Chapter 185
"And Judas Iscariot," Arya suddenly said.
His voice was firm, like a decision that needed no questioning, yet beneath that firmness lay doubt—doubt like someone who knew he was touching fire but could not pull his hand away because that fire, though painful, was the only source of light in a dark room.
"Judas was kidnapped in a narrow alley of Jerusalem near the religious center, at a time when he was moving alone to establish secret contacts ahead of his betrayal. The gas was released in a stone passageway that intensified its concentration, and because he was standing still or waiting for someone who never arrived, he had no time to run, no time to scream, no time to do anything except feel the world spinning around him before everything went black."
Nirma absorbed every word coming from the clay phone—the story of Andrew collapsing on the narrow path between Bethany and Jerusalem, of Philip falling in the marketplace unnoticed, of Bartholomew drifting into unconsciousness in a courtyard beneath gas released from a rooftop, of James vanishing from the Temple portico, of Thaddeus never waking from his resting chamber, of Simon whose dagger never had the chance to leave its sheath, of Judas who might never have had the opportunity to betray his teacher because he had first been betrayed by a sleep he never invited.
And when Ashita finished speaking, there was a long silence during which Nirma could hear Ashita's ragged breathing, like someone who had just finished crying but did not want anyone to know.
"One more thing," Ashita finally said.
Her voice sounded softer than before, almost like a whisper meant for no one except Nirma.
"Jesus... His response was unusual. He wasn't angry. He didn't panic. He simply... endured, Nirma. He chose to continue teaching as though nothing had happened, but in His eyes—I saw it myself while disguised among the crowd—there was a sorrow so profound, a sorrow like someone who knew He would lose even more than He already had. Yet He did not shout, did not curse, did not call for angels to descend from heaven carrying flaming swords. He simply stood upon the Mount of Olives, gazed toward Jerusalem, and said in a voice barely audible, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing... even when they take them from Me.'"
Hearing that, Nirma tightened her grip on the clay phone, feeling the rough carvings of Göbekli Tepe against her palm as though reading a map from a civilization that had vanished before history itself began to be written.
And within her chest, something stirred in a way she could not name.
It was not pity, nor admiration, but a strange kind of pain.
A pain like watching someone suffer a wound yet choosing not to cry out because the cry would heal nothing.
"And the Messenger of Allah?" Nirma asked.
Her voice emerged from behind her veil with great care, the kind of care shown by someone asking about a sick person's condition while secretly fearing the answer because it might keep them awake all night.
"How did he react to the disappearance of Mush'ab, Abdullah, Sa'd, Amr, and Anas?"
Arya, who had been busy pressing the controls on his wrist device—his eyes narrowed as he read streams of data stolen from the communication frequencies of the Temporal Cross-Police agents stationed around the valley of Shi'b al-Jahsh, streams containing classified reports he had no right to access but did anyway because curiosity, like curiosity itself, never cared about rules—lifted his head.
And when he spoke, his voice sounded like someone who had just read something that brought relief and anxiety at the same time.
"The same, Nirma. The same as Jesus. The Messenger of Allah remained patient. He did not send troops to hunt down the kidnappers. He did not order anyone to kill or seek revenge. He simply prayed, asking that those five companions remain under the protection of Allah SWT wherever they were, whatever condition they were in, no matter how difficult the trials they faced."
He paused, swallowed, and then continued in a quieter voice.
"But... there's something concerning. The Messenger of Allah has already dispatched a small group to track down and discover where Mush'ab and the others have gone. The group consists of Ali ibn Abi Talib, Zubayr ibn al-Awwam, Sa'd ibn Mu'adh, Abbad ibn Bishr, Zayd ibn Harithah, Abdullah ibn Rawahah, and Umar ibn al-Khattab."
The moment Nirma heard that, she immediately turned toward Arya.
Her left eye glowed with a light Arya had never seen before—not fire, not embers, but cold fear, fear like someone watching a child walk along the edge of a cliff and knowing that if they shouted, the child might startle and fall.
"We have to avoid direct contact with them," she said.
Her voice was firm like a command, yet beneath that firmness was a tremor she could not hide, a tremor like someone pleading even though they should have been giving orders.
"We cannot speak with the Messenger of Allah, Arya. We cannot meet his gaze. We cannot even breathe too close to him. You know what happens to us every time we approach central figures of religion—not only in Islam, but in any faith—with questionable intentions, or even with no intention beyond observation. Accidents. Illnesses. Nightmares that feel real."
Arya nodded.
Without needing to be asked, he pressed the button on his wrist once more—a small silver button he had brought from the year 4666 CE, a button that rendered their bodies invisible.
And within those formless shadows, he whispered.
"I know, Nirma. I've experienced it myself, in a remote valley of the Arabian Peninsula around the seventh century, when I tried to approach a prophet whose name was never recorded in any history. Every plan I devised to manipulate him always collapsed in strange ways—the desert winds suddenly turning violent, the earth trembling without warning, or the prophet himself becoming untouchable, as though protected by something I could neither see, fight, nor understand. Since then, I've learned that there are things in this world that lie beyond the reach of data, and that the greatest mistake is not ignorance, but the arrogance of believing that data alone is the only truth."
To be continued…