Chapter Seven: The First Blood Ritual
The seventeen days leading up to the dark of the moon passed in a blur of preparation
and anticipation. Majid divided his time between maintaining his normal routine—
school, family interactions, careful management of his relationship with Zuhair—and
meeting with Rana for the exercises Layla had prescribed to strengthen his temporal
focus.
These exercises were unlike anything Majid had experienced before. Meditation
techniques that required him to visualize his consciousness as a distinct entity from his
physical form. Breathing patterns that seemed to alter his perception of time, making
seconds stretch into minutes or compress into fleeting moments. Chants in a language
he didn't recognize but that resonated in his blood, as if some part of him remembered
them from an ancestral memory.
Meanwhile, he had carefully extracted information from his father about his
grandfather's old house. It had been sold to a business associate of Abdul Rahman's, a
man named Ibrahim Al-Zahrani, who had subsequently renovated it extensively. The
house still stood in its original location in an older neighborhood of Al-Khobar, though
Majid's father warned that it might be unrecognizable after the renovations.
"Why the sudden interest in your grandfather's house?" Abdul Rahman had asked,
curious about Majid's inquiries.
"I've been thinking about him lately," Majid replied, which was true enough. "About what
happened to him. I have some memories of his study—all those books and strange
objects. I was wondering if any of it was preserved."
His father's expression had grown somber. "Most of his possessions were sold or
distributed among family members after your grandmother passed. The study was...
unusual. Your grandfather had eclectic interests—history, astronomy, some
philosophical and mystical texts that were quite obscure. I kept a few books that seemed
important to him, but most of it was dispersed."
This had been new information—his father had kept some of his grandfather's books. In
his original timeline, Majid had never known this, had never asked about his
grandfather's possessions.
"Could I see the books you kept?" he had asked, trying to contain his excitement.
"They're in storage in Riyadh, in my apartment there," his father had replied. "I'll bring
them next weekend if you're interested."
Now, on the night of the ritual, Majid stood in his room, preparing to sneak out of the
house. His father had indeed brought a box of his grandfather's books the previous
weekend, but a quick examination had revealed nothing obviously related to temporal
travel or the mysterious "safeguard" mentioned in the Kitab Al-Abirin. The books were
primarily on astronomy, ancient history, and esoteric philosophy—interesting, but not
immediately useful for his current situation.
The pendant around his neck felt unusually warm, almost hot against his skin. Layla had
explained that as the time for the ritual approached, the Temporal Focus would respond
to the increasing instability of his displacement, working harder to anchor him to the
current timeline.
Majid checked his watch—11:30 PM. He needed to meet Rana and Layla at midnight at
the location they had chosen for the ritual: an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of
the city, far from prying eyes. He had told his parents he was going to bed early to rest for
an important exam the next day, ensuring they wouldn't check on him until morning.
He slipped out through his bedroom window, a route he had used occasionally in his
original adolescence for more mundane rebellions. The night was cool, a light breeze
carrying the salt scent of the nearby Gulf. Majid made his way through quiet residential
streets to where Rana waited in a car, engine idling.
"Ready?" she asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
Majid nodded, though in truth he felt anything but ready. The vision of himself bleeding
from the eyes, face contorted in pain, had haunted him throughout the preparation
period. But the alternative—being pulled back to that balcony in Riyadh—was
unthinkable.
"Layla is already there, preparing the space," Rana said as she drove through the
deserted streets. "She's been working on the ritual specifications based on your journal.
She says your case is... unique."
"How so?"
"Most Travelers are seeking knowledge, enlightenment, or trying to correct specific
mistakes," Rana explained, her eyes fixed on the road. "Your motivation is more...
comprehensive. You're not just trying to change one event or gain one piece of
knowledge. You're systematically reshaping an entire life trajectory."
There was something in her tone—not judgment exactly, but a kind of cautious
assessment—that made Majid wonder again how much these women truly knew about
his plans for revenge.
"Is that a problem?" he asked.
"It's a complication," Rana replied. "The more extensive the changes you make to the
timeline, the more energy is required to anchor you within it. The ritual will be more
demanding as a result."
"More painful, you mean."
"Yes."
