Malcolm descended the Spire's emergency stairs with the team, the metallic echo of their steps steady and measured. He murmured a quiet duʿāʾ under his breath—*Rabbi ishrah li sadri wa yassir li amri*—asking for ease in what lay ahead. The corrupted paleblood vial weighed heavily in his inner pocket, its unnatural warmth a constant reminder of the rift's taint. The whispers had retreated since he began reciting Ayat al-Kursi in his heart, the verses forming a shield no shadow could fully pierce.
Kira glanced at him. "Guild command is in disarray. They're directing survivors to the old quarter below Sector 0—the one district still standing firm."
Elara smiled faintly. "The Minaret Ward. It has always been the soul of Neo-Eldoria for us Muslims—mosques alive with light and knowledge, the adhan rising five times a day above the neon chaos. Even the corps could not erase its barakah. The Guild, with respect, turned the Great Minaret into a sanctuary of healing. It remains a place where Allah's mercy is manifest."
Malcolm: (softly) "Alhamdulillah. I was hoping we would reach it."
Elara: "You knew?"
Malcolm: "I grew up hearing the adhan from this ward. My mother brought me here for Jumuʿah before the plague took her. I haven't prayed in a masjid since… but tonight, I need it."
They emerged through an ancient arched gate into the Minaret Ward. Gentle rain filtered through mashrabiya skylights, turning intricate geometric tiles into shimmering pools of turquoise and gold. Verses from Surah an-Nur glowed softly along the arches: *Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth.* The air carried the soothing scents of oud, rosewater, and fresh miswak.
The ward was a haven of organized mercy. Volunteers distributed hot tea and dates to the wounded. Young huffāẓ recited Qur'an beside cots, their voices calm and healing. Guardians dispatched stray undead with quiet efficiency, reciting *Hasbiyallahu la ilaha illa huwa* before each strike, their blessed weapons cutting cleanly through corruption.
The Great Minaret rose at the heart—pure white marble veined with lapis, its towering spire crowned by a golden crescent that caught the city's light like a promise. The great doors stood open in perpetual welcome. From within rose the most beautiful adhan Malcolm had heard in years—deep, resonant, layered voices calling: *Allahu Akbar… Hayya ʿala al-falah…*
His chest tightened. He had almost forgotten how it felt to hear the call and answer it.
Inside the vast prayer hall, rows of clean cots lined the sides while the center remained clear for salah. Healers in modest white coats moved with quiet dignity, administering the Sacred Ministration—pure living water drawn from ancient zamzam-like wells beneath the city. The mihrab glowed gently, framing illuminated ayat of shifaʾ alongside monitors tracking the patients' recovery.
A kind-faced woman in flowing robes and hijab approached, her presence radiating sakina. Her badge read: Shaykha Amina al-Rahman, Director of Healing.
Amina: "Assalamu ʿalaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh, brother Malcolm and honoured guests. Allah has guided you safely through the storm."
Malcolm:(returning the greeting warmly) "Wa ʿalaikum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh, Shaykha. Jazakillahu khayran for keeping this place open."
Amina: "It is Allah who preserves it. Come—your wounds need tending, and your souls need rest. Maghrib will be called soon."
Malcolm surrendered the corrupted paleblood vial without hesitation. "This came from the rift. It whispers things no servant of Allah should hear."
Amina accepted it gently, wrapping it in cloth inscribed with protective ayat. "MashaAllah, you resisted its call. Our scholars will purify what can be saved and destroy the rest, bi-idhnillah."
They were led to private alcoves. A young healer recited Ruqyah over Malcolm's wounds—Surah al-Fatihah, Ayat al-Kursi, the last three surahs—blowing softly over the cuts. Then came the Sacred Ministration: a few drops of crystal-clear water from the blessed wells, cool and sweet on the tongue.
Warmth spread through him—not intoxicating madness, but pure healing light. His veins glowed briefly with barakah, shadows retreating from every corner of his spirit. The Sanity bar filled completely, steady and bright.
His HUD updated softly:
*Corruption purged. True Clarity +40.*
*New Ability Unlocked: Noor of Protection (Channel blessed light to shield allies and burn away cosmic corruption. Moderate mana cost.)*
When the healer finished, he asked quietly, "May I pray here?"
**Amina:** "This is your masjid, akhi. Always."
As the mu'adhdhin called Maghrib, Malcolm joined the rows—orc, human, elf, and fellow Muslims side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Gronk stood respectfully behind, Kira and Elara following the motions with quiet reverence. For the first time in years, Malcolm felt the full weight of sujood: forehead to the ground, heart open, whispering *Subhana rabbiya al-aʿla*.
Tears came unbidden. Not weakness—relief.
After salah, dates and water were shared. Strength returned, deeper than any level-up.
In the soft light of the mihrab, Shaykha Amina gathered them.
Amina: "The entity you call the Necromancer is a servant of forces that rebel against Allah's order—shayatin of the unseen, twisting creation. The true source lies in the ancient labyrinth below. The scholars of the Upper Chorus guard the sealed entrance with knowledge and faith. They have waited for hunters bearing true clarity to arrive."
Malcolm: "Then take us to them."
Amina: "After ʿIsha, in shaʾ Allah. But know this: the path downward tests iman as much as strength. Recite your protection, remember your Lord, and you will not be led astray."
Malcolm placed a hand over his heart, feeling the lingering warmth of wudu and prayer.
Malcolm: "Alhamdulillah. I'm ready."
Under the golden crescent, surrounded by the soft recitation of Qur'an, the team prepared for the descent—carrying not just weapons, but the unbreakable light of faith.
To be continued...