157 | Soul Presence

157 | Abby, Evan, Evelyn, Diesel, and Rev Debate Soul Presence, Crystic Conscience, and Rejecting Blind Faith to Become a Savior-Warrior

Chapter 1: Abby, Evan, Evelyn, Diesel, and Rev Debate Soul Presence, Crystic Conscience, and Rejecting Blind Faith to Become a Savior-Warrior

During an intense after-school philosophy club meeting, Abby, Evan, Evelyn, Diesel, and Rev debate soul presence, Crystic Conscience, and rejecting blind faith to become a Savior-Warrior. The bell rings to end the day's last class. Select curious students gather for the after-school philosophy club. Rain taps against the windows of the oldest classroom in the school. The hallway noise fades; the buses are already coming and going outside, but the 5 philosophy club members settle into a room that smells like dry‑erase marker and dust. All cell phones and computers are completely turned off.

Abby sits cross‑legged on top of a desk by the window, pink dress bright against the gray afternoon. Her open notebook is covered in doodles—clouds, crowns, strange eyes that seem to stare back at her.

She’s been thinking about this rumor all week. She’s seen it in comment threads, in youth group arguments, and in anonymous posts from people who swear they claim to finally know what the Divine Maker is really like.

Her chest buzzes like static.

She clears her throat. “So… there’s a new rumor going around.”

Voices die off. Chairs creak. Attention snaps toward her, fast and sharp. Abby feels it hit her like a spotlight. This is the part she almost likes—the moment right before the words leave her mouth, when they’re still hers.

She looks down at her notebook, half reading, half making it up as she goes.

“People are saying,” Abby starts, “that the Divine Maker—the old man in the sky everyone imagines when they pray—is losing his mind.”

“Wow,” Diesel mutters from the back. “Starting small, huh?”

A couple of people snicker.

Abby presses on. “They say he has something like Alzheimer’s. He keeps making mistakes. Big ones. Especially with new babies.”

Rev, sitting near the front with a book of scribbles open and full of grey sticky notes, glances up. His glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them back up, eyes narrowing.

“What kind of mistakes?” he asks.

Abby inhales. “Bodies,” she says. “He keeps mixing up people’s bodies. Boys are born in girl bodies. Girls show up in boy bodies. Kids get dropped in the wrong country, so they have to leave everything and move across the world to get to the place they were supposed to be born.”

She flips a page. A pen sketch stares back at her: a shaky hand and a messy galaxy.

“Also,” she adds, “he’s going color‑blind. So, you know… mismatched shades of skin color, too.”

The room goes very quiet.

In her mind, Abby sees a giant, cluttered workshop in the sky. Shelves of bodies. Shelves of souls. Smudged labels. Spilled paint. An old man leaning over a table, squinting, his hands shaking as he mixes everything up.

It’s supposed to sound like a joke. A dark joke. But it doesn’t feel funny in her throat. Not when she thinks about real people, real fear, late‑night headlines.

Rev finally speaks. His voice is softer than she expects.

“Maybe,” he says, “you should believe in a different Divine Maker.”

The words hit her harder than any insult.

Abby forces a shrug. “The Divine Maker’s going deaf too,” she says. “He barely answers prayers anymore. Can’t hear them. Or doesn’t care.”

The fluorescent lights hum louder, like bees trapped in plastic.

Evan shifts in his seat near the middle row. His notebooks are always a mess of formulas and strange little poems. He never brings a big book—just questions.

“I see why you say your Divine Maker is made in the image of mankind,” Evan says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Abby snaps, but her voice comes out thin.

“It means,” Evan replies calmly, “he sounds more human than divine. Vulnerable. Forgetful. Biased. Just like us.”

Abby looks away. He’s not wrong. Her version of the Divine Maker does feel like that—moody, unpredictable, sometimes harsh.

She clears her throat again, pushing the story forward.

“Anyway,” she says, “the Divine Maker’s eyesight is going too. He’s got blind spots. Shadows. Things he doesn’t see or doesn’t want to see. Harm keeps leaking out of the places it’s supposed to stay contained. Wrong people in power. Wrong people punished for things they didn’t do.”

She grips the edge of the desk until her knuckles go white.

“The rumor says,” Abby continues, softer now, “he, uh… opened the borders of the whole universe. Let dark spirits crawl out of hell and wander around. They slip into people’s lives. Mess with them. Confuse them. Tempt them. Especially teens.”

