Wrath of the Elect

The moon over Rome was swollen and pale, casting its ghostly light upon the spires of Vatican City. Yet beneath the grandeur of the marble streets and silent courtyards, a different world stirred — a hidden world the eyes of tourists would never glimpse. Below the old library hall of an abandoned auditorium, down narrow stairways carved from stone centuries before, an underground chamber breathed with whispers, prayers, and the faint hiss of oil lamps. The chamber was vast but claustrophobic, its walls lined with engraved scriptures half-eroded by time, Greek verses and and Aramaic names etched side by side as if heaven and earth had once struggled to coexist in the same stone. The air smelled of dust, candle smoke, and the faint metallic tang of old iron bars that framed the vault door. At the center of the chamber, a heavy oak table stood, its surface buried under maps, scrolls, fragments of parchment, and a bound codex so fragile it had to be handled with linen gloves. Flickering lamps ringed the table, throwing shadows against the walls that seemed to shiver like restless spirits. Abraham Stone Adeyemi leaned over the documents, his dark eyes heavy with sleeplessness yet burning with conviction. Forty-four years had marked his face with fine lines at the corners of his eyes, carved not by ease but by struggle. His tall frame carried both the dignity of an academic and the quiet weight of a soldier. Tonight, the dual natures of his life pressed into one burden: to guard a prophecy that could shake the world. Beside him, his wife, Sandra Samantha Adeyemi, adjusted the pages of a crumbling manuscript. She was younger by six years, her calm, oval face framed by a neat scarf. Her hands, though steady, bore the scars of long journeys — maps unrolled in deserts, relics dusted in forgotten caves, scrolls hidden under threat of death. Where Abraham was fire, she was water: composed, sharp, her mind able to cool his quick instincts. Brother Reel sat adjacent towards them, his lean figure cloaked in a simple tunic, the lines of age sharpening his cheekbones. Though a bishop, he had long abandoned the pomp of titles. His voice, quiet but steady, carried the authority of one who had fought unseen challenges and battles, a shepherd who had bled for truth. Around the table sat six others: missionaries hardened by exile, archaeologists scarred by near-death expeditions, linguists whose eyes gleamed with the hunger of deciphering divine mysteries. They had gathered from distant corners of the world, bound not by institution but by covenant — a secret godly movement resisting sectarian corruption and the shadow of the New World Order that sought to weld faith into chains. The air thickened as Reel broke the silence. “They are no longer hiding,” he said, his voice low. “Demonic races have long since been revealing themselves openly in every form all over the world, especially in Jerusalem and the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, I've long since had this hunch of a secret that the Catholic Church was the mysterious woman: Babylon! Long since prophesied by many saints before now... Sigh, what a pity, sadly many so-called 'christians' had long since embraced the occultic religious custom made by the Latin idolworshippers rooted in lawlessness, people are worshipping demonic forces unwittingly, and are still willingly ignorant of the devil's devices; thous increasing the wicked forces once bound in the bottomless abyss by divine Mercy, now released into the human race through demonic rituals made by the devil's sons: the cannibalistic homosexual shape shifting race, today we're seeing these witches and wizards getting more bolder and bolder by the day. Our charity means on the poor believers in many impoverished countries are thinning out on supplying the needs of the poor around the world while we seem to notice the wicked ones getting richer everyday: feeding on ignorant souls looking for magical breakthroughs through so-called 'tithes and offerings', while neglecting those truly in need, and getting bankrupted by their sentimental stupidity they call 'smartness'. This Vatican city as well as many traditions of men has long since been used by the devil to fight against the saints and the Custom of the First Churches, even creating a counterfeit 'christian custom, and today; every ignorant mortal are obviously buying it. This is not infiltration — this is exposure. Masks are dropping, Abraham. Samantha. Nicholas . Charmaine. And many other friends. The time of subtlety has ended.” Sandra Samantha Adeyemi’s eyes flickered toward her husband. “Then the prophecies were right. The veil is lifting sooner than we thought.” Abraham ran his hand across the brittle pages of the codex before him. His voice carried both weight and fury, knowing fully well that too many innocent and ignorant souls have been really fooled, now sectarianism is masquerading as churches led by those that don't have the Light in them; being deceived and also deceiving without wisdom of understanding that something is really off. “We always knew they would bare their faces. But this—” he lifted the manuscript carefully, “—this contains more than warnings. It speaks of the Mark of the Beast — its original nature, how it was woven into the very fabric of rebellion since Eden. It names the Elect — Jews and Gentiles scattered across the world who will be awakened, prophets armed with gifts greater than those of old. And it reveals the one hundred and forty-four thousand virgins, sealed from Israel, set apart to sing prophetic songs of divine vengeance and deliverance when the Beast arises, songs that exposes the lies told for centuries and gifts to frustrate the wicked ones of the