Chapter Nine: Blood Moon Ritual
The following night was the dark of the moon—the perfect time for blood rituals,
according to Layla. They returned to the park after midnight, when the neighborhood
was quiet and dark, carrying a backpack filled with the necessary materials. Majid had
told his parents he was staying at a friend's house to work on a school project, ensuring
they wouldn't discover his absence until morning.
"Are you certain about this?" Rana asked as they found the spot closest to the eastern
corner of Al-Zahrani's property. "The ritual will further deplete your First Level
anchoring. You might lose months of stability."
"I'm certain," Majid replied, his amber eyes—no longer hidden by contact lenses in the
darkness—gleaming with determination. "My grandfather left that box for me
specifically. Whatever it contains, he believed I would need it."
Layla began unpacking the materials from the backpack—a piece of chalk made from
crushed bones and ash, several black candles, a silver bowl, and a ceremonial knife with
a handle carved from dark wood and inscribed with temporal symbols.
"We'll create a simplified version of the ritual pattern you saw in your vision," she
explained, handing the chalk to Majid. "Draw the spiral first, then the outer circle, just as
you remember your grandfather doing it."
Majid took the chalk, feeling its strange texture against his fingers. He knelt on the
ground and began drawing, recreating the pattern he had seen in his temporal vision of
the cellar. The chalk left marks that seemed to absorb the dim light rather than reflect it,
creating a pattern of perfect darkness against the ground.
As he completed the outer circle, Layla placed the black candles at specific points
around the perimeter and lit them. The flames burned with an unusual steadiness,
neither flickering nor wavering despite the light breeze.
"Now for the blood component," she said, offering the ceremonial knife to Majid. "Seven
drops in the center of the spiral, while focusing your intent on the box. Visualize it
responding to your call, moving through barriers of space and time to reach you."
Majid took the knife, its weight surprisingly substantial in his hand. He held his left palm
over the silver bowl and, without hesitation, made a small cut across his skin. The pain
was sharp but brief, and he watched as seven drops of his blood fell into the bowl.
"Blood calls to blood across time," he murmured, repeating his grandfather's words from
the vision.
Layla took the bowl and poured its contents onto the center of the spiral. The moment
Majid's blood touched the pattern, the chalk lines began to glow with a deep crimson
light, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Focus your intent," Rana urged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Call to the
safeguard. Visualize it breaking free of its containment, moving through the barriers to
reach you."
Majid closed his eyes, concentrating on the wooden box he had seen in his vision. He
imagined it responding to his blood, to his call, breaking free of the ritual pattern his
grandfather had created decades ago and traveling through the barriers of concrete and
earth to reach him.
The pendant at his throat grew hot, almost burning against his skin. The crimson light of
the ritual pattern intensified, casting eerie shadows across the park. Majid felt a strange
pulling sensation, as if something was being drawn toward him through layers of reality.
Then came a sound—a low rumbling beneath their feet, followed by a sharp crack. The
ground within the ritual pattern began to shift, soil and grass bulging upward as if
something was pushing through from below.
"It's working," Layla whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and professional
interest. "The safeguard is responding."
The bulge in the ground split open, and a small object emerged—a wooden box, exactly
as Majid had seen in his vision, carved with the spiral symbol that matched his pendant.
It rose from the earth, hovering momentarily above the center of the ritual pattern
before settling gently onto the ground.
As soon as the box appeared, the crimson light faded from the chalk lines, and the
candles extinguished themselves simultaneously. The ritual was complete.
Majid reached for the box with trembling hands. It was warm to the touch, as if it had
absorbed the energy of the ritual. The wood was dark with age but perfectly preserved,
the spiral carving still crisp and detailed.
"Be careful," Rana cautioned. "Your grandfather may have included additional
protections."
Majid nodded, examining the box carefully before attempting to open it. There was no
visible lock or latch, just the seamless joining of the wooden panels. He ran his fingers
over the spiral symbol, feeling a slight depression in its center.
"I think it needs blood again," he said, pressing his still-bleeding palm against the
symbol.
The response was immediate. The spiral began to glow with the same crimson light as
the ritual pattern had, and Majid felt a sharp prick against his palm, as if the wood itself
had drawn more blood. Then came a soft click, and the top of the box opened slightly.
