Chapter Six: The Mysterious Manuscript
"You need to meet Layla today," Rana said without preamble as she sat down across
from Majid in their usual corner of the school library. It had been three days since his
disturbing vision during the temporal resonance episode, and he had been trying
unsuccessfully to contact Rana since then.
"Finally," Majid replied, keeping his voice low. "I've been trying to reach you. I had
another episode, but this time I saw something... concerning."
Rana's expression grew serious. "What did you see?"
Majid described the three visions—his original self on the balcony, the cold and isolated
successful version, and most troublingly, the ritual chamber where he appeared to be
suffering during some kind of ceremony.
"The blood ritual," Rana murmured, her face paling slightly. "That's why Layla wants to
meet you urgently. The timeline is accelerating."
"What blood ritual? What do you mean the timeline is accelerating?"
Rana glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot. "Not here. Meet us at the old
bookshop in Al-Balad district after school. Al-Kitab Al-Qadim. Do you know it?"
Majid nodded. The ancient bookstore was a landmark in the old part of the city, known
for its collection of rare and esoteric texts. In his original timeline, he had visited it
occasionally, browsing its dusty shelves for business histories and economic treatises.
"Four o'clock," Rana said, standing abruptly. "Don't be late. And bring your journal."
Before Majid could ask why she wanted him to bring his journal, she was gone,
disappearing between the library shelves with unusual haste.
The rest of the school day passed with excruciating slowness. Majid went through the
motions of attending classes, taking notes, answering questions when called upon, but
his mind was elsewhere—focused on the upcoming meeting with the mysterious Layla
Idrissi and what she might reveal about his situation.
When the final bell rang, he hurried home to drop off his school bag and make an excuse
to his mother about meeting friends to study. The pendant Rana had given him felt
unusually warm against his skin, as if responding to his anticipation.
Al-Kitab Al-Qadim was tucked away on a narrow street in the heart of the old district, its
weathered wooden sign barely visible among the more modern storefronts that had
sprung up around it. Majid pushed open the heavy door, a small bell announcing his
arrival with a delicate chime.
The interior was exactly as he remembered from his original timeline—dimly lit, with
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves creating a labyrinth of narrow aisles. The air was heavy with
the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and the faint sweetness of the incense the
elderly owner liked to burn.
"Welcome, young seeker," came a voice from behind the counter. But it wasn't the
elderly man Majid remembered. Instead, a woman in her fifties stood there, her silver-
streaked black hair pulled back in a neat bun, her dark eyes sharp and assessing as they
took in Majid's appearance.
"I'm here to meet Rana," Majid said, approaching the counter cautiously.
"And I am Layla Idrissi," the woman replied, her voice carrying a slight accent that Majid
couldn't quite place. "Rana is in the back room, preparing for our discussion. You must
be Majid Al-Harthi, the temporal anomaly she's been monitoring."
The directness of her statement caught Majid off guard. "I prefer to think of myself as
more than just an anomaly," he said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
Layla's expression softened slightly. "Of course you are. You are a human being first, with
all the complexity that entails. But you are also something unprecedented in my
decades of studying temporal mechanics—a consciousness that has maintained stable
displacement for years, actively reshaping a timeline with full awareness and intent."
She gestured for him to follow her through a beaded curtain behind the counter. "Come.
We have much to discuss, and time—ironically—is not on our side."
The back room was smaller than Majid had expected, but arranged with surprising
elegance. Comfortable cushions surrounded a low table, upon which sat an ornate silver
tea service. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled not with the antiquarian volumes from the
main shop but with texts that looked even older, their bindings crafted from materials
Majid couldn't identify.
Rana was already seated at the table, and she nodded in greeting as Majid entered. "You
brought your journal?" she asked.
Majid patted his pocket where the notebook was safely tucked away. "Yes, though I don't
understand why it's important."
"All will become clear," Layla said, gesturing for him to sit. She poured three cups of tea
from the silver pot, the liquid a deep amber color that seemed to glow in the room's soft
lighting. "First, I need to understand exactly what happened when you... arrived... in this
timeline. The moment of transition."
Majid had recounted the experience to Rana already, but he described it again for Layla
—the balcony in Riyadh, his contemplation of suicide, the strange tingling sensation, and
his sudden awakening in his childhood bedroom.
Layla listened intently, occasionally nodding or making small sounds of
acknowledgment. When he finished, she set down her teacup with a deliberate motion.
"What you experienced was what we call a Consciousness Temporal Displacement, or
CTD," she explained. "It's extremely rare, occurring only when specific conditions align—
a moment of extreme emotional intensity, a strong desire for change or reversal, and
most importantly, a natural predisposition for temporal sensitivity."
"You're saying I was born with this ability?" Majid asked, surprised.
"In a manner of speaking. Some individuals have a natural resonance with the temporal
fabric of reality. They experience déjà vu more frequently, have unusually vivid dreams
of past or future events, sometimes even demonstrate limited precognition. In most
cases, these abilities remain latent, manifesting only in minor ways throughout their
lives."
"But in my case?"
