After three hours on the road, they finally arrived.
The car rolled through silence like a ship on still water. Not much had been said since departure, but now, Muhammed spoke.
"I have a question."
"Ask away," Malvern replied in a carefree tone, eyes fixed on the window.
"What does the disciple instructor teach?"
"Discipline—or more precisely, self-mastery," he corrected himself after a pause. "The world around you and you are the same; there is no separation. So to master your reality, you must master yourself. That's what he'll show you how to do. Meditation, physical training, fasting, silence, combat, and survival on the emotional plane—it all ties together."
Muhammed leaned in slightly. "Do you have more info on fighting and discipline techniques?"
Without a word, Malvern waved his hand. The air shimmered, warping like heat haze, and suddenly several books thudded onto Muhammed's lap. Martial arts manuals, body training routines, survival guides, cookbooks, even essays on mental discipline.
"All yours," Malvern said. "Most of it authored by me. Some edits from Hans."
He added, "Start with meditation. Awareness and presence are everything."
"Presence?" Muhammed echoed, confused.
"Yeah. Most people drift through life, never really there. Always distracted, always filling time instead of fulfilling it. But when you're truly present, you can live in life—and in death."
"Life and death?"
"You'll understand soon enough."
Muhammed sat with that thought. So many mysteries. He liked it that way. His curiosity was endless, and he wasn't going to limit it now.
Time slipped by in a strange tranquility. The silence wasn't awkward—it was full. Full of questions. Full of possibility. He stared out the window as the scenery grew more forested, the road winding deeper into the unknown.
He realized something.
He was curious as to where the school was. After all he had never seen it before, not online or on the news, not to mention he had never heard of it. And what was even more weird was the name. It was as if there wasn't one, but having the ability to name it for himself was very interesting.
Malvern didn't respond.
Suddenly, the driver's voice interrupted. "Approaching barrier."
Malvern quickly touched his glasses, and the lenses gleamed with rainbow light.
Suddenly, like curtains falling, the road in front of them split. The air parted like waves. It seemed as if they were falling off the planet, and the car plunged forward into what looked like… nothingness. Like the edge of the world itself.
Muhammed sat up, tense. His survival instinct flared. Malvern might be fine if things went wrong, but what about him?
He hated this feeling—powerless, vulnerable, small. He clenched his jaw. But Malvern's relaxed posture calmed him, at least a little.
As they drove into the abyss, it felt like a tunnel. Black, endless, almost familiar. Like a highway tunnel with no lights.
He peered upward, trying to see through the dark. "What is this?" he said—but no sound escaped his mouth.
Then, nothing. Not just silence. Not just darkness.
Nothing.
His thoughts vanished. His vision blinked out. His very existence felt weightless and hollow, like he had ceased being.
Then—flick, flick, flick—like the light from a lighter trying to catch flame, his mind sparked back. He gasped for air. Vision returned in a blur.
"What was that?" he said, turning to Malvern.
Malvern only smiled, almost mockingly. "First times are always like that. You'll get used to it."
"Used to what?"
"Wormholes."
"Wormholes?! What do you mean?"
Malvern leaned back. "I told you the world is aligning. And in that alignment, all ideas—every concept ever dreamed—can begin to take physical form. Some vanish like fleeting thoughts. Others... stay. Permanently. And become accessible."
He paused.
"And yes, everything. So it's either we claim them—or..." He trailed off, silent.
Muhammed shivered slightly. That silence said more than any sentence ever could.
They passed through the tunnel and emerged on the other side. It was like being reborn.
And now, for the first time, he saw it.
The school.
Grand didn't cover it. It was majestic. Spires of ivory and obsidian pierced the clouds. The architecture blended futuristic elements with ancient temples—glass panels floated mid-air beside moss-covered stone, and statues of unknown deities lined the path like silent sentinels. Exotic flowers bloomed in vivid colors, their petals glowing faintly in the dusk. Streams of liquid light wove through gardens that seemed too alive, too surreal to be real.
It was breathtaking.
He could've lost himself in it—but one question pulled him back.
"Where did we go that required a wormhole?"
"This place is outside Sition's solar system," Malvern said casually. "We don't stay there long."
"But... what planet are we on?"