Majid lifted the lid, revealing the contents—a small leather-bound book, a vial containing
a dark liquid, and a folded piece of parchment. He removed each item carefully, setting
them on the ground beside the box.
"A journal," Layla observed, looking at the book. "Likely your grandfather's notes on his
journey as a Traveler."
"And this must be instructions for the Second Level ritual," Rana added, gesturing to the
parchment.
"What about the vial?" Majid asked, holding up the small glass container. The liquid
inside was thick and dark, almost black in the dim light.
"That," Layla said with a hint of reverence, "appears to be prepared ritual blood.
Extremely rare and powerful. Your grandfather must have created it specifically for the
Second Level ritual, knowing you would need it eventually."
Majid unfolded the parchment, finding it covered in the same unfamiliar script he had
seen in the Kitab Al-Abirin. "Can you read this?" he asked, handing it to Layla.
She studied the text, her expression growing increasingly serious. "It's instructions for
the Second Level ritual, as we suspected. But there's more—a warning about the Door
Keepers, and specific information about their interest in your family line."
"What does it say exactly?" Majid pressed.
"According to your grandfather, the Door Keepers believe your bloodline carries a
specific temporal resonance that could, if fully developed through the five levels, pose a
threat to what they call 'the natural order.' They monitored him for years before finally
intervening when he attempted the Fourth Level ritual."
"A threat how?" Majid asked, confused. "What could one Traveler, even at the Fifth Level,
do that would threaten their 'natural order'?"
"That's not entirely clear from this text," Layla admitted. "But your grandfather mentions
something called 'the Convergence'—a theoretical point where multiple timelines
intersect, allowing a sufficiently powerful Traveler to move between them at will."
"And the Door Keepers want to prevent this Convergence?"
"They believe it would destabilize all timelines, potentially causing a collapse of reality
itself," Rana explained. "Whether that's true or just their belief system, they take the
threat seriously enough to actively hunt Travelers who show potential to reach the
higher levels."
Majid absorbed this information, its implications expanding his understanding of his
situation. He wasn't just a displaced consciousness seeking revenge against those who
had betrayed him. He was part of a bloodline with unique temporal properties, a
potential threat to an ancient society dedicated to maintaining what they saw as the
proper flow of time.
"What about the Observer?" he asked, remembering his grandfather's final words in the
vision. "Does the parchment mention it?"
Layla scanned the text again. "Yes, briefly. Your grandfather writes that 'the Observer
sees all timelines simultaneously and exists beyond the constraints of linear time. It is
both entity and state of being, both destination and journey. The Door Keepers fear it,
for it represents the truth they deny—that time is not a river flowing in one direction, but
an ocean with infinite currents.'"
"Poetic, but not very specific," Rana commented.
"There may be more information in the journal," Majid suggested, picking up the small
leather-bound book. He opened it carefully, finding pages filled with his grandfather's
handwriting—some in Arabic, some in the strange script, and some in what appeared to
be mathematical equations and diagrams.
"This will take time to decipher fully," Layla said. "But it represents an invaluable
resource—the documented journey of a Traveler who reached the Third Level. Most such
records are lost or destroyed by the Door Keepers."
A sudden noise from the direction of Al-Zahrani's house caught their attention—lights
turning on, voices raised in alarm.
"They've detected the ritual," Rana said urgently. "We need to leave. Now."
Majid quickly gathered the items from the box and shoved them into the backpack. Layla
used a cloth to wipe away as much of the ritual pattern as possible, though the ground
where the box had emerged remained disturbed.
They moved quickly through the park, staying in the shadows, and reached Layla's car
parked several blocks away. As they drove off, Majid saw lights and movement around
his grandfather's old house—people emerging, looking toward the park.
"Will they be able to track us?" he asked, glancing back anxiously.
"Not directly," Layla replied, her eyes on the road as she navigated through the quiet
streets. "The ritual itself leaves no traceable signature once completed. But they'll know
someone accessed the safeguard, and given Samir's awareness of our interest in the
house, they'll have strong suspicions."
"Which means you need to be extremely careful from now on," Rana added, turning to
look at Majid. "The Door Keepers will be watching for any sign of temporal activity
associated with your signature."
