Chapter 170
Arya, who stood beside her, let out a sigh. Then suddenly, Nirma turned toward him with a different gaze—sharp, like a freshly sharpened blade, yet behind that sharpness was a furrow in her brow that only appeared whenever she was trying to formulate something she could not explain with ordinary words.
"I have one question, Arya. And maybe this will sound crazy. But during all the years I wandered before you found me, I often crossed paths with historical figures in religions—prophets, monks, sages. And every single time I approached them with ill intent, even if it was merely to observe them closely, my life would suddenly become filled with danger. Accidents. Illnesses. Nightmares that felt real. But strangely enough, the danger disappeared whenever I distanced myself. Or when I was near them without bad intentions—simply passing by, merely observing them from afar."
She stared at the book in her hands, then looked back at Arya, and in her left eye was something no one had ever seen before.
Not fear, but genuine wonder—wonder like a child seeing fire for the first time, unable to understand why it felt warm yet could also burn.
"Is it possible… that central figures in religions—great prophets, monks, sages—possess some kind of… protection? Something that prevents beings like the Great Abnormal, like us, from manipulating them so easily?"
Hearing that, Ashita raised her head, her eyes narrowing as though she were recalling something from archives she had never opened because she had never been ordered to.
"You're not wrong, Nirma," she said softly, her voice no longer flat like an agent of the Temporal Cross-Police. There was another tone in it now, perhaps something that could be called respect—or maybe fear she dared not admit.
"During my missions, I encountered several operation targets who turned out to be religious figures—not historians or companions of their stories, but the central figures themselves. And every single time, there was always something strange. Something that could not be explained by any logic of time. They seemed protected by some kind of invisible fortress, causing every malicious plan against them to collapse. Not because of coincidence, nor because of cleverness, but as though the universe itself refused to side with such attempts."
Tegar, who had remained silent with his fists clenched at his sides, suddenly muttered in a voice barely audible, like someone speaking to himself.
"That's why the Great Abnormal will never touch the central figures. Not because they don't want to. But because they can't. Or at least, the risk is too great to take."
Arya nodded, and within that nod was certainty born from bitter experiences he had never told anyone about—not because he was ashamed, but because some wounds did not need to be spoken aloud to be acknowledged.
"In an isolated valley in the Arabian Peninsula, long before years were neatly recorded—around the 7th century—I witnessed with my own eyes how every plan to manipulate a prophet whose name was never even written in history would always collapse in bizarre ways. Not because we lacked precision, nor because there was a superior opposing force, but because every time we approached him with the intention of disturbing his revelations, something would always interfere—the desert winds suddenly turning violent, the ground trembling without warning, or the figure himself becoming untouchable, as though protected by something unseen."
Hoooh!
"I never believed in miracles, Nirma. But after going through all of that, I began to understand that there are things in this world beyond the reach of data. And perhaps the greatest mistake is not ignorance itself—but the arrogance of continuing to believe that data is the only truth."
"So the Great Abnormal," Nirma said, her voice now firm like an irreversible decision, "will never intend to approach Siddhartha Gautama. They will never intend to approach Jesus Christ. They will never intend to approach Prophet Muhammad SAW. They will keep their distance, because they know—perhaps from experiences etched into the bones they cannot kill—that those figures are protected by something they cannot fight with strength, authority, or blades that have slaughtered millions of beings across ten million apocalypses."
She looked at the book in her hands, then toward the place where the portal had closed—the direction in which the old man had departed for the headquarters of the Temporal Cross-Police, a place she had always considered an enemy, yet now felt like a strange ally, an ally she had never asked for but could no longer reject.
"They will never touch those figures. But they will touch their shadows. The record keepers. The collectors. The guardians of traditions who do not possess supernatural protection—or at least not as strong as their teachers. And that is where we must be—among those shadows, within the cracks where the Great Abnormal believe they can move undetected."
Ashita looked at Nirma with eyes different from before.
Not as an enemy, nor as an ally, but as someone seeing the world from the same height for the very first time, realizing that the view from there, though painful, was at least honest.
"We cannot stop them with strength, Nirma. But we can stop them with presence—by being in the same place, at the same time, with opposing intentions. Because if they cannot approach the central figures, then the only way to protect the record keepers is to ensure there are no openings left for them to enter."
Nirma took a long breath.
Not the breath of someone about to begin a battle, but the breath of someone who had finished a long chapter and now had to step into the next one without knowing exactly what awaited there.
"Ashita, Tegar," she said, her voice emerging from behind her veil with a tone different from before—not cold, not warm, but resolute, like a decision that no longer needed questioning, "Arya and I must leave. There are other clues we need to pursue, historians who may become the next targets, names the old man never had the chance to mention because he himself never lived long enough to know them."
Ashita nodded slowly, and within that nod there was no refusal, no offer to come along, only calm acceptance—acceptance like the surface of a lake that knows the water flowing from it will never return, yet it will never cease to be a lake.
"We will remain here, in Medina, observing movements from inside the headquarters," Ashita replied, her eyes fixed on Nirma with something that might have been respect, or perhaps gratitude for listening to stories she had never even asked to hear.
"If you find anything—or if you need help—you know how to contact us."
To be continued…