They drove in silence after that, leaving the city behind and entering an industrial area
that had been partially abandoned during the economic downturn of the previous
decade. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking shadow against the night sky. No other
buildings in the vicinity showed lights; the area was as isolated as they could hope for
within driving distance of the city.
Rana parked behind the building, out of sight from the road. "Remember what we
practiced," she said as they got out of the car. "Focus on your breathing, on the
visualization techniques. It won't reduce the physical pain, but it will help you maintain
consciousness throughout the ritual. That's crucial—if you pass out before it's complete,
the anchoring won't take hold."
Majid nodded, steeling himself for what was to come. They entered the warehouse
through a side door, the hinges protesting with a rusty groan. Inside, the vast space was
mostly dark, except for a circle of light in the center where Layla had set up for the ritual.
The floor had been cleared of debris and swept clean. A complex pattern had been
drawn in what appeared to be white chalk—concentric circles filled with symbols similar
to those in the Kitab Al-Abirin, with the now-familiar spiral at the center. Candles burned
at specific points around the pattern, their flames unnaturally still in the enclosed space.
Layla stood at the edge of the pattern, dressed in a simple black robe. She looked up as
they approached, her expression solemn.
"The preparations are complete," she said. "Majid, you understand what will happen
tonight?"
"I'll perform the First Level Anchoring Ritual," he replied. "It will be painful, involving
blood sacrifice, but if successful, it will stabilize my presence in this timeline for
approximately five years."
"Yes, but there's more you need to understand before we begin," Layla said. "The ritual
doesn't just anchor your consciousness to this timeline—it fundamentally alters your
relationship with temporal reality. After tonight, if successful, you will no longer be
merely a displaced consciousness. You will be a First Level Traveler, with all that entails."
"What does that entail, exactly?" Majid asked, a flutter of anticipation mixing with his
apprehension.
"Enhanced temporal perception, for one," Layla explained. "You'll begin to see the
ripples of your actions more clearly, to perceive potential futures with greater accuracy.
Your resonance episodes will change in nature—less disorienting, more informative. And
you'll gain a measure of control over them, able to induce them intentionally under
certain conditions."
This was new information, and it sent a thrill through Majid. Control over the resonance
episodes? The ability to see potential futures more clearly? These were powers that
could significantly enhance his plans for revenge, allowing him to calculate outcomes
with greater precision.
"There's a cost, however," Layla continued, as if reading his thoughts. "The more you use
these abilities, the faster you'll burn through the anchoring provided by the ritual. Use
them sparingly, and the First Level anchoring might last the full five years. Use them
frequently, and you might need the Second Level ritual much sooner."
"I understand," Majid said, though in truth he was already calculating how these new
abilities might be worth the accelerated timeline.
"One more thing," Layla said, her voice growing even more serious. "The ritual creates a
distinctive energy signature that can be detected by others with temporal sensitivity.
Until now, your displacement has been relatively subtle, noticeable only to trained
observers like Balance Keepers. After tonight, you'll be more visible to anyone with the
ability to perceive temporal anomalies."
"Is that dangerous?" Majid asked, suddenly concerned.
"Potentially," Rana interjected. "There are others besides Balance Keepers who monitor
temporal phenomena. Some are benign observers, some are fellow Travelers, and some
are... less friendly to those who manipulate time."
"The Door Keepers," Layla said, naming the threat directly. "A society dedicated to
preventing what they see as dangerous temporal manipulations. They believe that time
should flow in its natural course, that those who alter it create dangerous instabilities in
reality."
"And they would try to stop me?" Majid asked.
"They would try to remove your ability to affect the timeline," Layla confirmed. "Their
methods vary, but they're not known for their gentleness."
This was an unexpected complication. Majid had been focused on the physical pain of
the ritual itself, not on the potential dangers that might follow his transformation into a
"First Level Traveler."
"Why didn't you mention this before?" he demanded.
"Would it have changed your decision?" Layla asked, her gaze steady. "The alternative is
still the same—being pulled back to your original timeline, losing everything you've
worked for here."
She was right, of course. The threat of these "Door Keepers" was concerning but not
enough to deter him from his path. Nothing was worth returning to that moment on the
balcony, to failure and despair.
"No," he admitted. "It wouldn't have changed my decision."