"Not one known to most of mankind. But requested by many." He looked at him. "A lot of people wished for a new world. And we got one. We call it Taramis. It's bigger. Bolder. More lucrative... and far more dangerous. Enjoy."
Muhammed turned his gaze back to the view, still digesting the name—Taramis.
They cruised down a long driveway. Wide gardens unfolded in every direction. Some buildings were so ethereal they looked drawn from myth. He sat, speechless.
He smiled, unable to help it. To think he was once confined to such a small world—only to end up here.
But his fantasy was cut short. The car stopped at the school's front.
Hans and Emlyn were waiting. Stoic. Still.
Muhammed stepped out quickly. "Hello."
Hans nodded. Emlyn didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Okay, never again," Muhammed muttered. "Not saying hi to these people anymore."
"Follow us," Hans said. "Your things are already in your room."
No complaints. Muhammed followed.
They entered the familiar white training room.
"Sit," Hans instructed. "Today, you will be meditating. A possession level of awareness means your higher self is deeply connected to you—intuition, guidance, and the ability to walk into lucky moments. But if you lack control... it becomes dangerous. You must learn to listen. Even to the subtle signs. Meditation is how you begin."
"I've meditated before."
"Good. You'll meditate for four hours."
Muhammed blinked. Just a moment of hesitation.
"Okay," he said. He wasn't going to fight it. Not when this could change him and help him.
Hans took mental note of his answer, then turned to Emlyn. "Get the straitjacket."
"What?" Muhammed perked up.
"You'll want to move. Everyone does. This makes it easier."
"Odd... but not cruel. Just clinical." he thought
"Okay. I understand."
Minutes later, after a short struggle, Muhammed was bound and sitting against the wall.
"Now close your eyes," Hans said. "I'll teach you a breathing technique."
Muhammed listened.
"Take a deep breath. Let it out. Then hold. Puff your cheeks and blow out eight short bursts."
He followed. Each puff sharper than the last.
"Now your lungs are empty. Hold for five... Then inhale for 13 seconds. Exhale for 13. Then repeat—7, 5, 3, 1. Follow the breath."
Muhammed sank into the rhythm. It felt... heavy. Then light.
"Don't restrict your thoughts," Hans said. "Imagine they're fish. You are not the fish. You are the ocean, watching itself with borrowed eyes. Don't hook the fish. Just watch. Let yourself drift."
Muhammed did his best. But his thoughts raged—memories, worries, fantasies.
Hans noticed. "Don't fight the flow. You are not the fish. You are not the memory. You are not even Muhammed."
"Just be..."
And like that, he drifted.
The world blinked.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Silence.
Then—
Drip. Drip.
His mind sparked. He drifted again.
And again.
Then—nothing.
No Muhammed. No room. No Hans.
Just " ".
He stood—somehow—on a small island of self. Fish swam near the surface, memories rising to meet him, but none reached him. A field of invisible grace surrounded him.
Then, blankness.
Hans watched silently. He didn't have to stay—but he chose to.
He could see the energy twist and conform around Muhammed's body with every breath. It wasn't normal.
"Is that... normal?" Emory asked, lowly.
Hans didn't answer at first.
"No," he said. "His energy resembles a summoning... but it's too weak."
Just then, Muhammed inhaled softly. Not loud—almost asleep. But the energy spiked.
"What's happening?" Emory asked, alarmed.
Hans tilted his head. "He's being summoned."
Suddenly, the room darkened in one corner. Space distorted. The principal and Malvern appeared.
"He's awakening?" Malvern frowned. "It's too early."
"There is no such thing," Hans replied as he turned to leave. "He was meant to be summoned now. Only time will tell what he does with it. Put him on life support."
And then he was gone.
Emory stared in disbelief. But she knew there was nothing they could do.
The energy calmed. Muhammed remained unconscious.
Malvern waved a finger, lifting Muhammed's body into the air with ease.
"Get some rest," he told Emory. "Your training partner won't be in class."
He passed by, the floating form trailing behind.
The principal sucked his teeth, turning into the shadows.
Emory stood alone for a moment. Then whispered to the emptiness:
"This world is cruel... and waits for no one."
She walked out of the room.