"In your case, the combination of your natural temporal sensitivity and the extreme
circumstances on that balcony created a rupture—a moment where your consciousness
could slip free of its temporal moorings and reattach at an earlier point in your timeline."
It aligned with what Majid had theorized himself, based on his years of research, but
hearing it confirmed by someone who clearly had deeper knowledge was both validating
and unsettling.
"The pendant you gave me," he said, turning to Rana, "it helps stabilize this...
attachment?"
"Yes," Rana replied. "It's a Temporal Focus, as I told you. It helps anchor your
consciousness to this timeline, reducing the disorientation during resonance episodes."
"But it can't prevent them entirely," Layla added. "The episodes are increasing in
frequency and intensity, aren't they?"
Majid nodded. "And now I'm seeing multiple potential realities, not just experiencing
disorientation."
"That's the timeline responding to your presence," Layla explained. "Every change you
make creates ripples, altering the fabric of potential futures. The visions you're seeing
are glimpses of those potentialities."
"Including the blood ritual?" Majid asked, remembering the disturbing image of himself
in pain, blood streaming from his eyes.
Layla and Rana exchanged a glance that Majid couldn't interpret. "That's why we needed
to meet urgently," Layla said. "What you saw wasn't just a potential future—it was a
glimpse of what must happen if you wish to remain in this timeline permanently."
"What do you mean?"
"CTDs are inherently unstable," Layla explained. "Without intervention, your
consciousness will eventually be pulled back to its original timeline—back to that
balcony in Riyadh. The pendant helps delay this, but it's not a permanent solution."
"So the blood ritual..."
"Is the First Level Anchoring Ritual," Rana interjected. "The first of five rituals that can
permanently anchor a displaced consciousness to a timeline."
Majid felt a chill run through him. "And it involves... bleeding from my eyes?"
"The ritual requires sacrifice," Layla said, her voice gentle but firm. "All temporal
manipulations do. The universe maintains balance—to gain something, you must give
something of equal value. In this case, to anchor your adult consciousness permanently
in this younger body, you must sacrifice something significant."
"What exactly would I be sacrificing?" Majid asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
"For the First Level, a physical sacrifice—blood, pain, the experience of physical
suffering," Layla replied. "It sounds barbaric, I know, but it's a fundamental exchange.
Your consciousness doesn't belong in this timeline naturally, so you must pay a price to
remain here."
Majid sat back, absorbing this information. The idea of willingly subjecting himself to
pain and bloodshed was disturbing, but the alternative—being pulled back to his
moment of despair on that balcony—was unthinkable. His plans for revenge were still
unfolding, still incomplete.
"And there are five of these rituals?" he asked finally.
"Yes," Layla confirmed. "Each more demanding than the last, each anchoring you more
firmly to this timeline. The First Level ritual will stabilize your presence for approximately
five years. After that, you would need to perform the Second Level ritual, and so on."
"What do the other levels require?"
"Let's focus on the First Level for now," Layla said, evading the question. "It must be
performed soon, before the next major temporal resonance episode. Based on the
increasing frequency of your episodes, I estimate you have less than a month."
Majid's hand went to the pendant at his throat. "And if I don't perform this ritual?"
"Then the next major resonance episode will likely pull you back to your original
timeline," Rana said. "All the changes you've made here will remain—this timeline will
continue without you—but you will return to that balcony in Riyadh, with no memory of
your time here."
The thought was intolerable. To lose everything he had worked for, all the careful
planning and manipulation, all the groundwork he had laid for his revenge—and to
return to that moment of utter despair and failure.
"I'll do it," he said firmly. "Whatever this ritual requires, I'll do it."
Layla nodded, as if she had expected no other answer. "Then we must prepare. The
ritual requires specific components, a particular location, and precise timing. It must be
performed during the dark of the moon, which gives us seventeen days."
"What do you need from me?"
"For now, your journal," Layla said, extending her hand. "The ritual must be personalized
to your specific temporal displacement. Your journal contains your observations, your
plans, your emotional responses to the changes you've made. It will help me craft the
ritual specifically for you."
Majid hesitated. His journal contained everything—his plans for revenge, his
manipulations, his true feelings about Zuhair and the others who had betrayed him. To
hand it over would be to reveal himself completely to these women who, despite their
help, remained largely mysterious to him.
"I need to trust you," he said, meeting Layla's gaze directly. "How do I know you won't
use what's in here against me?"
"Balance Keepers are neutral observers," Layla replied. "We don't judge the choices of
those experiencing temporal phenomena. Our concern is with the stability of the
timeline itself, not the morality of individual actions within it."
"Besides," Rana added, "we already know more than you might think. I've been
monitoring you for months, observing the changes you've made, the relationships
you've altered."
Majid looked between them, weighing his options. Without their help, he would lose
everything—be pulled back to his original timeline, to failure and despair. With their
help, he could continue his plans, achieve the revenge he had been working toward for
years. The choice, when framed that way, was clear.
He removed the journal from his pocket and handed it to Layla. "I need it back as soon
as possible. It contains information I need for... future plans."
"Of course," Layla said, accepting the journal with a respectful nod. "I'll return it to you
before the ritual. Now, there's something else you should see."
