The seven days of preparation on Hieros had concluded. It was the eighth day—the day of the main event. In the grand palace of Eremos, Khalid stood in a marble hallway, his gaze lingering on the portraits of the Ghazzawi patriarchs. He traced the line of his ancestors, from the legendary Ali to his fallen father and brother.

  "Your Highness, the ship is ready," Mir whispered, kneeling in the shadows of the hall.

  "I am coming," Khalid replied. His voice was cold, devoid of the gentle warmth the old Khalid once possessed.

  He boarded his personal vessel—a marvel of engineering that stood as the fastest and most luxurious craft in the known universe. As he stepped through the airlock, soldiers, pilots, and servants fell to their knees in a wave of synchronized respect.

  "Welcome, Your Highness," the lead pilot murmured.

  Khalid gave a curt nod and walked directly to his private cabin. Behind him, the crew exchanged low whispers. "The Prince... his brother’s death changed him," one remarked. The others only nodded in grim agreement; the "soft" prince had vanished, replaced by a man who moved with the lethal grace of a predator.

  The Holy World

  When Khalid stepped onto the soil of Hieros, he was struck by a sensation he hadn't felt since his death in Seoul. He looked up to see a vivid blue sky dotted with soft white clouds. He heard the chirping of birds and felt the cool breeze rustling through lush green trees. For a moment, it felt as though he had traveled back through time to Earth.

  However, his sharp eyes noticed the artifice. Every bird and every tree had been genetically sculpted to mimic the records of the "Planet of Origin." They were beautiful fakes. Except for one.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Nearby, a herd of camels moved across the temple grounds. They were the only animals whose genetic code remained untouched—the true descendants of the beasts brought across the stars by the First Humans. On the eighth day of a ritual, it was tradition for the parents of the child to fast, breaking their hunger only once the Vakra awakened. The sacrifice of a camel and the distribution of its meat to the priests was the most sacred rite in the universe, a blood-bond between the past and the future.

  Khalid approached the First Temple, a monolithic structure of red stone carved with intricate, haunting beauty. Standing at the heavily guarded gate was Usman.

  Usman was a man of immense presence—thick-set, with a protruding belly and a beard of salt and pepper. As a Supreme Priest and the father of the late Zayna, his grief was etched into the lines of his face. He had watched his sons become generals and his daughters marry into power, but the death of Zayna and Bilal had left him traumatized, his only solace being the survival of his grandson.

  "Greetings, Uncle," Khalid said as he approached.

  Usman placed a heavy, trembling hand on Khalid’s shoulder. "How are you, Khalid?" his voice was thick with sorrow.

  "I am fine, Uncle," Khalid replied, his eyes steady. "But the burden on my shoulders is heavy."

  "Yes, yes," Usman sighed. "I have prepared everything. Cleanse yourself and be ready. The universe is watching."

  The Language of the Gods

  After the ritual bath, draped in a simple white robe, Khalid entered the heart of the temple. The air vibrated with the low, rhythmic humming of three hundred priests. In the center of the hall stood six towering monoliths of dark rock, arranged in a perfect circle.

  As Khalid drew closer, his heart skipped a beat. Carved deep into the stone were characters he recognized instantly—not alien glyphs, but Arabic script. Each of the six rocks bore the name of a country from the ancient continents: China, Ireland, Australia, Congo, Venezuela, USA.

  "Can you read this?" Khalid asked, pointing to the carvings.

  Usman shook his head. "No. That is the Language of the Origin. It is a dead tongue, understood only by the Creator."

  Khalid stared at the script. He had spent his childhood in the Middle East, the son of English teachers; he knew exactly what the stones said. These were not just rocks; they were the tombstones of a world he once called home.

  Above the six monoliths sat a circular altar, accessible by a steep flight of stone stairs. Khalid climbed them, He reached the top and sat, centering himself as the priests began the final, deafening chant.