"We gather not for revelry in victory—Philadelphia yet bleeds. But we draw breath, and the heart of the Republic thrums still. This, bought with countless acts of courage, sacrifice, nay, life itself. In this inferno without precedent, souls stood firm, flesh becoming the bulwark against the tide of death.
The oak table, commandeered, was draped in deep blue velvet, a makeshift hall of honor. Beyond the windows, the city lay ravaged: roofs charred and caved in, exposing timbers blackened by flames. The air hung thick with the scent of sodden wood, ash, and the lingering tang of medicinal brew. Dust motes danced in shafts of grimy sunlight that pierced the soot-streaked glass.
George Washington presided at the table's head, solid as the mountains. Clad in plain dark wool, unadorned yet radiating a battle-tempered authority that damped the room. Flanking him sat Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, Mayor Matthew Clarkson, and other pillars of the nascent nation. Jefferson was coolly observant, his hawk-eyes darting in assessment; Hamilton seemed stripped of his usual spark, adrift in a haze of exhaustion and dazed relief.
Rising, Washington murmured an order to an aide. A side door opened, and a towering yet weary figure entered—Brother John.
He wore the same faded sackcloth cassock, ingrained with stubborn traces of sulfur ash and rust-brown smudges. At his hip, positioned for swift use, hung the weathered woodsman's axe, its edge bearing faint nicks and the dull stain of demon blood. His tread was silent, his gaze sweeping the assembly of dignitaries calmly before settling on Washington with a bare nod.
Washington stepped around the table to meet him. His imposing frame halted before the friar, his eyes deep wells of unfeigned gratitude and respect. The hall fell utterly silent, every cough smothered, every eye riveted upon the two men.
"Brother John," Washington's low voice cut the stillness, "All honors, all gratitude lose their meaning if not offered you directly." He extended a broad hand, clasping the friar's grit-grained, calloused hand in a steely grip. "The Republic owes you its very breath. Philadelphia owes you its life. It was your insight, your courage, your... faith,"—his gaze flicked to the axe—"that tore the shroud of death that fell upon us, that hewed hell's talons root and branch from this soil."
The friar allowed the handclasp, face devoid of pride or false humility, only a mountain's deep serenity. His thickly accented English, clear despite its softness, carried to every ear: "Your Excellency flatters an old friar. I am but ze Lord's plow-hand, fulfilling my ordained duty. That night's victory? 'Twas a hymn wrought from zee faith of countless souls, zee fierce fire of this city's resolve, and you..." His eyes locked with Washington's, "...ze man who heeded zee faint whisper from on high and gave it muscle to act. I lit no fire. I composed no hymn. Philadelphia dug its own path to life."
Washington felt the steel and grit in the hand, the undeniable sincerity and detachment. He nodded slightly, releasing the grip, his tone earnest: "Your humility rings true, Brother. The Union seeks to show its gratitude. Fertile lands by the Kentucky River—a thousand acres—yours and your brethren's sanctuary in perpetuity." An aide immediately presented a handsome deed, sealed with the Great Seal of the United States.
The friar's eyes lingered briefly on the document promising wealth and ease, then turned away. He shook his head, the gesture final: "Your kindness weighs heavy, Mister President. But land and wealth are not zee manna on my path. My home, my duty, my rest lie within the stone church deep in the Appalachians. Zat is where my watch stands." He patted the axe, its rough-worn handle catching the light. "Besides, zis old comrade knows only zee bite of mountain wind and stone."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Washington's face, swiftly replaced by deeper understanding and reverence. Relinquishing the land offer, he said: "Then at least accept our nation's profoundest thanks. Your name shall endure with this city's rebirth."
A silence fell upon the friar. His gaze grew distant, seeming to pierce the ornate chamber. When he spoke again, a steely weight entered his voice: "Your Excellency, Honored Gentlemen. Concerning this pestilence's root, allow me... a final charge."
All attention snapped back.
"Zat demon spawned not from zee void," the friar said, low and precise. "It slithered in on shadows of human weakness and failing, cloaked as refugees, bending even zee tiniest creatures"—his glance slid to the windows—"to spread its blight. It warped Life and Death, called plague 'nature's course.' And we?" His eyes swept the assembly. "We shattered zat 'course.' We triumphed, destroying its avatar here."
He paused, his gaze turning hawklike, piercing Washington, then Jefferson, Hamilton, and back to the President: "Yet remember, Your Excellency. Fate dangles by a thread; balance is paper-thin. To right one tilt promises no lasting calm. What was struck down here was but one face of 'Ze Thousand-Faced One.' Ze Abyss still stares upon us. In time to come, when fears fester anew, when shadows thicken, when we ourselves bear fissures within..." He stressed the word we, "...then ze powers of zee rotting Deep will seek new cracks, new vessels... and return."
An absolute silence clamped the room. The wind outside whined. Jefferson's face clouded; Hamilton's brow furrowed in swift political reckoning; Clarkson and the elders looked troubled.
The friar fixed his eyes on Washington, words deliberate: "Guard zee future, Sir. Safeguard ze soul of zee Republic you hammered from the forge. Let unity bind mistrust, vigilance scour slumber. For next time... it may need no skeeters, no plague's cloak... It may come to sunder our hearts clean through." A final nod. "Zis is said. Ze mountain gale and chapel bell summon me home."
Without farewell, he turned and strode out. The rough hem of his cassock rasped the polished floor; the stained axe swayed gently at his hip, its metal whispering. He did not look back. His tall form, solitary and immutable as a peak, was swallowed by the shadows beyond the side door.
No one spoke for a long spell. Washington remained rooted, eyes fixed on the friar's path, deep as the sea. He slowly raised a hand, stroking his chin, as if testing a prophecy. Outside, Philadelphia's ruins lay silent in the sun. The Liberty Bell hung distant and still. Unseen, insidious as a serpent's tongue, a new crack crept along its vast bronze rim.
Yet neither the monk nor the Republic knew — this redemption demanded payment in blood before it could hold. The 108 Seeds of Sin had already slipped their chains. They would take root in unwitting souls across the land. In years to come, these seeds would bloom into storms that shook the Republic itself. Perhaps someday, the monk and his apprentice might ride west to meet that harvest... but that's another reckoning. For now, these 108 marked souls were bound to carve their own lawless legend — a republic reshaped by their own warped brand of justice.