Chapter 180
Nirma merely nodded, and when Arya threw the first pebble—with a flick of his wrist that was invisible because his body had become like glass, like water, like a shadow without form—she felt her heart beating faster than usual.
Not out of fear, but because she knew that what they were doing now was something that could not be repeated, something that, if it failed, would never be given a second chance.
Three seconds after the sixth pebble landed—with a faint clicking sound echoing between the valley's stone walls like a whisper that did not wish to be heard yet could not be ignored—the agents of the Temporal Cross-Police moved in unison toward the opposite direction, weapons in hand, eyes narrowed, breaths held.
And within that organized chaos, Nirma and Arya slipped through the gap they had calculated beforehand, crossing the open yard that still carried the scent of goats and dried dates, passing the mortarless stone walls whose coldness pierced to the bone, and finally entering the house of Abdullah bin Jahsy—a house whose rear wall was the valley cliff itself, a house whose earthen floor had been compacted with furnace ash so that every footstep felt as though they were walking across paper far too old, paper that would tear if pressed too hard.
"Over here," Arya whispered, pointing toward a room that was not particularly large but felt warmer than the others.
Perhaps it was because the stone walls retained the sun's heat longer, or perhaps because this was the reception room, the place where Abdullah bin Jahsy welcomed guests, the place where stories of war, faith, and sacrifice were shared over cups of water that were never enough to quench thirst but always enough to keep people talking.
Nirma stepped inside, and in the dim light filtering through the gaps in the stone above her head, she saw something that made her breath stop entirely in her throat.
Not sleeping gas.
Not scattered weapons like those in Mush'ab's house.
But a manuscript—or rather, a collection of manuscripts—spread across the compacted earth floor, over worn leather mats, and atop furnace ash that drifted into the air whenever the wind entered through the cracks in the walls.
"This... this is impossible," Nirma said, her voice nearly breaking at the edges.
Hearing this, Arya immediately stepped closer, his eyes examining the first manuscript, which appeared to be the oldest.
Its parchment pages were written with ink made from charcoal and resin. The letters lacked the dots and vowel markings that would become common in later centuries. Yet its contents... its contents were revelation.
The revelation that first descended.
The revelation that, in every religion of the world, might be called by different names yet carried the same essence.
That there is an Almighty.
That humanity is His servant.
That life is a test.
That death is not the end.
Yet beside that ancient manuscript were objects far more disturbing.
A fully bound Qur'an.
It had a thick leather cover and paper pages that could not possibly have been produced in the seventh century.
Its verses were arranged neatly in beautiful lines of calligraphy.
Its surah numbers and verse numbers were exactly the same as those that Muslims would read thousands of years later.
And yet, at this moment, in the year 625 CE, the Qur'an had not yet been compiled.
It had not yet been bound into a book.
It did not yet possess the dots and vowel markings familiar today.
Certainly not a thick leather cover and fragrant paper pages that smelled as though they had just emerged from a modern printing press.
At the sight of it, Arya felt his stomach churn.
Not from disgust.
Not from fear.
But because he realized that what lay before him was not a historical artifact.
It was a weapon.
A weapon far more dangerous than the pistols and assault rifles they had found in Mush'ab's house.
Because this weapon did not wound the body.
It wounded belief.
It wounded the foundations of faith.
It wounded something that could not be healed by twenty-third-century medical technology or by the prayers of any religion.
"Arya, I have to take this," Nirma said, her voice suddenly becoming firmer, more urgent, like someone who sees a fire spreading through a dry forest and knows that if it is not extinguished immediately, the entire forest will burn.
"I have to read it verse by verse. There may be clues inside. There may be something that explains why Great Abnormal is doing all of this."
But Arya instinctively raised his hand, stopping Nirma before her fingers could touch the cover of that perfectly bound Qur'an.
His movement was fast—far too fast for someone who had seemed rigid only a second earlier.
And when Nirma looked at him with eyes blazing from a curiosity she could no longer suppress, Arya returned her gaze with an expression she had never seen before.
It was neither prohibition nor warning.
It was genuine fear.
The fear of someone who knows that poison rests inside the most beautiful cup imaginable, and that the poison will not kill whoever drinks it—but will transform that person into something they never chose to become.
"Don't touch it," Arya said, his voice quiet but absolute, absolute like a decision that could not be challenged.
"Don't take it. Don't read it. Don't even breathe too close to these things. You don't know whether they've already left traces behind—fingerprints, body odor, skin cells—on every page of that book. And if you touch it now, with bare hands, with good intentions but without any proof that those intentions will protect you from accusation... you'll become a suspect, Nirma. You'll become the scapegoat. They'll say that you're the one who kidnapped the companions of the Messenger of Allah. They'll say that you're the one who planted this false Qur'an in Abdullah bin Jahsy's house. They'll say that you're working with Great Abnormal to destroy the foundations of faith for billions of people."
Hearing this, Nirma withdrew her hand.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she realized Arya was right.
In a world where evidence meant everything and good intentions were never enough to defend oneself, a single careless touch could change everything.
It could transform her from a hunter into a fugitive.
Not because she was guilty.
But because she appeared guilty.
And within the laws of the Temporal Cross-Police, appearances often carried more weight than the truth itself.
Arya then reached into his pocket and pulled out an object.
It was small, shaped somewhat like a flashlight, with a rounded tip and a smooth surface like glass.
It was something Nirma had never seen before despite their years of traveling together.
Something Arya had kept in the deepest, most concealed place, far beyond the reach of anyone's hands except his own.
"What is that?" Nirma asked.
Arya smiled—a smile that never reached his eyes, a smile born not from happiness but from relief that he had saved this item for the right moment, the right place, and the right time.
"A content summarizer," he said.
"I got it from a technician in the year 4666 CE, before we decided to run away. He told me that this device can summarize the entire contents of a book without ever touching its pages. Just shine it on the book, wait a few seconds, and all the information will be recorded into its internal memory. No physical traces. No fingerprints. No evidence that we were ever here, saw what we saw, or learned what we now know."
To be continued…