Diesel snorts. “So we’re officially haunted now. Great.”

She ignores him.

“These spirits creep into our feeds, our messages, our heads,” she says. “They feed on our fears. Our secrets. Our shame.”

As she says it, she feels a chill trace her spine.

“And my Savior friend?” Abby’s voice drops to a whisper. “The one who’s supposed to save us from all this? The rumor says he canceled his trip.”

Rev's mouth drops open, his eyes wide open. “What?”

“He's staying home,” Abby says. “To take care of his aging father. The failing Divine Maker. So he can’t come to Earth to make all things right.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

No Savior. No rescue. Just an exhausted, half‑broken Creator‑figure and a Son stuck playing nurse instead of hero.

Abby’s chest twists. For as long as she can remember, she’s pictured some perfect rescuer dropping out of the sky at the last second. Now that the image blurs and flickers, like a flashlight about to die.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Evan says quietly.

She looks up. He isn’t smirking. There’s no sarcasm—just this steady, unsettling compassion for a soul whose fantasy expectations have been shattered.

“You’ve always depended on someone else to rescue you,” he says. “You keep waiting to be magically fixed—made good, made pure, made whole. Are you going to invent another hero to worship, or are you finally going to glow-up and choose a path of self‑mastery?”

The word hits her like a slap.

“Self‑mastery,” Abby echoes. “Sounds like a gym program.”

“It’s not,” Evan says. “It’s the opposite of what you’ve been doing.”

“Which is what?” she fires back.

“Standing around as a useless bystander,” he says, “begging for a magician to fix you.”

Her cheeks burn. Part of her wants to spit a joke at him, anything to break the weight of his gaze. Another part of her, smaller and sharper, whispers the question she never says out loud:

What if no one is coming?

The thought leaves a hollow ache in her chest.

The buses outside honk and pull away. The hallway empties.

The club stays.

Markers sit abandoned under the whiteboard. The rain grows heavier. Abby stares at her notebook but doesn’t turn the page.

“It feels like my Divine Maker can’t tell the difference between good and evil anymore,” she finally says.

She doesn’t raise her voice. The quiet makes the words sharper.

“Criminals get forgiven and walk free,” Abby says, “while innocent people get locked away. Or shot. Or crushed.”

Her jaw tightens. Headlines flash in her mind. Shaky phone videos. Comment sections are full of “Just believe the Creator is in control” and “Depend on blind faith to assure you that this crazy chaos is all part of His plan.”

“Maybe the Creator's Alzheimer's made him forget about being in charge of everything and let the Tempters take over. I keep thinking,” she goes on, “if the Son took over from his father, maybe it’d be an upgrade. Like… new management. New rules. A new heaven on Earth.”

“Like a promotion,” Diesel says. “From apprentice miracle worker to Divine Maker‑in‑chief.”

“Exactly,” Abby says. “He’d be in charge of designing every new baby. Every new soul is the second someone gets pregnant. He’d learn to get it right after some practice.”

She wants to believe that. She really does.

Rev drums a pen against the desk, a quick, nervous rhythm.

“Or,” Rev says slowly, “maybe your apprentice Savior already tried to take over. Maybe the mistakes are His. Maybe that’s why so many people end up in bodies that don’t feel like home and places that feel wrong.”

Abby frowns. “You’re blaming the Father's only Son now?”

“I’m saying,” Rev replies, “if humans are having babies every second, all year, keeping up with each soul’s perfect body, gender, race, and country… that’s not an easy job. Even for an experienced miracle worker.”

Abby pictures souls as streaks of colored light racing down some invisible conveyor belt, rushing toward Earth too fast to track perfectly.

“So he’s overwhelmed?” she asks. “Our Savior’s just… overwhelmed?”

Rev lifts a shoulder. “Or unprepared. Maybe he needs help.”

Abby lets out a shaky breath.

“I’m disappointed,” she admits. “I always thought the Son would fix everything down here so Believers could be happy. You know—new heaven on Earth. Perfect justice. No pain unless you ‘deserve’ it.”

“Deserve?” Evan repeats under his breath.

She doesn’t look at him. “He could’ve at least explained the plan,” she says. “A TV broadcast. An email. A dream. Anything. I get that plans can change, but I never got a notification. No update. No apology. Nothing.”

