The Divine Fury -

Anders never forgot. Twenty years later, Anders was a professional skeptic. He ran a YouTube channel called Myth-Breaker with two million subscribers. He debunked faith healers, exorcists, weeping statues, haunted dollhouses. He was good at it. Calm, methodical, with a voice like warm concrete. People trusted him because he never raised his voice and he never believed.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The prairie wind howled outside. Sister Agnes held her breath.

He felt something else. Something quieter. Something that might, with time, become mercy. The Divine Fury

He walked out of the chapel, into the vast prairie morning. The wind was cold and clean. And for the first time in twenty years, Anders didn’t feel the Fury.

It showed a chapel. A small one, plain wooden pews, a simple crucifix. And in the center of the aisle, kneeling with his back to the camera, was a man in a charcoal suit. Anders never forgot

He looked like an accountant. Thin, pale, with wire-rimmed glasses. But his eyes were wrong. They were the color of molten brass, and they were fixed on the altar.

He stepped closer. The air grew hot.

He didn’t disappear. He didn’t transform. He simply… sagged. The terrible pressure in the room eased. The white fire guttered and went out.

They walked through the cloister. The nuns had fled—most of them. Three remained: Sister Agnes, Sister Catherine (who had stopped speaking entirely), and Sister Maria, who sat in the refectory peeling potatoes with robotic precision, her lips moving in silent prayer. People trusted him because he never raised his