecting it to reveal some hidden trick. The room buzzed with anticipation—someone was about to call the bluff, and nobody wanted to miss it.