The problem wasn't in Chicago. It was in Mexico City.
The file from MAKA's Mexico liaison was marked with a crimson flag. Not for violence—for resonance corruption.
Subject: Captain Mateo Vargas. 48 years old. Federal Police, Anti-Narcotics. A file thick with brutality complaints, "lost" evidence, and sudden, unexplained wealth.
His "awakening" happened during Navratri, just like the others. But his prayer wasn't for protection or strength. His prayer, caught on a wiretap from a cartel informant, was a snarled, drunken plea: "Dame poder. Dame miedo. Que me teman todos." Give me power. Give me fear. Let them all fear me.
And the amplifier, tuned to the Kali frequency, answered. It didn't discriminate between "Destroyer of Evil" and "Unleasher of Terror." To the machine, it was the same raw, fierce energy.
Now, Captain Vargas wasn't just a corrupt cop. He was a bloodhound for fear.
The report detailed it. Suspects in interrogation would break faster, weeping uncontrollably about crimes he hadn't even asked about. Rival officers would inexplicably back down from arguments, feeling a cold, formless dread in his presence. He started "sensing" which informants were lying—not through skill, but by literally tasting their terror in the air. He was using it to extort cartels and his own department with chilling efficiency.
He was a weed. A toxic, inverted reflection of Kali. Where Marcus sensed violence to stop it, Vargas sensed weakness to exploit it. Where Master Li's protection was a fortress, Vargas's power was a prison of dread.
And the System's telemetry confirmed the damage. Over Mexico City, the GARDEN's psychic shield wasn't just weak. It was sick. The Durga/Kali frequency band there pulsed a foul, bruised purple-black. Vargas's corrupted resonance was acting like a psychic infection, weakening the local shield integrity by nearly 40%. He wasn't just a bad man. He was a crack in my planetary armor.
I couldn't send MAKA thugs. This wasn't a job for a bullet. This was a theological correction. A corrupted saint needed a purge.
And I had the perfect instrument.
I opened the dream-projection array again. This time, I tuned it to Master Li's signature—the pure, unwavering frequency of Durga's protection.
The message was simple. No words. Just a geographic pull, an image of a man in a police uniform rotting from the inside out, and a sense of sacred duty. I planted the coordinates of Mexico City in his spirit like a lodestone.
Then, I used MAKA's financial conduits. A "philanthropic foundation" dedicated to "cross-cultural martial arts exchange" contacted the Shaolin monastery, offering a fully-funded, first-class trip for Master Li to visit "sister temples" in Mexico. An all-expenses-paid pilgrimage.
The hook was set.
One week later. Mexico City. A smoky bar in a bad neighborhood.
Vargas was leaning over a cowering bartender, his presence a physical weight of menace. "You saw nothing, pendejo. Remember?"
The man just nodded, tears in his eyes.
The door opened. Master Li walked in. He wore simple traveller's clothes, but he moved like a wall. The bar's tense atmosphere didn't change; it parted around him.
Vargas felt it first. A sudden, grating interference. The sweet, metallic taste of fear he fed on… it turned sour. It lost its potency. He turned, eyes narrowing.
"¿Quién eres tú?" Who are you?
Li didn't understand the words. He understood the man. He saw the black aura, the spiritual rot. The dream-vision was real.
He said nothing. He simply walked to the bar, standing between Vargas and the trembling bartender. He did not assume a fighting stance. He just… stood. Rooted. Immovable.
Vargas sneered, pushing out with his will, that familiar wave of dread. Make this fool piss himself.
The wave hit Li and shattered. It wasn't that Li was unafraid. It was that fear itself seemed to dissolve before it could touch him. A circle of quiet, solid calm existed in the space he occupied.
Vargas felt a feedback jolt—a psychic slap. His own corrupted power recoiled and stung him. He stumbled back a step, confusion and real, primal fear (his own, unfamiliar) flashing in his eyes.
"¿Qué eres?" What are you?
Li finally spoke, in Mandarin, his voice low and resonant like a temple bell. The words didn't matter. The meaning, fueled by the divine frequency he carried, was clear: You are a disease. I am the cure.
That's when I intervened. From orbit, I reached for the dial. Not to amplify. To suppress.
For three seconds, I focused the Silent Choir's output. I drowned Vargas's corrupted purple signal in a blinding surge of Li's pure gold-orange resonance. To the mortal world, it was nothing. To their awakened senses, it was like the sun exploding in Vargas's face.
He cried out, clutching his head, not in pain but in devastating clarity. For three seconds, he felt the full, horrifying weight of the terror he'd been sowing. He saw himself, reflected in the divine power he was mocking. The predator saw the abyss.
When the surge passed, Vargas was on his knees, sobbing, babbling confessions to the empty air.
Li looked down at him, then up at the ceiling, as if sensing the vast, approving hand that had just tipped the scales. He gave a small, solemn nod of thanks to the unseen source.
The bartender called the police. The real police.
I watched the reserve tick down. -0.7%. The most expensive three seconds of my life.
But the telemetry over Mexico City was already clearing. The purple-black bruise was fading, the shield integrity slowly knitting back together.
I had performed my first exorcism. I used one saint to purge another. A theological drone strike.
Master Li would return to Shaolin, a missionary with a new tale of the Unseen Mother's justice across the seas. Vargas would be in a prison cell, a broken man haunted by a god he never believed in.
And I sat in my study, the taste of chai gone bitter in my mouth.
The GARDEN was no longer a passive shield. It was an ecosystem. And I had just learned a brutal law of nature: for every healthy plant, a weed will grow. And the only way to kill a spiritual weed is with a sharper, purer blade of the same faith.
I had become a gardener who dealt in saints and monsters. And the line between weeding and holy war was thinner than I'd ever imagined.