Dawn of Day Seven broke clear and cold over a world half-emptied and wholly changed.
The sun rose pure gold—no blood color, no ash, no shadow.
Birds sang for the first time in three days.
The darkness had retreated, wounded and snarling, to whatever abyss still sheltered it.
In Rome, Sofia stood on the ruined loggia of St. Peter's, white dress spotless despite dust and battle, brown scapular catching the first rays like a banner.
Below her, the square was filled—not with forced crowds, but with pilgrims.
Tens of thousands who had survived the darkness, all unmarked, all radiant with new or renewed faith.
They knelt in perfect silence, rosaries in hands, faces turned toward her.
Behind her, the Pauline Chapel refugees—now over a thousand—knelt in the debris.
Monsignor Moretti stood at her right, Pope Benedict XVI—frail but free—at her left, white cassock borrowed from a sacristy drawer, eyes shining with tears he had waited twelve years to shed.
The olive-wood rosary hung from Sofia's joined hands.
She felt the entire Rosary Army across the world kneeling with her—millions now, linked by grace across continents.
She felt Sarah Kline and every martyr crowned in heaven watching.
She felt Our Lady standing invisibly at her side.
And she felt the creature gathering for one final assault.
It came at 7:00 a.m. exactly.
The sky tore open above the Vatican—not a small rip this time, but a wound from horizon to horizon.
Out of it poured every power and principality that had ever hated the Woman and her Seed.
Legions.
Wings like storm clouds.
Eyes like burning cities.
Voices promising every lie ever told.
At their head flew the creature that had worn Alessandro—now fully manifest, no human mask left.
Seven heads.
Ten horns.
Crowns of false stars.
A mouth that spoke blasphemies in every tongue at once.
It hovered above St. Peter's dome and roared:
"THE GIRL. GIVE ME THE GIRL AND I WILL SPARE THE REST."
The pilgrims in the square did not flinch.
They began the Glorious Mysteries together, voices rising like one soul.
Sofia stepped to the edge of the loggia.
She raised the olive-wood rosary high.
And answered—not with words, but with prayer.
First Glorious Mystery: The Resurrection.
Light exploded from the rosary—pure, white, living.
It struck the creature like a spear.
One head screamed and withered.
Second Glorious Mystery: The Ascension.
The light became a pillar, stretching from earth to heaven.
Millions of sealed souls worldwide felt themselves lifted in spirit, joining the chorus.
Another head fell silent.
Third Glorious Mystery: The Descent of the Holy Spirit.
Tongues of fire appeared above every pilgrim's head in the square—visible, real, gentle.
The creature's wings caught fire.
It beat them frantically, but the flames spread.
Fourth Glorious Mystery: The Assumption.
Sofia herself began to glow until she was difficult to look at directly.
Our Lady became visible—not to Sofia alone, but to every soul in the square and every sealed soul watching by whatever grace allowed.
Blue mantle.
Crown of twelve living stars.
Feet resting on a serpent that writhed but could not strike.
She smiled at Sofia—mother to daughter.
The creature howled in recognition and terror.
Fifth Glorious Mystery: The Coronation.
The light from the rosary became a crown.
It settled on Sofia's head—not of gold, but of pure grace.
Then it lifted higher.
And settled on the head of the visible Virgin Mary above her.
The creature lunged.
St. Michael and all the heavenly host met it mid-air.
The battle that followed shook the foundations of the world.
Swords of light against claws of shadow.
Wings of fire against wings of smoke.
Every strike sent shockwaves that leveled empty buildings but left the pilgrims untouched.
The creature fought with the fury of eternity.
But it was losing.
Head by head.
Horn by horn.
Until only one remained.
It dove straight for Sofia.
She did not move.
Our Lady stepped forward—visible, tangible, immense.
She spoke one word.
Not in Latin.
Not in Hebrew.
In the language of Eden before the fall.
The word was:
"Enough."
She lifted her foot.
And brought it down.
Not on the marble.
On the serpent beneath it.
The creature's final head shattered like glass.
Its body dissolved into black smoke that howled as it was sucked back into the closing wound in the sky.
The tear sealed with a sound like the closing of the tomb on Holy Saturday.
Silence fell.
Then the sun flared brighter than it ever had.
And He came.
Not in terror.
Not in thunder.
But as He promised at Fatima: in glory, but gentle.
Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, descended in the Eucharist—larger than the sun, yet intimate as Communion on the tongue.
He hovered above St. Peter's exactly where the creature had been.
Wounds still visible.
Heart burning but not consumed.
Eyes infinite with mercy and justice.
Every soul on earth—living or dead, sealed or newly repentant—saw Him.
Felt Him.
Knew Him.
He spoke, and every heart heard it in its native tongue:
"Behold, I make all things new."
The pilgrims in the square—millions worldwide—fell on their faces.
Sofia alone remained standing, held upright by Our Lady's invisible hand.
Jesus looked at her.
Smiled the same smile from the Warning.
"Well done, My good and faithful daughter."
He extended His wounded hand.
Light poured from it, healing every wound the darkness had left.
Pope Benedict's frailty vanished.
The ruined Vatican rebuilt itself stone by stone in seconds—frescoes restored, dome perfect, bells ringing again.
But different.
No more thrones of marble.
Only one throne now—in heaven.
Jesus turned to His Mother.
The crown of twelve stars brightened until it outshone the sun.
He placed a second crown—smaller, radiant—on Sofia's head.
Not of queenship.
Of witness.
Then He spoke to the world one final time:
"The age of sin is ended.
The age of My Immaculate Mother's Heart has begun.
Live in My peace."
He ascended slowly, carrying with Him every soul who had chosen Him in the final moment.
Our Lady remained a moment longer.
She looked at Sofia.
Spoke without words, heart to heart:
"My little army… go now and teach them to pray."
Then she too ascended, following her Son.
The sky closed.
The sun returned to normal.
But the world never would.
In the square, the pilgrims rose.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then Sofia stepped forward.
She raised the olive-wood rosary—now glowing permanently with soft light.
And began the Joyful Mysteries again.
Millions joined her.
Not as an army now.
As children.
The Triumph of the Immaculate Heart had come—not with armies or miracles of power, but with one girl's yes, one Rosary at a time.
Years later, historians would argue about dates.
But the faithful would always remember:
It began with a daily-Mass girl in a Chicago adoration chapel.
And it ended—truly began—on Day Seven, when the Woman crushed the serpent under her heel, using the bare feet of her youngest daughter.
The End.
But really, the beginning.