Hafiz sat outside the entrance to the grand and luxurious mosque gates. His voice was barely a whisper, calm and steady with a charming tone. He recited a childhood nasheed, cementing his love for poetry and prose writing.
--ألم يأتك نداءُ الموتِ يدعوك
فماذا أنتَ صانعٌ إذا لبّيتَ داعيه
أما تدري بأنَّ الموتَ حقٌّ
وأنك سوف تُبعثُ بعد فيه
أما تستحي من ربِّك أن تعصيه
ويسترُك وأنتَ مقيمٌ على ذنبه
إلى متى الغفلةُ والقلبُ لاهٍ
والموتُ يدنو كلَّ يومٍ إليك--
While he slowly spoke the words, all around him laid bodies upon bodies of suited men who were all unconscious. Blood dripped from their faces and taking a single glance at Hafiz's fist would tell you he was the reason.
The night sky was a deep, dark blue with the full moon bright in the middle, illuminating the futuristic city at the bottom of the cliff the Mosque was located.
In comparison, the mosque look outdated, unfitting for its position overlooking this hub of technology and skyscrapers but with a deeper look, one could tell the mosque held more history and enrichment than any of the soulless metal below it possibly could.
Once finished with the poem, Hafiz got up from the step he sat on and turned around looking at the man that stood behind the gate of the mosque. With long steps of his long legs, hafiz quickly passed into the mosque with his socked feet touching the carpet inside.
Before he fully disappeared, he paused to speak to a man who stood beside the open gate.
"Clean this up and keep watch for the rest of the night. I'm heading in."
And with that, he walked off.
----
The first thing Hafiz felt every morning was cold stone beneath his forehead.
The mosque floor held the night's chill even in summer. It crept through the thin prayer mat and into his bones, grounding him in the quiet stillness that came before the world woke.
He stayed in sujood longer than most people did. This was where the days cultivation began.
Most boys his age woke up thinking about school, games, or food. Hafiz woke up thinking only about discipline. The discipline of hi body, mind and most importantly, his soul.
Just like his father said, the body was easy to train. The nafs was the real enemy.
The mosque was silent except for the faint humming of the lights above. The air smelled faintly of old books and sandalwood oil.
Hafiz finished his prayer slowly. When he sat back on his heels, he closed his eyes and began the breathing cycle his father had taught him.
Inhale.
"Subhanallah."
Exhale.
"Alhamdulillah."
Inhale.
"Allahu Akbar."
The dhikir slowed his heart, focused his thoughts, and centered his intention. His father called it Tazkiyah cultivation. Purification of the self.
Every repetition strengthened the ruh, the spiritual core of a person. Most people never trained it. Some people didn't even believe it existed.
But Hafiz knew better because he has seen its power in real time. He had seen what happened when people corrupted it and allowed evil into their heart.
His father's footsteps echoed softly from the hallway.
"My ever so diligent son. Still cultivating are you?"
Hafiz opened his eyes. His father stood in the doorway of the prayer hall wearing a simple thawb, beard slightly damp from wudu.
Imam Kareem looked like any other mosque leader in the city. Kind eyes, soft voice, and a patient smile.
Which made it even harder for people to believe the rumors.
That there was a million dollar bounty on his head. Hit man lurked every corner in hopes of killing him and trained assassins showed up to the mosque grounds routinely.
Hafiz stood up.
"Yes, Baba."
His father nodded approvingly.
"Good. A heart that trains itself before sunrise is difficult for Shaytan to touch."
Hafiz scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly.
"I'm still stuck."
"On what?"
"The third breath cycle."
His father walked across the prayer hall, footsteps soft against the carpet.
"That stage requires sincerity, my son."
"But I am sincere! As sincere as you can get! Wallah!"
His father raised an eyebrow.
"You're also impatient."
Hafiz frowned.
That was… unfortunately true.
Most cultivation manuals talked about gathering energy from the heavens or manipulating spiritual rivers in the body. Islamic cultivation worked differently.
You didn't gather power or use mystical means. You purified intention and all that was within you... and that was much harder.
His father suddenly stopped walking. Hafiz noticed the change instantly. Years of training made him sensitive to shifts in attention.
"Baba?"
The imam's eyes moved slowly toward the front entrance of the mosque.
"Someone is outside."
Hafiz's stomach tightened.
"Another one?"
"Perhaps."
The word perhaps didn't make the young man feel better. This would be the sixty-fifth assassin this month.
The kind of killers that never spoke, and never negotiated. All they would come to do was simply to kill Imam Kareem. It was likely they never gave Hafiz and his father the respect or reasoning behind their intentions because they knew they would never be killed by the two.
They weren't fearful of them. Atleast not more fearful than the one who was sending them.
The police had come the first two times they reported these instances. After the third, they stopped believing the story compeltly and the two were left to fend for themsleves.
His father motioned quietly.
"Go upstairs."
"I can help."
"No."
His father's voice wasn't loud. But it carried absolute authority. Hafiz hesitated... then obeyed.
Halal cultivation began with obedience. He moved silently up the narrow staircase that led to the family quarters above the mosque.
From the balcony railing he could see the entire prayer hall. His father stood alone near the center.
Calm, and relaxed.
Like he was waiting for a late student to arrive for a lesson. The mosque doors creaked open.
A man stepped inside. Black jacket. Face partially covered. Knife in his hand. Hafiz's heart started pounding.
'If anything goes slightly wrong, I'll jump in!'
The assassin moved quickly. Too quickly for a normal human.
'Systems user?'
Hafiz guessed to himslef due to the weird upgrade in speed over little time. It wasn't a constant climb but a sudden jump, as if something was activated.
Imam Kareem sighed.
"You people are persistent."
The assassin lunged and then something strange happened. His father moved. It wasnt fast or flashy but almost perfect with no wasted motion.
The attacker's knife cut through empty air as Imam Kareem shifted one step to the side. His palm tapped the man's chest. Lightly. Almost too gently.
The assassin flew backward like he had been hit by a truck. He slammed into the prayer hall wall and collapsed.
Unconscious.
Hafiz blinked.
'Wow that was weak... I guess I was worried over nothing. They must be running out of tricks.'
"...Baba?"
His father looked up toward the balcony.
"Go back to bed."
"Bed?! Its past Fajr!"
The imam rubbed his temples.
"The children will be here soon. I need you to fill in for me today during recitation and lessons. So go back to bed and tell Haakim to wake up and prepare the mosque."
He sounded tired and defeated. The compeltle opposite of someone who had just won a duel.
Hafiz knew what it meant when he had to take over for his father's lessons.
"Where are you going?"
His father looked at the unconscious attacker. Then at the sunrise street beyond the mosque doors.
"They won't stop sending them."
Hafiz felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He dodnt want to ask this next question.
"Then what do we do?"
His father's expression hardened slightly. Something Hafiz rarely saw.
"Tonight," he said quietly. "I'm going hunting."