Her hands clench around her notebook.

“I don’t even know what to believe anymore,” she finishes, “until someone tells me.”

The confession hangs between them, raw and bare.

Maybe too bare.

Evan sits up a little straighter.

“Maybe it’s time you stop waiting for someone to tell you,” he says. “Maybe you start hunting for the actual truth instead of clinging to comforting false promises which your conscience has been telling you are too good to be true.”

“How?” Abby asks, her voice suddenly small.

“By learning the laws that don’t care what you believe,” Evan says. “The ones that shape everything anyway. Reality doesn’t care about our wishes, our favorite stories, or our identity labels. Just because something makes you feel special or safe doesn’t mean it’s true.”

She stares at him, throat dry.

“You’re saying my beliefs are fake,” she whispers.

“I’m saying they might be,” Evan replies, “especially if you never question them by listening to the guidance from your Crystic Conscience.”

Diesel swings his boots off the empty chair and leans forward.

“Be nice,” Diesel says. “She’s already having a spiritual meltdown.”

Abby shoots him a weak glare.

Diesel grins. “Look, Abby… you could just be like me. Don’t commit to believing in anything.”

“Wow. Deep,” Evan mutters.

“I’m serious,” Diesel says. “It’s easier. No one’s watching you. No mysterious scorecard. No fear of punishment from above. Just do what you want, when you want. Total freedom.”

His words float through the room like cigarette smoke—thin, tempting, a little poisonous.

Abby lets herself imagine it. No heaven. No hell. No cosmic parent judging her every thought. Just her. Her choices. Her consequences.

The thought sends a strange chill through her. Half relief. Half terror.

Evan watches her carefully.

“I always wondered what happens,” he says, “when blind faith finally collapses.”

She looks up.

“When the system falls apart,” he continues, “and people who waited all their lives for a Savior end up alone, broke, or broken. When your Protector never shows. When evil wins and… keeps winning. What happens then?”

Abby’s pulse stutters.

He keeps going, voice low.

“What happens,” Evan says, “when your last bit of belief shatters—and all that’s left inside you is anger and hurt, and you’ve got nowhere to send it?”

Abby swallows hard.

“Maybe that’s the point,” she blurts. “Maybe I was made to be miserable and worthless so my Savior would have somebody to rescue.”

Diesel blinks. “What?”

“It’s his job to save people,” she says, words tumbling now. “So his Father keeps creating broken ones—messed‑up kids. Noble victims. So the Savior stays busy. If everyone came out perfect, what would he do to sharpen His skills?”

The idea sounds twisted as soon as she hears it. But it also sounds familiar. Too familiar.

Like a secret script running quietly in the back of her mind:

You are broken on purpose. Your pain exists to make someone else look powerful.

Evan leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on hers.

“You can’t live your whole life as a spectator,” he says. “Snapping photos from the sidelines, waiting for someone else to step in and fight for you.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” she demands.

“Increase the presence of your soul inside your body. Connect with your Crystic Conscience,” he says.

Abby, "The Tempters whisper temptations into my mind.  I can't trust anything I hear, especially my conscience. All my guidance must come from the ancient, sanctified book of scribbles."

Evan, "You must become empowered like the Savior, so you can be the one who rescues others.”

She stares. “Become who?”

“The Savior‑Warrior,” Evan says quietly.

The phrase lands like a stone in a still pool, sending ripples through her.

Abby’s first instinct is to laugh. Her? A Savior‑Warrior? She can’t even pick a college major for her guidance counselor.

“If everyone becomes a savior,” she says slowly, “there’s no one left to save. Isn’t that… pointless?”

Evan shakes his head. “Pointless is waiting your whole life for a miracle that never comes.”

He lets the silence stretch, then adds, “What happens when your fantasy finally breaks? When the world shows you it’s not secretly rigged in your favor? When you see clearly that there is no last‑minute rescue—and all you’re left with is fury and a broken heart?”

Abby drops her gaze to the floor. She doesn’t have an answer.

“You’re right about one thing,” she whispers. “I do feel that anger. More and more lately.”

She curls her fingers into the sleeves of her dress.

“It just keeps building,” she says. “Like this black storm in my chest. I want to throw it at someone. Anyone. But I can’t throw it at my Divine Maker because that’s… wrong. You’re not supposed to blame the one who ‘controls everything.’ So I look for someone else. A villain. An enemy I can dump it all on. If I could get rid of it, I swear I’d finally feel better.”

