White Robes

Amaka stands before the throne, her white robe glowing like molten light. Beside her, her father, Chijioke, lifts his hands in silent intercession for the family they left behind. Their voices merge into the eternal lament of the martyred, a chorus that reverberates across time and space.

"How long, O Lord, holy and true, until You judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell on the earth?"

Below, Earth groans under a suffocating darkness. Amaka watches as her daughter, Adaora, crouches in a narrow alley in London. Rain lashes the pavement, mingling with her tears. The faithful are hunted; the Bibles have been outlawed. Adaora clutches the tattered remains of her Bible, its fragile pages pressed to her chest, as the boots of soldiers echo closer.

Amaka aches to reach for her, to shelter her child from the storm. But the divine law binds the Clouds of Witnesses. They cry out in prayer, but their hands remain still.

"She must endure," Chijioke murmurs beside her, his voice resolute. *"Just as we did."*

Amaka’s fists tighten. She remembers her own death too vividly—the mobs breaking into their family home, dragging her away to the flames when she refused to renounce His name. She had died screaming His glory, believing that her sacrifice would spark a divine reckoning. But now, standing beyond time, a gnawing question consumes her.

"Was our blood ever avenged?"

Below, Adaora stiffens. Heavy boots slam against the slick pavement. The soldiers round the corner, rifles glinting in the dim streetlight. Amaka screams in silence, her soul ablaze with helplessness. The shouts grow louder, drowning the rain.

But then—everything changes. A tremor shakes creation itself. The soldiers halt. Their rifles clatter to the ground. Their bodies tremble violently, as if seized by an unseen hand. One of them collapses to his knees, clutching his head, tears streaming as his lips form trembling words:

"Forgive us."

The ripple spreads. Across London—across England—the tormentors kneel. Their weapons fall away. Their anguished cries rise into the stormy skies. Governments fracture as their enforcers are undone—not by war, not by wrath, but by something infinitely more devastating.

Amaka gasps. This is not the hand of angels.

It is the voices. The voices of the slain.

For centuries, they had cried for vengeance. Their blood had cried from the soil. But then—their song changed. The chorus of wrath became a hymn far more terrifying.

Mercy.

God did not unleash destruction upon the Earth. He did something more profound. He opened the eyes of the tormentors. Every innocent life extinguished, every family left to mourn, every scream etched into creation—they see it all. And the unbearable truth crushes their souls.

Adaora watches, her breath caught, as revelation unfolds before her. She had steeled herself to die. She had braced for cruelty. But instead, she sees the world unravel—not in war, but in truth too great to bear.

Amaka staggers backward, the heavens trembling around her. Understanding pierces her like a blade. Vengeance was never fire from heaven. It was truth, merciless and unstoppable.

But then—a voice cuts through the chorus of the slain. It is not Adaora’s. Nor is it Chijioke’s.

It is Amaka’s own voice, rising like thunder.

"Judge them!" she cries, the raw pain of her plea shattering the stillness of eternity. *"It is too late for mercy. Let justice reign!"*

The heavens fall silent.

Then, the Lord speaks. His voice is not thunder or wrath. It is a whisper—a whisper that burns with infinite power.

"You think mercy is weakness. But mercy is the greatest vengeance of all."

Amaka collapses, trembling, as Adaora rises from the shadows of the alley. The soldiers begin to dissolve—not into ash, but into light. Across England, across the world, the persecutors are remade. They are transformed.

Their sins are burned away, their spirits humbled, their very souls reshaped by the grace they sought to extinguish. And Adaora, no longer trembling, no longer afraid, stands as a witness, her voice joining the eternal song of mercy.

Amaka weeps, her tears falling like stars. For the first time, she truly understands. Her suffering, Adaora’s suffering, all the pain of humanity—it was never about vengeance.

It was always about redemption.

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