POV: Ruqayyah
That night, Ruqayyah's body ached from a full day spent riding under Layla's insistence. In her original world, the twenty-first century, the most strenuous exercise she undertook might have been brisk walks to class or the occasional dash to the kitchen. Yet here, in the ninth century, her muscles were tested beyond anything she had imagined. The moment her back hit the mattress, she closed her eyes, letting the subtle scent of agarwood in her chamber soothe the tension coiled in her limbs.
Before sleep could claim her, a voice sounded inside her mind. Not from outside, but a metallic echo resonating deep within her skull.
[Ding. Host. A task is available.]
Ruqayyah did not flinch. She did not startle as one might at a ghostly apparition. Skeptical by nature, she merely cracked one eye open, staring at the dark, vaulted ceiling, its carved beams catching the faint glow of an oil lamp.
"Heh… where have you been hiding?" she muttered flatly. Her tone was calm—remarkably so for someone just taken over by an alien consciousness inside her own head.
[Tuan Rumah. The Nadir System is now fully operational. It had remained dormant during calibration.]
"Very well. What is it you want?" Ruqayyah avoided pleasantries. In every account of transmigration she had ever read in modern literature, she knew such interventions always carried a price.
[The Host wishes to return to their original world, does it not? Completion of the System's tasks is required.]
Ruqayyah did not reply immediately. She measured the tone and cadence of the voice, seeking any weakness in its formality. "State the task and the reward first. I do not work without compensation."
[Primary Task: Open the Seven Gates to return.
Secondary Task: Assist someone in the Bayt al-Hikmah.
Reward: A Poison-Detecting Ring.]
She paused. The reward was tempting. In this age, poison was a common instrument of politics. Yet the system's imposition gnawed at her pride.
"And if I choose to ignore it?" she asked.
[Refusal renders return to your original body impossible. You will remain trapped here indefinitely.]
Ruqayyah let out a soft exhale. A cliché threat, she thought. Yet for now, she had no choice. Her twenty-first-century world—with its electricity, its knowledge, its freedom—was far too precious to abandon.
"Very well. I accept your game."
The next morning, Ruqayyah stood before the grand gates of the Bayt al-Hikmah. Her heart pounded for reasons entirely different from those of her contemporaries. To her, this was not merely a library; it was the Internet of the past, the gravitational center of human knowledge at a time when Europe slumbered in darkness.
Stepping inside, she inhaled deeply. The mingled scent of aged parchment, drying ink, and polished cedar filled her senses. She gazed upward at the towering domes, where sunlight pierced through geometric lattices, illuminating motes of dust like suspended gold.
It was extraordinary. She felt like a time traveler who had finally reached a holy sanctuary of civilization. Yet her reverie was short-lived.
The moment she and Layla entered the main hall, the atmosphere shifted. A sudden, almost comical tension gripped the room.
"Quick—pretend to read!" hissed a young man in the corner, eyes wide. He elbowed his companion, who had been daydreaming. "Open your scroll! The self-important princess is here. Don't let her approach—you know she'll start spouting nonsense about star conjunctions."
The other boy buried his face in a scroll, holding it upside down without realizing.
Ruqayyah noticed but remained expressionless. She understood the reputation of the original Aisha: a girl who thrived on attention, dragging scholars into arguments that often relied more on her father's status than logic. Seeing these learned men—normally commanding respect—now shrinking like guilty schoolboys made Ruqayyah want to laugh.
Layla nudged her arm, stifling a giggle at the unfolding spectacle. "Look at them, Aisha. You truly have a… unique charm."
Ruqayyah said nothing, her eyes scanning the hall for her assignment. They halted near an elderly mathematician, his brow furrowed in frustration over a tattered manuscript of complex algebra. He squinted as though forced to peer into the smallest of details.
"Your eyes are not failing you, sir," Ruqayyah said suddenly, breaking the silence.
The man nearly dropped his inkwell in surprise. Recognizing her, he exhaled heavily. "Ah… Princess Aisha. Forgive me. I am… quite occupied and have little time for arguments over whether grammar matters more than numbers today."
"I am not here to argue over words," Ruqayyah replied calmly, ignoring his tone. "I speak of light. If you place a convex-cut quartz crystal atop your manuscript, the letters will appear larger. The light will converge before reaching your eyes."
The hall seemed to freeze. Scholars who had pretended to be engrossed now lowered their manuscripts, brows furrowed in confusion.
"What nonsense is this?"
A cold voice cut from behind a geometry shelf. A young man stepped forward, arms crossed, his handsome face lined with skepticism. Faris ibn Yahya.
When their eyes met, a translucent information window appeared before Ruqayyah, visible only to her.
[Profile]
Name: Faris ibn Yahya
Age: 18
Affinity: Dislikes – 50
[Notes: Often annoyed by Aisha's illogical arguments, yet uneasy if she is confronted.]
Faris raised a single brow. "You usually boast about your poetry, which lacks even rhyme. Now you're inventing laws of nature? Quartz enlarges letters? Surely you just woke from some strange dream, Princess. Since when does a stone alter the world?"
Ruqayyah regarded him without expression. If she were the original Aisha, she might have snapped or thrown a tantrum. Instead, she met his gaze with the calm authority of a scholar confronting a foolish student.
"Brother Faris," she said, her voice low but cutting. He flinched at the weight behind her words. "Ignorance does not render the impossible. If you are too idle to reason before judging, at the very least, do not impede my effort to assist those who truly wish to learn. The world is vast, and its laws are not confined to the manuscripts you clutch so dearly."
Faris was momentarily speechless. He watched Ruqayyah's retreating back, noting the quiet grace in her stride.
That evening, Ruqayyah's chamber became a makeshift laboratory. She instructed her loyal guards to fetch the finest quartz from the Persian merchants' market. Sitting on the floor, she rubbed the stones with fine sand and oil in precise, circular motions.
The door creaked open. Salma entered with a tray of food. Her eyes widened at the sight of her usually fastidious daughter, hands coated with dust and grit.
"Aisha? What are you doing with these stones? Your hands—look at them! Surely a servant could have polished these for you," Salma said anxiously.
"These are not ornaments, Mother," Ruqayyah replied tersely, not glancing up. "They demand precision I cannot delegate."
Salma knelt beside her, reaching for Ruqayyah's reddening hands. "I only fear your reputation at the Bayt al-Hikmah. Your father worries about reports of your… unusual debates. You must not press matters the scholars deem absurd."
Ruqayyah paused. Her mother's gentle voice was rare, and for a moment, comforting.
She looked at Salma with a maturity that made her mother feel as if she were gazing upon a stranger wise beyond years.
"Let them mock me, Mother. Truth is often deemed madness before proof silences the doubters. Tomorrow, reality will compel their silence."
Salma said nothing, torn between pride and fear at her daughter's sudden, unshakable resolve.
Ruqayyah returned to her stone, rubbing until the surface gleamed under a silk cloth. She placed it atop a scrap of paper inscribed with the tiniest script she could craft.
When the letters beneath the crystal magnified clearly, as though leaping from the page, she exhaled in relief.
Leaning against the bedpost, she regarded the polished quartz under the warm lamplight. Gradually, her eyelids grew heavy, and she finally surrendered to sleep.