(Yuuta POV)
The Gilgal New Life Church stood quietly before us, resting on its own small island, separated from the rest of the world by nothing but open sea.
The isolation felt intentional.
There were no signs of modern life anywhere—no wires, no machines, no distant hum of technology. The island existed untouched, as if time itself had agreed not to interfere. They said the church was built this way so nothing human-made could stain the blessing of God, and standing there, I believed it.
As we stepped closer, I instinctively reached for my phone.
The screen was black.
No signal.
No power.
It wasn't broken—it simply refused to function, as if the place itself had rejected it. I slipped it back into my pocket without a word, feeling strangely relieved by the silence.
The church rose before us in pale stone, vast but gentle. Its walls were covered in carvings so detailed they looked alive. Angels and humans were sculpted side by side, not above or below one another, but equal—sharing the same space, the same reverence.
Elena gasped softly.
She moved a few steps ahead, her small hands clasped behind her back as she leaned forward to look more closely. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
"Papa," she said, pointing carefully, "that angel has wings like Mama."
She drifted from one carving to another, whispering little comments to herself, completely absorbed by the beauty surrounding her.
I smiled—then paused.
Because Elena wasn't the only one staring.
Erza stood beside me, unusually still.
The sharpness she normally carried had faded, replaced by something rare. Her eyes traced the carvings slowly, thoughtfully, as if she were reading a language older than words.
"It's beautiful," she said at last.
Her voice was quiet.
She reached out and rested her fingers against the stone wall, her touch gentle.
"How can humans build something like this?" she murmured.
"I thought they only understood steel… and things made to be efficient."
She let out a slow breath, her gaze lingering on the sculptures.
"But this—this was made with intention
.. a Beautiful one."
Grandpa stepped forward next.
He examined the pillars carefully, his experienced eyes searching for flaws, for hidden scars left by suffering or forced labor. After a long moment, he nodded.
"This place is flawless," he said calmly.
"There is no pain in these stones."
He placed his palm against one of the pillars.
"It was carved with love. You can feel it."
"Of course," I said to Grandpa, keeping my voice steady. "This place was created by men who genuinely served God, so that He might come here and listen to their believer prayers."
Grandpa let out a long, tired sigh. His gaze lifted toward the open sky above the island, as if he were searching for something far beyond the church walls.
"How ironic, boy," he said at last. "This place was built for God, when God Himself created the entire universe."
He paused, his expression thoughtful rather than mocking.
"And yet humans believe God would sit inside a temple," he continued. "As if stone and carvings could ever contain Him. There has never been a temple capable of holding God."
He shook his head slowly, disappointment lining his voice.
"It is a waste of time and resources. I thought only the people of Nova were foolish enough to believe such things, but it seems Earth is no different."
I fell silent.
Every time I spoke with Grandpa, I felt the same unease. His words always carried a weight I couldn't easily challenge. His wisdom came from years far beyond my own, and though I wanted to argue, my thoughts refused to take shape.
I wanted to say he was wrong about temples.
I wanted to say they had meaning beyond stone.
But before I could speak, a calm voice reached us from behind.
"You are right, old man."
We turned toward the sound.
A man stood near the church gate, dressed in simple white clothing. His beard was neatly kept, and though he stood some distance away, his presence felt unmistakably close. His voice reached us clearly, untouched by the wind.
"There is no temple," the man continued, "that can hold God in one place."
Erza narrowed her eyes as she studied him. For several long seconds, she said nothing.
"He's different," she finally murmured.
I glanced at her, confused.
"What do you mean?"
She didn't take her eyes off the man.
"His aura," she replied quietly. "It's pure—like a white cloud, or light itself."
Grandpa stepped forward, interest sparking in his eyes.
"I find myself pleased, young man," he said. "You share my understanding of God."
The man smiled softly, but there was no pride in it.
"Yet you are wrong," he said gently, "when you claim that temples are a waste of time and resources."
Grandpa's eyes lifted, sharpened by challenge rather than offense.
"Then," Grandpa replied calmly, "please enlighten this old man. Pour some wisdom upon my stubborn head."
The man inclined his head.
"Very well," he said. "What you spoke was correct, but your conclusion was not."
He took a slow step forward, and the air around him seemed to grow heavier.
"A temple is not built to contain God," he continued. "It is built so humans may remember how small they are—and how vast God truly is."
Silence followed his words.
Many believed they understood God—His will, His limits, His nature. Some even dared to place rules upon Him, deciding where He could exist and where He could not. There were humans who convinced themselves that although God created the entire universe, He would never step foot upon this Earth.
The man's calm voice cut through that belief.
"You are one of them, old man."
His words were not sharp, nor mocking. They were spoken like a simple truth.
Grandpa did not respond immediately. He did not raise his voice, nor did he defend himself.
