A short white man, about 5'6", with a low-cut fade and tactical gear, yelled toward Muhammed as he ran at him at full speed.
Muhammed was intrigued by his statement as he moved to take a step forward, but suddenly, his senses flared and his body instinctively curled and rolled.
He looked up suddenly, only to see a slash through the wall as Hans pulled his baton out, aiming for another strike.
Muhammed's body was far from peak, but his instincts were always amazing.
He planted his feet and moved to dodge—
"Blam!" He slipped face-first into slime.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"Sharp instincts," Hans said as he crouched down next to Muhammed, "but situational awareness isn't enough. A little distraction, and you're left helpless to a simple trick. This is a path of strength and deception. Having a possession-level connection isn't enough to keep yourself alive."
Muhammed turned his head, revealing the green slime dripping off his face.
"So… I guess now's the time for a proper introduction," Muhammed said smartly.
"I don't think you're in any position to be snarky," Hans replied, pressing the baton against Muhammed's back.
"And I don't think you should be getting an ego boost from this," Muhammed replied with a smile.
"Far from ego. Get up." Hans didn't flinch as he retracted his baton.
Muhammed got up slowly.
"That wasn't for show. Right now, you are a weak, walking target. But that willpower—that willpower might take you far. You have potential." He looked up at Muhammed, and despite the height difference, he looked far stronger.
This time, Muhammed stayed quiet and contemplative. "I know I have to get stronger."
"Why?" Hans asked, something Muhammed wasn't expecting.
"Why do I have to get stronger? Actually… I don't really know. But I have a strong feeling. And I've never been wrong before," Muhammed answered, his voice stern and ready for whatever Hans would say next.
"That's okay. Most unaware people do things from a feeling. But we feel—and then find the reasons to back it up. You're on the right path. You'll find your 'whys' as you grow."
Hans stepped closer.
"And you're still moving from a place of survival. You thought I would judge or berate you. Not everyone is trying to hurt or betray you. It's time to fully let that old programming go. Are you ready?" Hans looked sincere.
Muhammed had thought that he'd already resolved his old programming—but Hans was right. Would he still feel that unease around his family if he was truly healed? Would he still expect the worst from people and situations?
He knew the answer.
He couldn't deny it.
"How do I fully heal?" he asked.
Hans replied, calm and direct. "A lot of people chase the adventure outside of themselves. But most who are here have found the inner journey far more exciting. With each change and growth comes the illusion of hardship and pain. Most people spend their lives running from the one within. But you must run toward him—toward your pain. And just because it's an illusion doesn't mean it isn't real. For you, right now, it is."
He paused.
"So, are you ready? Ready to suffer? Ready to cry, scream, wail? To want to fight, but have nothing to punch? Are you ready to die—and be reborn?"
Muhammed's hands trembled.
He remembered how much he had already hurt.
But it was that pain that made him stronger.
"My answer will never change. Yes," he said calmly.
Hans nodded.
"Okay. I am your discipline instructor. Walk through that door, and you'll meet your spiritual teacher."
Hans pointed toward the door at the end of the hallway, then walked past Muhammed.
"Wait," Muhammed turned around. He wanted to ask what Hans meant by discipline instructor, and how Malvern knew he should be here—at this exact time—as if it had all been orchestrated long before Muhammed was aware of them.
But, just like a magic trick, Hans was gone.
"Great," Muhammed muttered, then started walking toward the door at the end of the long, wide hall.
The floor was red carpet, but he could still hear his feet tapping against it naturally.
His spine tingled.
But he knew better than to let fear lead him.
So he continued.
As he walked, the walls began to twist—and he started to hear voices.
"You're not worthy."
"You're not good enough."
"I curse you. You will never be anything in life."
All these experiences from his past began to weigh on him, pulling him closer and closer to the ground.
Suddenly, a female voice rang out:
"Don't falter. Don't focus on these experiences—but realize how strong you've been to carry them."
And like a dam breaking, the weight lightened—not gone, but lighter. Tears started to stream down his face.
A sentence, said so calmly, was so profound.
He had spent his life in those experiences—revisiting them, fighting old battles in his head. But he had never realized how strong he had been, just to keep going. To keep pushing. To keep trying.
As he reached the end of the hall, one hand extended toward the door, the other wiping away his tears—
Clack.
"Welcome, Muhammed. It's great to meet you."