She rose and went to one of the bookshelves, removing a large volume bound in what
appeared to be dark blue leather. When she placed it on the table before Majid, he saw
that the cover was inscribed with the same spiral symbol that adorned his pendant.
"This is the Kitab Al-Abirin—the Book of Travelers," Layla explained. "It contains the
accumulated knowledge of temporal travelers and Balance Keepers across centuries.
Including, I believe, information about your grandfather."
"My grandfather?" Majid asked, startled. "Abdul Karim Al-Harthi? What does he have to
do with this?"
"Open the book to page 394," Layla instructed.
Majid did as she asked, carefully turning the delicate pages until he reached the
specified number. There, to his astonishment, was a detailed drawing of a man who bore
a striking resemblance to the grandfather he remembered—the same strong jawline, the
same intense eyes. Beside the drawing was text in an unfamiliar script.
"What does it say?" he asked, unable to read the strange characters.
"It documents the case of Abdul Karim Al-Harthi, a natural Traveler who discovered his
abilities in 1967," Layla translated. "He advanced through the first three levels of
anchoring rituals before disappearing in 1982. The Balance Keepers of that time
believed he had attempted to reach the Fourth Level without proper guidance and had
become lost between timelines."
Majid stared at the image of his grandfather, his mind racing. "My grandfather was like
me? A... Traveler?"
"Not exactly like you," Rana clarified. "He didn't experience a CTD as you did. Rather, he
discovered his natural ability to perceive and eventually move through different points
in his own timeline. But the anchoring rituals he performed would have been similar to
what you must now undertake."
"This is why you have such strong temporal sensitivity," Layla added. "It runs in your
bloodline, passed down from your grandfather. It's likely what made your CTD possible
in the first place."
Majid sat back, overwhelmed by this revelation. His grandfather, whom he had always
remembered as a stern but loving presence in his early childhood, had been a temporal
traveler, had performed blood rituals similar to what he now faced. It seemed
impossible, yet the evidence was before him in this ancient book.
"There's more," Layla said, turning the page to reveal what appeared to be journal
entries, again in the strange script. "These are excerpts from your grandfather's own
writings, collected by the Balance Keepers who worked with him. In them, he mentions
creating a safeguard, a way to pass his knowledge to his descendants if they should
develop temporal abilities."
"What kind of safeguard?" Majid asked.
"He doesn't specify, but he mentions hiding it 'where only blood would find it,'" Layla
translated. "Does that mean anything to you?"
Majid thought back to his childhood, to the times he had spent with his grandfather
before the old man's mysterious disappearance. There had been a study in his
grandfather's house, a room filled with books and strange objects that children weren't
allowed to enter alone. After his disappearance, the room had been locked up, the house
eventually sold when his grandmother passed away.
"His study," Majid said slowly. "There might be something in his old study. But the house
was sold years ago, after my grandmother died."
"Do you know who bought it?" Rana asked.
"No, but my father might. It was a difficult time for the family—my grandfather's
disappearance, then my grandmother's death a few years later. I don't think anyone
wanted to keep track of the house after that."
"We need to find it," Layla said decisively. "Whatever safeguard your grandfather left
could be crucial for your journey. The fact that you're experiencing these temporal
phenomena now, decades after his disappearance, suggests a connection that we don't
fully understand."
Majid nodded, his mind already working on how to extract the information from his
father without raising suspicions. "I'll find out who owns the house now. But what about
the ritual? You said we have seventeen days."
"Yes," Layla confirmed. "I'll begin preparations immediately, using your journal to
customize the ritual to your specific displacement. Rana will work with you on
strengthening your temporal focus in the meantime—exercises that will help you
maintain control during the ritual itself."
"It will be painful," Rana warned, her expression serious. "More painful than anything
you've experienced before. You need to be prepared for that."
Majid thought of the vision he had seen—blood streaming from his eyes, his face
contorted in agony. But he also thought of the alternative—returning to that balcony in
Riyadh, to failure and despair, losing everything he had worked for in this timeline.
"I can handle pain," he said with quiet determination. "Whatever it takes to stay here, to
complete what I've started."
Layla studied him, her dark eyes seeming to look beyond his physical form. "Your resolve
is impressive, Majid Al-Harthi. But remember—each ritual requires sacrifice, and each
sacrifice changes you. The man who completes all five levels is not the same man who
began the journey."
"I'm already not the same person I was," Majid replied. "I came back to change my
destiny. If I change myself in the process... so be it."
As he left the bookshop an hour later, his mind was spinning with new information—his
grandfather's secret life as a Traveler, the anchoring rituals he would need to perform,
the mysterious safeguard hidden somewhere in his grandfather's old study. The game
had become more complex, the stakes higher than mere personal revenge.
Yet his determination remained unshaken. If anything, learning about his grandfather's
connection to temporal travel had strengthened his resolve. This wasn't just about
changing his personal fate anymore—it was about fulfilling a legacy he hadn't known
existed, about understanding abilities that ran in his blood.
And somewhere in that legacy, he sensed, lay the key to a power greater than he had
imagined—a power that would make his revenge not just possible, but inevitable.