earth.” One of the linguists, a wiry man with ink-stained fingers, spoke urgently. “And the Five Gates of Hell. The text calls them seals — gateways through which Gilgamesh, the cursed king or the abominable one, will attempt to release his army. If the gates open it'll mark the actual End time Era, during which entire civilizations that try to oppose his deceptions across the globe will collapse overnight.” The chamber dimmed as though the very lamps recoiled from the words. But Sandra Samantha’s voice steadied the silence. “Which is why we are here. To keep this knowledge hidden until the time appointed. If they seize it now, the world will have no defense. We must secure the manuscript.” Abraham looked to each face, one by one. “You all know what it cost us to bring these fragments here, the dangers of it falling into wrong hands like the other scrolls that were drowned and destroyed by the Roman empire now Vatican church, they're indirectly controlling every religion in the world right now behind the scenes. Many Saints concerned of nations and the poor have died brutally. Blood has been spilled. But if we fail tonight, every sacrifice will be in vain. This vault may be our last stronghold.” Brother Reel raised a trembling hand, placing it on the table. “Then let us pray. For strength. For guardianship. For the Lord to blind the eyes of the wicked until we are ready.” Their whispers rose into the chamber, scriptures murmured in English, Hebrew, Yoruba, and Latin, their voices weaving a fragile wall of faith against the storm they felt drawing near. The storm came faster than expected. The chamber’s iron door shuddered, a deep vibration rolling through the stone walls. Dust sifted from the ceiling. One of the missionaries reached for a lantern, his eyes darting. Then the vault burst open. Figures in dark robes surged through, their faces veiled but their presence suffocating. They carried no swords, no guns, but the air around them throbbed with malevolence. The lamps guttered, shadows stretching unnaturally tall. And behind them — something worse. The sound came first: a low, grinding bellow like the earth itself groaning. Jennifer’s father’s heart clenched; he knew it before his eyes confirmed. A colossal form slithered into the chamber, horns scraping the ceiling, goat-skull face grinning with inhuman delight. Baphomet. Satan himself. Sandra clutched Abraham’s arm. The missionaries froze, their lips moving in scripture even as terror wrung their bodies. Baphomet’s voice was silk and thunder, every syllable vibrating in their bones. “Children of dust… do you think parchment and ink can outlast me? Do you think your fragile walls can keep me from what is mine?” Abraham stepped forward, though his hands trembled. “It does not belong to you. The words were given to the saints. You have no inheritance in them.” The Devil laughed, the sound shaking dust from the chamber ceiling. “Yet your fathers gave me dominion. And tonight, you will die as they did.” Chaos erupted. ********* Seeing True Enemies Physically The roar of stone grinding against stone filled the chamber as the far doors burst open. Shadows spilled inward, robed figures stepping in with movements too sharp, too practiced, to belong to ordinary men. Their garments were ink-black, stitched with symbols that seemed to move on their own under the flickering lamplight. Their presence dimmed the flames in the oil lamps, as though the fire itself feared their coming. Sandra S. Lauren’s hand shot instinctively to the chain around her neck, fingers clutching the small cross Abraham had carved for her in their early years of marriage. Her breath caught, but her eyes burned with defiance. “Hold fast,” Abraham commanded, his voice carrying authority despite the fear pressing down on all of them. Brother Reel shifted forward, holding a small Lexicon Bible with a sacred lantern used by a certain miraculous saint of old as though it were a weapon. His lips moved in whispered prayers. The archaeologists and linguists, ordinary men and women of courage, braced themselves, knowing what had been entrusted to them could not be lost. From the center of the invading group came a presence unlike any other. The air thickened, heavy as molten iron. The tall, horned silhouette moved with deliberate grace, and though he wore the semblance of a robe, no fabric seemed to touch the ground beneath him. His cloven hooves struck the stone floor with dreadful weight. It was Baphomet. Satan. The ancient enemy. Jennifer, only three years old, pressed her small face into her grandpa: Ralph Lauren’s chest as he instinctively shielded her from the sight. But curiosity overcame fear, and through a crack in her grandfather’s shirt she saw it—two burning eyes, pits of black flame staring across the chamber, unblinking, eternal. That single glimpse branded itself onto her young mind, an image she would never forget. “Abraham Stone Adeyemi,” Baphomet’s voice boomed, deep and layered, as though a thousand voices echoed behind the one. “Did you think you could hide eternity from me?” Abraham did not flinch. He lifted the leather-bound case that contained the manuscript, its weight pressing on his forearms not just with parchment but with the burden of prophecy itself. “You cannot have what does not belong to you,” he said, his Swedish accent threading his English words with solemn power. The chamber erupted into chaos. The missionaries threw themselves forward with desperate courage. One drew a hidden blade; another lifted a bronze staff engraved with Hebrew letters. A flash of light sparked as the staff struck against a shadowed assailant, burning him to ash. But more came—clawing, hissing, their forms shifting between human and beast in the half-light.