Chapter 3: St. Thunder’s Test

I wipe cold sweat from my brow. The wild-haired man doesn’t attack me—at least not yet. I take a shaky breath, using my sleeve to mop my forehead. He seems content for now, humming softly. The others fall in line, our group moving as one dysfunctional unit.

After another couple miles, a magnificent church rises up ahead—white marble, soaring spires, stained glass flashing red and gold in the sun. It looks like something out of a history book or a tourist brochure for a town trying too hard. There’s a battered sign out front—hand-painted, letters peeling—next to a faded flyer for last year’s pancake breakfast.

Around the church, birds sing and flowers bloom, organ music wafts out, sunlight streaming everywhere. It’s almost offensively perfect—robins chirping, tulips nodding. Hidden speakers pipe hymns that echo off the polished stone. The sunlight is warm, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like something’s waiting to snap.

Above the gate: ST. THUNDER, three big, crooked letters glowing gold in the light. Feels like it belongs to a TV preacher’s empire.

Joy lights up my companions’ faces; they seem genuinely thrilled. Pete’s eyes go wide with wonder, Sam claps his hands, a beatific smile on his face. Even Big Brother grins, teeth flashing. They’re like pilgrims at Mecca—or tourists at Disneyland, all wide-eyed excitement.

Only I feel dread. This is the Small St. Thunder Church of the Yellow Browed Patriarch—one of the deadliest checkpoints in The American Odyssey. In the story, this is where heroes die or are reborn. I shiver, knowing nobody walks away from St. Thunder unchanged.

Even Caleb was once trapped in the golden offering bowl here, almost losing his life. I try to remember every detail, searching for an edge, but all I find is fear. The golden bowl—inescapable. I swallow hard, my throat dry.

As we approach, I say, "Caleb, your Father sees this church rising abruptly in the wilds. We mustn’t enter rashly, lest we fall into a trap." My voice trembles, but I try to sound like I know what I’m doing—channeling every half-remembered sermon. I look up at the spires, hoping for a sign, but the stained glass just reflects my own uncertain face.

He spins, arms wide, beaming: "Father, look at this heavenly scene—how could it not be the Sacred Mountain? If we don’t worship with our whole hearts, how can we get the true scripture?" There’s something feral in his eyes, a hunger with nothing to do with salvation.

"Your heart is not sincere!" he shouts, and black blood spurts from his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. The words hit like a thunderclap. I freeze as the blood pours out, thick and tarry. The others don’t react—like it’s all part of the ritual.

I’m about to make another excuse when the second rule flashes through my mind. The rule burns bright as neon behind my eyelids. I hesitate, torn between logic and survival instinct.

【Big Brother will protect you; do not refuse his requests.】

I feel trapped—damned if I do, damned if I don’t. The old stories never prepare you for when the rules start to contradict.

If I refuse, will the rules erase me, or will Big Brother just beat me to death? I picture both outcomes—one quick, one slow. Neither is appealing. I weigh my options, heart thumping.

Caleb, oh Caleb, why, after you changed, do you not even have your fiery golden eyes anymore? I study Big Brother’s face for a sign of the friend from the story, but all I see is a stranger—eyes dull, irises flat as coins.

I sigh, dismount, and walk in. The door creaks, echoing through the empty nave. My boots leave wet prints on the marble. For a moment, I feel like I’m walking into my own funeral.

Soon, we’re in the Hall of the Redeemer. Sunlight streams through stained glass, painting the air red and blue. It smells of incense and old wood polish—like every small-town church from Maine to Texas.

On the dais, eight saints, five hundred angels, and all kinds of holy figures stand in rows—statues lined up like soldiers. Each one is different—some marble, some wood, a few chipped or faded. Someone, once, cared about this place.

In the center, a huge mass of flesh and blood writhes, slowly taking the Redeemer’s shape. It’s grotesque and mesmerizing—the mound pulses, stretching into something almost human. I force myself to look away.

The moment I step through the door, another voice booms in my mind, colder than any church AC. The words are absolute, inescapable:

【Scripture-seeker enters Small St. Thunder. The following rules are added.】

【The Redeemer is not a lump of flesh. The Redeemer is not a lump of flesh. The Redeemer is not a lump of flesh.】

【My Redeemer is merciful; scripture-seekers are forbidden to kneel.】

The rules stack up, like terms and conditions you never read until it’s too late.

Before I can process it, Wild Hair’s voice comes from behind, oily and mocking: "Father, why aren’t you kneeling yet?"