Chapter 9
The jet waited at the far end of the private runway, its engine already humming softly, impatient in the early morning light. Rose stood beside James, her hand still wrapped around his as if letting go would somehow make the world tilt the wrong way. This wasn't a dramatic farewell meant for an audience. It was quiet, private and heavy with everything they weren't saying out loud. Rose had given him more than transportation. The jet was trust, protection and belief all folded into one. James understood that. He also understood the risk she was taking by herself even closer to him. The rumors hadn't spared her name and they wouldn't just stop because he was leaving.
She tried to smile but it wavered. Her eyes betrayed her first, glistening despite her effort to stay strong. She told him to be careful, not as a plea but as a promise she needed him to keep. She told him she would miss him, her voice soft but steady and made him swear quietly, seriously that he would come back to her. Not victorious, not famous, just alive. James pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, grounding himself in the moment. For once power was nothing. Wjat mattered was the simple fact that someone was waiting for him.
Before stepping away he gave her one simple task. He asked her to find dr Elias, not through public channels, not through official records but quietly. Thoroughly. Whoever Elias was he sat at the beginning of everything that had gone wrong and everything that James had become. If answers existed they would lead back to him. Rose nodded wiping her tears already shifting into focus. This hwas how she loved by standing firm, by acting, by refusing to be helpless. When James finally turned toward the jet, he didn't look back again. Some goodbyes lost their strength when repeated. As the door closed behind him and the aircraft began to move, Rose remained on the runway, watching until the sky swallowed him whole.
And for the first time since everything began, James was truly alone carrying a destination no map could explain and a promise he could not afford to break. The flight was long giving James time to reflect and prepare. Golgotha, the hill outside Jerusalem carried history in every stone and tree. To most, it was a place of quiet pilgrimage. To James, it was a nexus of power, a site where life, death and divine intervention intersected. He had read the accounts, studied the traditions and traced every legend that spoke of a tree nourished by the blood of Christ. A tree whose branches could heal, remove curses and even temper power not meant for ordinary hands.
The private jet cut through the afternoon sky, its shadow gliding over ancient stone and sun baked hills as Jerusalem came into view. James leaned towards the window, his gaze fixed on the city where history felt heavier than gravity itself. Gold and limestone shimmered beneath the haze, minarets and church domes rising together as if the land itself remembered every prayer ever spoken upon it. The engines softened into a low hum, wings tilting gently as the pilot guided them downward spiraling toward the runway. James exhaled softly, feeling the weight of arrival settle into his chest, not just a landing but a crossing into a place where power, sacrifice and destiny collided long before he ever existed.
The hill rose sharply, rocky and unwelcoming, yet when he reached the summit the tree waited as if it had known him. Its trunk was gnarled, twisted by centuries, roots thick and tangled like veins of the earth itself. The branches hung low, heavy with unseen energy. James knelt, running his fingers along the bark. It hummed beneath his touch, a vibration he felt in his chest more than his fingertips. He selected several limbs, carefully snapping them, each producing a sharp, clean sound. These would become his weapons, sharpened tools, imbued not with death but with rare power to neutralize supernatural curses.
Working methodically, James shaped the branches into spears, careful not to damage their innate power. The process was silent except for the occasional scrape of wood on stone, yet every movement felt sacred. He realized that Golgotha's gift was deliberate, the tree did not give force, it gave choice. The power resided in him, channeled through intent, guided by his judgement. When he finally stood, spears in hand, he felt ready. The sword of Hercules awaited and the next stage of his journey would not be simple. Legends placed it in Greece, in fhr ruins of a temple hidden from maps and mortal memory and guarded by one of mythology's deadliest creature, Medusa. The thought of facing her was not intimidating, it was necessary. Every step of this path was calculated, every challenge a test of purpose as much as skill. He turned away from Golgotha as the sun dipped lower, carrying no victory, no conquest. Only a cure. And an understanding that mercy, once unleashed, could be more dangerous than any weapon ever forged.