Majid nodded, the weight of his situation settling more heavily on his shoulders. Yet
alongside the concern was a fierce excitement. He had retrieved his grandfather's
safeguard, had connected with his legacy as a Traveler. The wooden box and its contents
represented the next step in his journey—not just toward revenge against those who had
betrayed him, but toward a power his grandfather had sought but been prevented from
attaining.
"How soon can we perform the Second Level ritual?" he asked.
Layla and Rana exchanged concerned glances. "Majid," Layla said carefully, "the Second
Level is significantly more demanding than the First. The sacrifice required is greater, the
risks more severe. And your First Level anchoring is still fresh, already depleted by
tonight's blood ritual."
"How much time should I wait?"
"Ideally? At least a year," Layla replied. "Give your consciousness time to fully integrate
with this timeline, to stabilize after the First Level anchoring."
"A year," Majid repeated, disappointment evident in his voice. A year meant delay in his
plans, in the progression of his abilities.
"It's not just about temporal stability," Rana added. "It's about your physical and mental
preparation as well. The Second Level ritual requires not just blood sacrifice, but the
sacrifice of a significant memory. You need time to prepare yourself for that loss."
Majid fell silent, considering this information. The sacrifice of a memory—not just any
memory, but a significant one. What would he be willing to give up? What part of himself
could he afford to lose in pursuit of greater power and more stable anchoring in this
timeline?
As they drove back to the city, Majid opened his grandfather's journal again, flipping
through the pages until he found an entry in Arabic that he could read. The handwriting
was familiar—he had seen it on birthday cards and letters in his childhood—but the
content was entirely new to him, a window into a side of his grandfather he had never
known existed.
"I performed the Second Level ritual last night," the entry began. "The physical pain was
intense but manageable. The true agony came with the memory sacrifice. I chose to give
up my memories of my wedding day—a significant personal milestone, filled with joy
and love. As the ritual reached its peak, I felt those memories being extracted, like
threads being pulled from a tapestry. They unraveled, dissolved, and were gone.
"Now, I know intellectually that I was married in a ceremony, but I retain no emotional
connection to the event, no sensory memories of that day. My wife understands the
necessity of the sacrifice but cannot hide her pain when she references our wedding and
sees no recognition in my eyes. This is the price of the journey—pieces of oneself left
behind as one advances toward greater understanding of temporal reality."
Majid closed the journal, a chill running through him despite the warm night. The
sacrifice of a significant memory—not just forgotten, but completely extracted, leaving
only an intellectual awareness that the event had occurred without any emotional or
sensory connection to it.
What memory would he choose, when the time came? What part of himself was he
willing to lose forever in pursuit of his goals?
The question occupied his thoughts as they returned to the city, as Layla dropped him
off near his home with instructions to keep the journal and ritual materials hidden and
secure. It was still several hours before dawn, and he slipped back into his house
undetected, the backpack containing his grandfather's legacy clutched tightly in his
hands.
In his room, Majid carefully hid the journal, vial, and parchment in a concealed space he
had created behind a loose panel in his closet. Then he sat on his bed, the pendant
warm against his skin, and contemplated the path ahead.
The Door Keepers were now a tangible threat, not just a theoretical concern. His
grandfather's legacy connected him to a cosmic struggle he hadn't anticipated when he
first found himself back in his childhood. And the sacrifices required to continue his
journey as a Traveler were more profound than he had imagined.
Yet his determination remained unshaken. Whatever memory he would eventually
sacrifice, whatever risks he would face from the Door Keepers, the path forward was
clear. He would continue his grandfather's journey, would reach the levels of temporal
mastery that Abdul Karim had been prevented from attaining.
And in doing so, he would ensure that his plans for revenge against Zuhair and the
others who had betrayed him would be executed with a power and precision that
transcended ordinary human capabilities.
As dawn broke over the city, Majid finally allowed himself to sleep, the events of the
night settling into his consciousness like stones dropping into a deep pool. The ripples
would spread far beyond his original intentions, connecting his personal vendetta to
cosmic forces he was only beginning to understand.
The game had changed once again, becoming more complex, more dangerous, and
infinitely more significant than he had ever anticipated