I searched and fought in America.

Rosen pulled down his hat brim and blended into the back of the queue.

Standing in front of him was a white homeless man with gray hair, his back slightly hunched, clutching a cross tightly in his hand.

"Hey buddy, I just got here recently, and I heard they're giving out food right now?" Rosen said casually, his voice hoarse.

Upon hearing Rosen's words, the old homeless man seemed to have a switch flipped, and turned his head.

"Then you've come to the right place, child," the old vagrant said, pointing to the black figure ahead with reverence.

"That's Pastor Meyer, he's an angel sent by God to this hell! If it weren't for him around here, I would be dead already."

"An angel? There are still good people like that these days? I don't believe it. What's his motive?" Rosen feigned surprise.

"What's the point?" The old homeless man glared at Rosen, seemingly angered by his blasphemous speculation.

"Pastor Meyer doesn't want anything! He gave all his savings to help us, and he even ate leftover bread crusts himself! I won't allow you to say that about him!"

Rosen quickly apologized, and the old homeless man's expression softened. He then began to ramble on about Pastor Meyer's many good deeds, almost praising him as a saint of our time.

The line moved slowly, and soon it was Rosen's turn.

He finally saw through Pastor Meyer.

This is a typical middle-aged Black man, thin and with wrinkles on his face.

His priest's robe was faded from washing, and the cuffs and collar were covered in patches.

Those hands were as rough as tree bark, with large knuckles, clearly the result of years of heavy labor.

What Rosen cared about most were those eyes.

Gentle, very gentle, like a still pool of water, looking at you as if it can embrace everything.

"May God bless you. You look unfamiliar; you don't live nearby, do you?"

Pastor Meyer handed over a sandwich, his voice warm and gentle.

Rosen took the food, his face showing a timely expression of embarrassment and gratitude:

"I just came from the north. I couldn't find any work there, but I heard that they're distributing food here..."

Pastor Meyer didn't ask any further questions, simply nodding and then taking a bottle of mineral water from under the table and handing it to Rosen.

"Life here isn't easy either, but as long as you're alive, there's always hope, and the Lord will guide your way."

"Thank you, thank you, Pastor."

Rosen thanked them repeatedly and left the group with the food.

He walked to the corner of the wall across the street, munching on his slightly dry sandwich while observing the figure still busy at work.

Although their time together was short, Rosen's intuition told him that Pastor Meyer gave off a very comfortable feeling, and that kind of kindness emanating from within was hard to fake.

But in this world, the most perfect disguise is often the truth.

If this person is truly without flaws, where did the $10,000 bounty for information about him come from?

After finishing the last bite of his sandwich, Rosen patted the crumbs off his hands, his gaze sharpening.

Since we can't see any flaws from the front, let's look at the back.

While Pastor Mair was still busy at the entrance, Rosen crouched low, circled around to the side of the church, avoided the main entrance, climbed over the low wall, and entered the church.

As he climbed over the wall, the sight that came into view made Rosen's breath catch in his throat slightly.

Behind the church is a row of long, simple houses that look like they were pieced together from shipping containers and scrap wood, resembling some kind of temporary row of dormitories.

The courtyard was full of life, with more than a dozen ropes hanging out to dry, covered with clothes and bedding. A dozen women were busy at work, some hanging washed old clothes on the ropes, others cleaning the cement floor with brushes.

There were mostly children, a dozen or so kids of different skin colors chasing each other around the yard. Black, white, Latino—these are the kinds of people who might draw their guns at each other outside because of a single glance—but here they were rolling around together, laughing and joking.

He took a deep breath, suppressed the inexplicable stirring in his heart, crouched down to avoid the crowd's gaze, and slipped into the row of dormitories.

The door wasn't locked.

Rosen pushed open the first door. The narrow space contained three bunk beds that could accommodate six people. The bedding was old, some even patched, but neatly folded.

In this chaotic country, in this neighborhood where even breathing is filled with the smell of blood, having a clean and safe place to sleep is a luxury that more than 30% or even 40% of people would never even dare to dream of.

Rosen silently withdrew and searched through five or six rooms, most of which had the same furnishings.

At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a wooden door.

This is an office.

An old-fashioned desk with peeling paint, a slightly wobbly wooden chair, and a bookcase crammed full against the wall.

Rosen wasted no time and went straight to the bookshelf.

My fingers traced the spines of rows of books: the Bible, an introduction to theology, and early childhood psychology... most of them were old books.

Suddenly, his finger stopped on a thick leather notebook.

I took out the notebook and opened it.

Rosen was stunned.

This is a handwritten "Practical Survival Skills Guide".

The notebook contained many sheets of paper, each with different handwriting, clearly from different people, but all of them were copied into the notebook by Teng. The handwriting was neat, and these messy experiences were compiled together, with even annotations.

How to identify water sources, how to treat gunshot wounds, how to use discarded electrical circuits for heating...

It's obvious who copied it!

Rosen's fingers gently stroked the notebook, his throat feeling a little dry.

In the country of my previous life, this knowledge was readily available, and even when the government sent specialists to teach it, many people were too lazy to learn. But in this country, this knowledge is a priceless treasure, a valuable asset that others would rather sell their blood than obtain.

But that pastor was imparting knowledge to the people here free of charge.

Rosen closed his laptop, carefully placed it back in its original position, his eyes becoming complicated. He shook his head and walked towards the desk in the middle.

The table was neatly tidy, with a stack of children's drawings on the left and a well-worn Bible on the right.

In the very center is an open ledger and a pen with its cap off.

Rosen looked down and scanned the area.

Every single expense is listed above in great detail.

"On October 2nd, 50 pounds of flour were used for community children's meals."

"On October 5th, I paid Mrs. York's electricity bill (which was two months overdue)."

"October 9th, Anna's community college registration fee..."

However, in the income section, apart from some donations from believers, a large portion was actually paid from Pastor Meyer's salary! This pastor devoted all his salary to building churches and benefiting the world!

Closing the ledger, Rosen put the book back where it was, then bent down and rummaged under the desk, finding a small, unlocked metal box.

Upon opening, there were no gold bars or drugs inside, only some old photos and a few documents.

Rosen picked up the photograph. It showed a group of people in white robes sitting together in prayer, their eyes fervent and resolute. Pastor Meyer was among them; he was much younger then, and his eyes were even more driven than they are now.

After quickly flipping through the documents below, a look of realization dawned on Rosen's eyes.

It turned out to be the case.

In his youth, Meyer was a member of an organization called the "Ascetic Saints," a group of dozens of people who were either truly madmen or, in other words, true saints.

They strictly adhered to the rules and regulations in the Bible, restricting themselves to the point of near self-torture.

This group enjoys extremely high prestige among lower-class believers, so much so that it has attracted the attention of foundations and large churches that use charity as a guise to amass wealth.

Those people tried to exploit the reputation of this group of "saints" to swindle donations, but were firmly rejected by these hotheads and even publicly exposed.

The outcome is obvious.

The "Ascetic Saints" were classified as an extremist organization and forcibly disbanded.