The air in the room thickens, heavy and charged.

Diesel stops joking.

Lightning flashes at the windows. For a second, their reflections appear in the glass—pale ghosts in an old classroom, haunted by questions they were never encouraged to ask.

Thunder rolls closer.

The hallway outside is empty now—just the five of them and the storm.

Evelyn breaks the silence.

“Your enemy wants that storm inside you,” she says quietly. “He wants your rage. Your helplessness. Your shame. Because trapped emotions don’t stay trapped forever; they explode. And when they do, they turn victims into something worse than victims.”

Abby frowns. “Worse how?”

“Slaves,” Evelyn says. “First, you become a slave to whatever you fear. Then, when the pain is too much, you become a slave to whoever promises relief. Either way, you’re not free.”

Her voice hardens just a little.

“If your soul never learns a path to real power,” she continues, “it clings to fantasies—fake hopes. Rumors about a rescue that’s always ‘coming soon’ but never arrives. Every time those hopes shatter, your anger grows. That anger is food. And something out there is hungry.”

Abby’s skin prickles.

She imagines dark shapes curling around people’s heads like smoke, feeding on their swallowed screams and silent tears.

“So what, then?” Abby asks. “What’s the path?”

Evelyn doesn’t look away.

“You fill your soul with wisdom,” she says. “With real virtues. You stop surrendering to whoever shouts the loudest about heaven and hell. You learn how to use every sense of your spirit. Every power you’ve been pretending you don’t have. You use the holy spirit powers to transmute your hatred back into virtuous empowerment instead of feeding your pet entities.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Rev says. "Who would want pet monsters that leach off their energy?"

“It’s reality,” Evan replies. “It's what students have adopted through their daily habits.”

He leans back a little.

“The Savior already returned,” he says. “Not in the sky. In our hearts through the Crystic Conscience. But people don’t know what to do with that. They don’t know how to become like the one they once worshiped. So they stay blind and call it faith.”

“Blind faith is still faith,” Rev says quietly.

“Blind faith is lazy,” Evan answers. “It’s a way to dodge responsibility. ‘If my life falls apart, it must be destiny. If my dreams die, it must be the Creator’s plan. If I’m drowning, I’ll wait for someone to pull me out.’ That’s not holy. That’s convenient.”

The words sting because part of Abby recognizes herself in every sentence.

She straightens, defensive.

“You don’t understand the greatest power in the universe,” she says quickly. “I know how harmful the enemy can be. I know how cruel people can be. And I know the secret to beating them.”

“Oh?” Evelyn says. “What’s the secret?”

“You let them do whatever they want,” Abby says. “You refuse to fight back. You forgive them, over and over. That’s how you prove kindness is stronger than cruelty. That’s how you change them. Eventually. Everyone I trust will learn to trust me.”

Her eyes burn, but she keeps going.

“The interpreters say long‑suffering is the highest virtue,” Abby says. “That if you just keep forgiving, your enemies will finally break. They’ll cry. They’ll switch sides. It hasn’t happened yet, but… it will. Someday.”

Silence follows.

Evelyn’s answer is soft but brutal.

“There are a lot of disappointed people in the cemetery,” she says, “who believed that.”

Abby’s breath catches.

“What happens when you forgive someone seventy times,” she asks, “and on the seventy‑first, they’re still kicking you while you’re curled on the ground, trying to be peaceful?”

Abby's stomach twists. A memory flickers—someone’s voice raised, something shattering, a younger version of herself whispering I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you like a magic spell that never works.

“The bullies don’t want your forgiveness,” Evan says. “They want your weakness. Your fear. Your collapse. Your silence. And when you cling to beliefs you never test, you hand them exactly what they want.”

Diesel’s jaw tightens. "Those who lie down in surrender will be trampled upon."

“You build your whole identity out of untested ideas,” Evan goes on. “Ideas you got from scared people, or controlling people, or people who were just repeating things they heard. Tyrants love that. They want souls that are ignorant, easy to scare, easy to steer.”

“You can grow stronger,” Diesel says quietly, as if to soften the blow.

Abby stares at her hands. Pink chipped nail polish. Blue ink smears.

Who am I, really? she wonders. A rescued damsel? A permanent victim? A background character in someone else’s story?

