Oxford was a hub of age-old contemplation. The burden of accumulated wisdom lingered in the atmosphere emanating from the timeworn stones. Devon sensed it as a force contrasting with the emptiness he had been pursuing. He stood at the entrance to a college not in his role as a Europol analyst conducting duties but as a petitioner carrying a digital specter—the complete set of scanned symbols, from the four main crime locations.
The solitary don, Alistair Croft did not hold expertise in arcane geometries. His specialty lay in the history of heresies—conceptual frameworks considered too perilous, too exquisite or too subtle to endure. He was the individual Javier Jeffrey had referred to in his clear communication: "Croft. He understands the forms that think on your behalf."
Croft's chambers resembled a blueprint of an intellect. Books piled up in towers. The atmosphere carried the scent of pipe smoke and gradual decomposition. The man himself appeared avian seated on a stool, near a drawing desk his eyes enlarged behind spectacles. He didn't glance up when Devon walked in.
"You're the officer " Croft remarked, his tone a brittle whisper. "Hunting phantoms within the device.. Could it be the device, within the phantoms?" At last he looked over his stare unsettlingly straightforward. "Reveal the alleged language to me."
Devon unlocked his tablet revealing the swirling patterns. Croft's expression changed. The scholarly distance vanished, giving way to a predator's focus. He grabbed the tablet examining the markings closely.
"Ah " he exhaled. "The Inertial Glyphs. I believed they were only theoretical. A conceptual exercise devised by a 14th-century monk, Brother Leander. He proposed that if God represents action then God's opposite isn't evil but complete stillness. A calculus of emptiness."
He started sketching lines on the display with a finger. "Notice this bend? It isn't Euclidean. It represents a geometry of decreasing gains. Every line uses up its stored energy.. This…" he focused on the Nodus Silentii from the Luxembourg casemates "…this functions as a binding operator. It doesn't connect; it encloses. It forms a loop of purpose an ideal circuit, without any output."
He glanced up his eyes shining brightly. "Where did you find these?"
"In locations where individuals ceased. Indefinitely."
Croft agreed silently as though this outcome was anticipated. "Naturally. These aren't characters meant for interpretation. They function as mechanisms to be completed. A self-operating logic. The brain opts for the route, with opposition and these symbols… they trace a course where resistance nearly vanishes. It is an incline. Once perceived you start to glide." He set the tablet aside. "Your sect leader, this Flavio… he didn't create a cult. He revitalized a forgotten area of mathematics. He's a craftsman of consent.
"Is it possible to counter it?" Devon inquired. "Using mathematics?"
Croft offered a fragile grin. "Oppose a slope? You might construct a barrier.. The incline persists. The force of gravity persists." He moved toward a shelf retrieving a leather-covered folio. "Brother Leander's opponents, the scholars, at the Sorbonne suggested a geometry. Not of motion. Of mindfulness. A geometry not of lines but of concentration that endures." He unfolded the folio to reveal angular patterns—filled with sharp junctions and continuous lines. "They referred to it as the Calculus of Vigilance. It's harder. Truly draining. It demands intentional upkeep. To gaze into an emptiness. Demand the vision of possibility. To view a conclusion. Demand a moment of suspension." He shut the book with a thud. "It never gained popularity. Too laborious."
The answer was a brutal paradox. The only mathematical counter to the Lethargic Calculus was a more arduous, more exhausting equation. The cure for the disease of exhaustion was a disciplined, perpetual effort.
"Where would Flavio head to finish this?" Devon inquired. "To turn it… worldwide?"
Croft contemplated, gazing at the rotating symbols on the tablet. "The glyphs require a base. A medium that resonates with the idea. Not merely any silent spot. A location of calm. A calm, with design." His eyes grew a bit larger. "The catacombs."
"Paris?"
"The ossuaries " Croft amended. "Miles upon miles of organized bones. The definitive memorial to repose. Not a disorderly cemetery,. A systematized, indexed and utterly motionless assembly. If he intends to magnify his 'Sleeper's Tithe' on a level to harness the vibration of countless completed lives… that is the enhancer. A spatial geometry of hushed significance."
It seemed genuine. Geneva's pumping station stood as a shrine to expended energy. Luxembourg's chapel served as a refuge for thoughts.. The Paris Catacombs… that was a basilica of completed existence. The ideal foundation, for a transmitted tranquility.
As Devon began to walk Croft spoke once more his tone gentler. "Analyst. Fatigue shows in your stance; I notice it in the tilt of your body. You grasp the incline. When you descend into that realm of bones keep in mind the counter-geometry. It's not about being powerful. It's about deciding to remain alert especially when every easy path urges you to shut your eyes. Most of all then."
Traveling from Oxford's towered turmoil to the Scottish Highlands seemed like passing through realms. Devon encountered Felisca Fleur more at the border of the glen. The "thirsty silence" had grown stronger. Bird calls were rare. The breeze appeared reluctant.
"It's taking hold " Felisca remarked, her once folkloric confidence now somber. "The Empty Shade. Events have begun… stalling. A ewe stayed rooted in one place for two days simply gazing at the loch until we had to move her. Old Finlay, down the lane quit winding his clock. He said the ticking just reminded him of memories he preferred to leave behind." She glanced at the hills. "It's not malevolent. It's merely… surrendering."
The cult's activities extended beyond rituals. The manifesto, the belief system was seeping into the soil, a gradual mental frost.
Devon's last destination before reaching Paris was a rendezvous, at a Geneva safe-house. The contact person was Veronica Vigdis, the survivor. She appeared delicate draped in a shawl her gaze reflecting exhaustion softened by a subtle resilient glow earned through hardship.
"You inquired about the anchor " she replied, her tone gentle yet distinct. "I was mistaken earlier. It isn't love that selects the injury. That remains a kind of effort." She looked into his eyes. "It's love that cares for the wound. Without expecting it to mend. It's the focus the old don mentioned. Not a struggle. A... A watchful waiting."
She portrayed her healing not as regaining vitality. As a change in attention. "The calmness remains within like a chilly pond. I no longer resist it. I simply… remain beside it.. Each day I decide to turn my gaze away, from it. To focus on my daughter's expression on the unwashed dishes on the meaningless news. It isn't gratifying. It's simply… my routine. That is the form of counter-geometry I am familiar, with."
Devon brought these pieces along on the train to Paris: Croft's watchfulness, Felisca's observation of a calming landscape Veronica's silent care. These were not arms. They were practices.
As the city of light drew near a lively testament, to human endeavor he understood that the core of quietude rested underneath it. In the darkness amidst the arranged remains of six million Flavio Fergal would be striving to perform his final demonstration of love: to offer the chaotic world beneath the blessing of flawless, eternal peace. And Devon's only tool to stop him was a weary, deliberate attention—a decision to keep looking at the world, in all its flawed and screaming glory, and call that choice enough.