"Then it's time to begin," Layla said, gesturing to the center of the pattern. "Remove your
shoes and shirt, then stand in the innermost circle."
Majid did as instructed, the cool air of the warehouse raising goosebumps on his bare
skin. The chalk pattern seemed to shimmer slightly as he stepped into the center, though
he couldn't tell if it was a trick of the light or something more significant.
"Kneel, facing east," Layla directed, taking up a position at the edge of the outermost
circle. Rana moved to stand opposite her, completing a straight line through Majid to the
cardinal points.
As Majid knelt, Layla began to speak in the same unfamiliar language he had
encountered in the chanting exercises with Rana. The words seemed to vibrate in the air,
creating resonances that he felt in his bones rather than heard with his ears.
The pendant at his throat grew hotter, almost painfully so. Majid focused on his
breathing, on the visualization techniques Rana had taught him—imagining his
consciousness as a distinct entity from his physical form, a glowing sphere of light
tethered to his body by countless filaments of energy.
Layla's chanting grew more intense, and Rana joined in, their voices weaving together in
complex patterns. The chalk lines of the ritual circle began to glow with a soft blue light
that gradually intensified, pulsing in rhythm with the chant.
Then came the pain—sudden and overwhelming, as if every nerve in Majid's body had
been set alight. He gasped, nearly losing his focus, but managed to maintain the
visualization of his consciousness as separate from his suffering body.
The pain intensified, concentrating in his head, behind his eyes. He felt a warm trickle
down his cheeks and realized with horror that he was indeed bleeding from his eyes, just
as in his vision. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, and he could taste it on his
lips.
Layla's voice rose to a crescendo, and the blue light of the ritual circle flared blindingly
bright. In that moment of peak intensity, Majid experienced something extraordinary—a
sensation of his consciousness expanding beyond his body, beyond the warehouse,
beyond the present moment.
He saw timelines—countless potential futures branching out from this moment,
shimmering threads of possibility stretching into infinity. He saw his own timeline, the
path he had traveled from that balcony in Riyadh to this moment, and the alterations he
had already made to the original course of events.
And he saw something else—a presence, vast and ancient, observing him from what
seemed like an immense distance. It regarded him with what felt like curiosity, perhaps
even approval, before withdrawing from his awareness.
Then the vision collapsed, and Majid was back in his body, still kneeling in the center of
the ritual circle. The pain was receding, though his face felt sticky with drying blood. The
blue light had faded from the chalk lines, and the candles had burned down
significantly, suggesting that more time had passed than he had perceived.
"It is done," Layla said, her voice hoarse from the extended chanting. "The First Level
anchoring is complete."
Majid tried to stand but found his legs unsteady. Rana moved quickly to support him,
helping him to a chair that had been placed just outside the ritual circle.
"How do you feel?" she asked, offering him a cloth to wipe the blood from his face.
"Different," Majid replied, and it was true. There was a new clarity to his perception, as if
a veil had been lifted from his senses. He could feel the flow of time around him, could
sense the subtle currents of cause and effect that shaped reality. "Stronger, somehow.
More... connected."
"The anchoring was successful," Layla confirmed, approaching with a small mirror. "See
for yourself."
Majid took the mirror, bracing himself for the sight of his blood-streaked face. But what
caught his attention wasn't the drying blood—it was his eyes. They had changed color,
shifting from their natural dark brown to a deep amber with flecks of gold. The effect
was subtle enough that someone who didn't know him well might not notice, but to
Majid, the change was startling.
"My eyes..."
"A mark of the First Level," Layla explained. "Each level of anchoring leaves its trace on
the physical form. The eyes are always the first to change, being the windows through
which we perceive reality."
"Will they stay this way?" Majid asked, still staring at his reflection.
"Yes. It's a permanent change, though as I said, subtle enough that most people won't
notice unless they're looking closely."
Majid handed back the mirror, processing this new development. A permanent physical
change was unexpected, but not unwelcome. The amber eyes would serve as a constant
reminder of what he had endured, of the path he had chosen.
"What now?" he asked, wiping the last traces of blood from his face.
"Now you rest and recover," Layla said. "The ritual has taken a significant toll on your
body, even if you don't feel it yet. Tomorrow, we'll begin exploring your new abilities as a
First Level Traveler."