Her old identity—helpless but ‘chosen,’ miserable but ‘saved’—suddenly feels paper‑thin.

Underneath it, something else stirs. Someone else.

A flicker of… what? Anger? Power? Possibility?

It crawls up her throat, desperate to be spoken.

She swallows it back.

Lightning flashes again, turning the classroom into an X‑ray of chairs and shadows.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Abby feels like she’s standing in front of a locked door. On the other side, she senses a different kind of assurance no one can hand her. One she has to discover piece by piece, like solving a mystery only she can solve.

She thinks of the rumor again: an aging Father, a Son who never shows, a rescue that keeps getting postponed.

If the Father steps back. If the Son stays home. If no one flies down from the sky.

“Then who saves me?” she whispers, barely aware she’s said it out loud.

The question hangs in the air between thunderclaps.

Evan doesn’t move. Rev stares at his blank cellphone out of habit. Diesel looks at Abby as if he’s seeing her properly for the first time.

Inside her heart, something answers. Her Crystic Conscience. A spirit force she has always pushed away.

Not a voice from the clouds. Not a text from heaven. Just a presence she’s always felt but never trusted.

Maybe the story isn’t about being rescued. Maybe it’s about learning who my soul friends and enemies are.

About becoming the kind of person who doesn’t wait at the window for a mythical Savior—but learns, slowly and painfully, how to stand up. How to see clearly. How to protect herself and others from the tempters that feed on fear.

A Savior‑Warrior.

The idea terrifies her.

It also refuses to let go.

Abby slides off the desk. Her sneakers thump softly on the tile. Everyone looks at her, like they’re expecting a prayer or a joke or a breakdown.

Instead, she picks up the dry‑erase marker and uncaps it.

Her hand shakes as she writes three words at the center of the whiteboard:

HUNT THE TRUTH.

She underlines it.

Then, underneath, she writes four more:

BECOME YOUR OWN SAVIOR.

Her heart pounds. Her knees feel weak. Part of her wants to erase it all, apologize, crawl back into the safe, small story where she’s just a victim waiting for help.

She doesn’t.

Behind her, the storm rages. Inside her, something old cracks open—and something new takes its first, trembling breath.

This is how it starts, she thinks.

Not with trumpets in the sky.

With a question, a line on a whiteboard, and one dangerous decision:

To stop waiting.

To start becoming.

One small, terrifying, necessary choice at a time.

Chapter Synopsis:

During an after-school philosophy club meeting, Abby, Evan, Evelyn, Diesel, and Rev debate rumors concerning a failing Divine Maker, a delayed Savior, and the proliferation of dark spiritual influences. Evan and Evelyn challenge Abby's passive reliance on blind faith and religious rescue, arguing that waiting to be magically fixed makes her a weak bystander and that souls must pursue self-mastery through the Crystic Conscience. Recognizing the danger of unverified beliefs and the need to transmute negative emotions rather than submitting to victimhood, Abby erases her old passive victim identity and writes a new motto on the whiteboard: Hunt the truth and become your own savior.

Core Themes & Laws:

• Waiting passively for a cosmic rescue or unearned Savior intervention breeds spiritual stagnation, victimhood, and reliance on unverified religious dogmas.

• True spiritual maturity requires personal self-mastery, independent truth-seeking, and listening to the internal guidance of the Crystic Conscience.

• Blind faith without critical questioning is a lazy approach that leaves individuals vulnerable to manipulation by lower-astral entities and emotional parasites.

• Trapped negative emotions and unmanaged anger act as energetic fuel for hidden spiritual entities, requiring alchemical transmutation rather than suppression.

• Awakening demands that souls step out of the spectator role and actively develop inner spiritual strength and discernment to become Savior-Warriors.

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• Abby: A questioning teenager who confronts her reliance on passive religious rescue and learns to embrace personal spiritual empowerment.

• Evan: A reflective student who pushes Abby to abandon spectator victimhood in favor of rigorous self-mastery and truth-seeking.

• Evelyn: A sensitive philosophy club member who warns against the dangers of trapped negative emotions and spiritual slavery.

• Diesel: A cynical philosophy club member who advocates for total freedom through the absence of belief and structure.

• Rev: An analytical club member who brings logical inquiry and notebook annotations to the philosophical debate.

• Crystic Conscience: The higher spiritual compass and internal presence that provides direct divine guidance and discernment.