They made their way back, but Shamsiddin did not sit down. He remained standing, choosing instead to face them all directly.
"This is a first for me. If I try to perform a ritual too, the poor boy might end up worse off…"
His words drew every eye in the room toward him.
"I'm not here to dissect your rituals or beliefs. The only thing that matters is the boy on that bench. I promise to focus solely on him. Please, Mr. Aizawa—turn the lights up a bit."
Though his tone was measured and concerned, to some it rang with a sharp edge, almost mocking. To those seated—monks sworn to their faiths—it bordered on irreverence.
The Jew could tolerate the Zoroastrian. The Catholic might accept the Shinto priest. But Shamsiddin's words? They sounded like accusations straight from the parchment of a medieval inquisition.
No one felt this more acutely than Aizawa, who lowered his gaze after each of Shamsiddin’s remarks, visibly uneasy. With a quick gesture, he signaled for the lights to brighten slightly.
Then, at last, the silence cracked.
The rabbi spoke. His voice was soft, but laced with tension:
"There is one question I cannot silence, and I hope you’ll forgive my candor… I am not a radical believer, but what we are discussing here is a soul. And you, sir—pardon me—you seem to be a man of science. How can we speak of faith with you?"
Silence returned.
Shamsiddin raised his head and met the rabbi’s gaze directly. His voice was not loud, but every word rang with clarity and calm conviction—each syllable struck like a chisel to stone.
“I’ll explain. I am not an atheist.”
A pause.
“I am a Muslim.”
The final words dropped into the room like a hammer on cold steel.
Every man present—the Catholic, the Zoroastrian, the Shinto priest, the Jew—turned their eyes toward Shamsiddin in unison. In their expressions was surprise, disbelief… and, for a fleeting second, something deeper. Doubt—not in him, but in themselves.
Shamsiddin said nothing more. He let the silence breathe. It was his silence—deliberate, steady. His gaze moved slowly, methodically across each face, as if to peel back their layers. And then, gently, he smiled—directly at the Shinto priest.
For the first time, the priest spoke. There was no resentment in his tone, no sanctimony—only genuine curiosity.