Erza remained silent as well, her sharp eyes fixed on the man, as if she were measuring something unseen.
I tightened my hold on Elena, sensing that what unfolded before us was not an argument, but something deeper—a meeting of understandings.
After a long moment, Grandpa finally spoke.
"I do not believe God enters the mortal realm," he said slowly. "Nor do I believe He resides within temples. God is everywhere."
The man smiled—not in disagreement, but in recognition.
"Just as you say, my old friend," he replied gently. "God is everywhere."
He stepped forward, the air around him strangely calm.
"And yet," he continued, "you only feel Him in certain places."
I frowned, my thoughts tangled in their words.
"Forgive me," I said quietly. "I can't keep up. This is hard to understand."
The man turned to me, his gaze warm and patient.
"Tell me then," he said, "the wind exists everywhere on this Earth. But where do you feel its presence the most?"
Grandpa answered without hesitation.
"In the mountains," he said. "Across open grasslands."
"Under a fan," I replied honestly.
Erza didn't even hesitate.
Her fist met the top of my head.
"Idiot," she snapped. "They're having a serious discussion about wisdom. Don't joke around."
"Ouch…" I muttered, rubbing my head as pain spread through my skull.
For a moment, I expected the man to frown.
Instead, he smiled.
"What the young man said is true," he said calmly.
"What?" Grandpa and Erza spoke at the same time.
The man's smile did not fade.
It was neither proud nor mocking—only calm, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
"What the young man said is true," he spoke gently again.
The words hung in the air.
Grandpa's brows furrowed, not in anger, but in quiet confusion. Erza, too, remained silent, her sharp gaze fixed on the man. Even Elena stopped moving, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
The man turned his attention back to Grandpa.
"Air exists everywhere in this world," he said. "It fills the mountains, the oceans, and the smallest rooms. Yet humans do not feel it equally in all places."
He paused, allowing the thought to settle.
"They build fans, open windows, climb high places—not because air is absent elsewhere, but because they wish to feel its presence more clearly."
His eyes lifted toward the church, sunlight reflecting softly against the white stone.
"God is the same," he continued. "He is not bound to walls or altars. No temple can contain Him, and no structure can command Him to stay."
Grandpa's expression softened, his earlier certainty beginning to loosen.
"But humans," the man said, "are fragile beings. Their hearts wander easily. Their faith trembles. So they create sacred places—not to imprison God, but to remind themselves where to look."
Silence followed.
The wind brushed past us, gentle and cool, as if echoing his words.
Grandpa finally spoke, his voice lower than before.
"So the temple is not for God," he said slowly. "It is for the human heart."
The man smiled again, this time with quiet approval.
"Yes, old one," he replied. "Faith does not require walls—but humans do."
I held Elena a little closer, feeling the weight of the moment press gently against my chest.
Grandpa looked at the man, still unsure but willing to listen. "But even so," he said slowly, "the time and resources spent building this temple could have been given to the poor—those who are truly in need. Wouldn't that have been more useful?"
The man shook his head gently, his eyes calm and steady. "I understand your concern," he replied. "But the foundation of a church, or any temple, is not merely stone or labor. It is a symbol—a reminder of peace, of goodness, and of hope."
Erza furrowed her brow, curiosity getting the better of her. "A symbol? What do you mean by that?"
He smiled faintly, looking between all of us. "When you stand before a temple or a church, what you see is not just walls or carvings. You remember the teachings of the prophets, the saints, the wisdom of scripture. These lessons enter your heart and shape your thoughts. They remind humans how to act with kindness, justice, and compassion."
He paused, letting the words settle. "When those thoughts are in your heart, God works through you. It is through such guidance that the poor are helped, that justice is served, and that goodness spreads. Without these reminders, without the temple or church as a symbol, humans might forget morality and righteousness. The structure itself sparks remembrance, and through remembrance, action follows."
Grandpa's eyes widened as he considered this. He shook his head slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you," he said quietly, "for guiding this old fool who believed he already knew everything."
The man's smile deepened, calm and serene. "You are wise because you listen," he said. "A truly wise person does not rage when corrected. He accepts, reflects, and learns."
He began to turn away, his voice softening. "I am glad I have met such people today. The future of this world rests in your hands. But now, I must go."
Grandpa stepped forward instinctively. "Wait. May I know your name, young man? And where you come from?"
Erza's eyes widened, her voice a mixture of shock and disbelief. "What are you doing? You are a higher being, older and wiser than any of us. Why would you ask the name of someone so small in comparison?"
The man stopped and looked back, his expression gentle. "I have been here since before everything began," he said calmly. "I watch, I learn, and I guide when I can. I am a servant of the Most High God...A priest."
And with that, he turned once more. By the time we reached the stairs of the church and looked back, he had vanished. No trace, no sound—only the lingering weight of his wisdom and presence.
To be continue..