A woman sat behind a desk. She had long white locks with green ends, wearing a white and green kimono that matched her hair and her soft, light green eyes. Her neck was adorned with crystals, and gems glistened in her hair. Despite the ornate exterior, she radiated calmness and wisdom.
Clack. The door closed behind him.
"Hello. Nice to meet you too. Who are you?" Muhammed asked, his eyes still a little red as he stepped inside.
"Yahweh. My name is Yahweh. And so is yours."
"What do you mean?" He had heard the name before. It was a name for God.
"Take a seat," she said, raising her ring-adorned hand toward the chair in front of her desk.
Muhammed wasted no time. He was interested—but he didn't realize how disarmed he felt around her.
"Do you know why the third-dimensional realm is called the realm of Maya?"
"Because it's an illusion," Muhammed answered.
"Yes. But what does that mean?"
"That it isn't real?"
"No. It means that it distorts perception in order to make you believe in separation."
"Separation?"
"Yes. There is no separation—no such thing. Everything is part of a greater whole. I'm sure you know by now that the universe is mental."
"Yes," he nodded.
"Then all is consciousness. The physical realm is still part of that—but it is the lowest level of being. Most people spend their entire lives trying to reach their higher self through the physical realm. But that's flawed. Do you know why?"
"No."
"It's because the physical realm is the realm of effect. First, there was thought. That thought created reality. First is the mental plane, the plane of causality. Then the emotional plane—energy in motion. And finally, the physical plane. Everything on the physical plane is already an effect. So how can you change an effect—with another effect?"
"You can't," Muhammed said. "You have to change the cause."
"Exactly. Most people try to change the effect directly and fail. They want to work out, get in shape—so they go to the gym for one day, two days, take a rest day… and never return. Why? Because their mental realm—the cause—hasn't changed."
"They wait until something drastic forces that change," she continued, "because only something that severe affects the mental plane. But some causes run so deep, they must be uprooted entirely. Otherwise, they'll continue playing in the background of your life, constantly affecting it. That's what trauma is."
She leaned forward.
"Imagine yourself as a child—no emotional regulation. You came from a place of knowing all, being all, and suddenly… you're limited. You're physical. A bundle of energy in a foreign form. Now imagine that energy freezing—hardening—due to trauma, fear, and programming passed down from others. That's where most diseases and ACEs come from. That's where most deaths come from. Stagnant, traumatic energy."
"So trauma is frozen energy—manifesting as disease and hardship?" Muhammed confirmed.
"Precisely. We are all God wearing different masks. But those who are misaligned and unawakened don't know that. They believe life happens to them, not from them. They suffer, and they preach that they know God. Even in ignorance, God loves them. Whispers to them. But they no longer hear. They no longer see."
She stood, voice growing heavy.
"In the past, you could walk this path easily. But now, it's different. The spiritual and emotional planes have taken a more solid form. There is real separation now. And while we can still use universal energy, we now create our own individual paths."
She paused.
"And because of that, any trauma attached to your spirit has also taken on semi-physical form. So even if you heal it internally, you'll still face it externally—on those planes. And when you do, if you flinch… if you shake even once… you'll lose. You must become unshakable. You must detach completely. With certainty."
She raised her hand, her voice echoing now, filled with power:
"You have three options to heal and transmute your stagnant energy:
One – Unblock your southern chakras through meditation and guided practice over about a year.
Two – Use substances to go within. Meditate. Locate the trauma in your physical body. Unfreeze it. Transmute it.
Three – Wait until you are summoned to face the full, physical forms of your trauma—at full strength."
"Choose."
The air grew heavy as her voice boomed.
She gave him no background. This was a test.
The best thing I can do is trust myself, he thought.
When I awakened, I meditated… but I keep hearing about substances. What would my trauma even take the form of…?
The pressure deepened. His breath grew shallow.
Meditation seemed like the obvious choice.
But he had never been one to follow the obvious.
"…Substances," he said.
She looked into him, a shadow falling across her face. Her eyes were nearly invisible in the dim.
His heart began to pound.
And just as it reached the precipice—
"Great," she said softly. "Have confidence. Always. Your opinion is the only one that will ever matter. Know it. Treat yourself like it. Your discipline instructor will talk to you more about that."
She reached into her sleeve and placed a tray of different substances in front of Muhammed.
"Now… let's begin."