"And my grandfather's safeguard? The thing he hid 'where only blood would find it'?"
"We'll investigate that as well," Layla assured him. "With your new perceptions, you
might be able to sense it if we visit his old house. But that can wait a few days, until
you've adjusted to your new state."
As Rana drove him home in the pre-dawn hours, Majid sat quietly, absorbing the
changes he could feel within himself. The pendant at his throat had cooled, no longer
burning against his skin. It felt different now—less like a foreign object and more like an
extension of himself, a tool that responded to his will rather than merely stabilizing his
presence.
He experimentally reached out with his new senses, trying to perceive the currents of
time around him. The experience was disorienting at first, like opening a new set of eyes
that perceived a spectrum of reality he had never known existed. But gradually, he
began to make sense of what he was seeing—the subtle web of cause and effect, the
ripples of past actions spreading into potential futures.
"Don't push too hard," Rana advised, noticing his concentration. "Your abilities will
develop naturally over the coming days and weeks. Forcing them now, when you're still
adjusting to the anchoring, could be dangerous."
Majid nodded, relaxing his focus. "It's... overwhelming," he admitted. "I never imagined I
would be able to perceive time this way."
"This is just the beginning," Rana said. "Each level of anchoring brings new perceptions,
new abilities. By the Fifth Level, a Traveler can see the entire tapestry of time, can move
through it with conscious intent rather than merely observing it."
The Fifth Level. The ultimate goal, then—not just stability in this timeline, but the ability
to move through time at will. The implications for his plans were staggering. With such
power, his revenge could be more than complete; it could be perfect, calculated to the
finest detail.
But that was still far in the future. For now, he had achieved the First Level, had secured
his presence in this timeline for the next five years. It was enough time to continue laying
the groundwork for his revenge, to further alter the course of events from his original
life.
As they approached his neighborhood, Majid felt a strange sensation—a pulling at the
edge of his awareness, a familiarity that called to him. Without thinking, he directed
Rana to turn down a different street than the one leading to his home.
"What is it?" she asked, following his instruction.
"I'm not sure," Majid replied, focusing on the sensation. "Something... familiar.
Something important."
The pulling led them to an older part of the neighborhood, to a street Majid recognized
with a jolt of surprise. "This is where my grandfather's house was," he said, the
realization dawning. "I didn't even consciously remember the exact location, but
something led me here."
They stopped across from a large house that had indeed been extensively renovated, its
traditional architecture replaced with a more modern design. But beneath the new
facade, Majid could sense something—a resonance, a temporal signature that called to
him with an almost physical pull.
"The safeguard," he whispered. "It's still here. Somehow, it survived the renovations."
"Can you tell where exactly?" Rana asked, peering at the house through the car window.
Majid focused his new senses, trying to pinpoint the source of the resonance.
"Underground," he said after a moment. "Beneath the house. There must be a basement
or cellar that wasn't altered during the renovations."
"We'll need to find a way to access it," Rana said. "But not tonight. You need to rest, and
we need a plan to enter the house legitimately."
Majid nodded, though part of him wanted to approach the house immediately, to find
whatever his grandfather had left for him. But Rana was right—he was exhausted from
the ritual, and breaking into a private residence would create complications he didn't
need.
"Tomorrow," he agreed. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."
As Rana drove him back to his house, Majid felt a profound sense of change settling over
him. The ritual had transformed him, had connected him to a legacy he hadn't known
existed until recently. He was no longer just Majid Al-Harthi, a displaced consciousness
seeking revenge. He was a First Level Traveler, following in his grandfather's footsteps,
accessing powers that few humans ever experienced.
And somewhere beneath his grandfather's old house lay a safeguard, a message or tool
left specifically for him, waiting waiting to be discovered. Whatever it was, Majid sensed it would
change his understanding of his abilities, of his purpose in this timeline.
The game had evolved once again, becoming more complex, more cosmic in its
implications. But at its core, Majid's motivation remained unchanged—revenge against
those who had betrayed him, a complete rewriting of the destiny that had once led him
to that balcony in Riyadh.
Now, with the power of a First Level Traveler flowing through him, that revenge seemed
more certain than ever before.