Matt woke with a start in the hidden corner of Harvest Church that Elara had assigned him as a temporary refuge. It was a narrow, damp space behind the main altar, disguised by thick vines woven together like a living curtain, hiding it from curious eyes. The ground was packed earth, not cold stone, and a faint emerald glow filtered down from luminescent roots in the ceiling, illuminating it just enough so he wouldn't trip. It smelled of fresh moss and something deeper, as if the church itself were breathing beneath him. His shirt was still stiff with dried blood from past nights, and the withered-leaf-shaped scar throbbed with a soft, almost comforting pulse—a reminder that the garden had not forgotten him.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. East Borough above must have been waking with the clamor of factories and coachmen, but down here the silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional creak of growing roots.
"How long did I sleep?" he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. He didn't remember falling asleep; after Elara's lesson about pathways and acting methods, exhaustion had struck him like a hammer. His mind still buzzed with fragments: twenty-two pathways, churches like watchdogs, the Abyss devouring him if he didn't act the role of Criminal properly.
A whisper of leaves alerted him. The vines parted as if responding to an invisible command, revealing Elara standing at the entrance, wrapped in her dark green coat, her leather briefcase beside her. Her green eyes shone with that toxic intensity. She carried no incense or crystal ball this time; the mark on Matt, that bond with the Mother Goddess, was enough to facilitate what was coming.
"You have rested enough, child of the Abyss," she said, her voice maternal but firm, like roots wrapping around stone. "The cycle does not wait. Come. Today you will learn to calm the storm within you, to control the spirituality the Abyss has awakened. Without this, your impulses will drag you into madness before you can nourish the garden as you should. The Mother has blessed you with that mark; it eases the flow, allowing even a physical beyonder like you to access these mysteries without external tools."
Matt stood, feeling his muscles tense and ready, that physical strength of the Criminal turning his body into a living weapon. He followed Elara through a short passage carved through roots, back to the underground garden where they had spoken before. The space seemed more alive now: emerald flowers opened and closed like blinking eyes, and the ground pulsed subtly beneath his feet. Elara gestured for him to sit on the soft moss in front of her.
"What is this?" Matt asked, already feeling a subtle pull from the scar, as if the earth itself were preparing him. He wasn't a mystic; his world had been fists and knives, not rituals. But the mark pulsed in approval, urging him to listen.
"Cogitation," Elara replied, sitting with fluid grace, her tone reverent as if speaking of a gift from the Mother. "It is the path to quiet your spirit, to unite with the earth's cycle and delve deeper into the mysteries of your potion. The Mother nourishes everything—life, rot, renewal—and this helps remove the unpleasant effects of your Abyss, integrating them like roots that strengthen the soil. Practice it daily and you will understand the hidden power within you, calming the depravity before it dominates you. It will help you focus during rituals, raise spiritual walls, or even induce a dreamlike state where the garden whispers truths to you. Some beyonders activate it instinctively, but Cogitation grants true control."
Matt nodded, intrigued despite his skepticism. Since taking the potion, he had felt an internal "buzz," an energy amplifying his strength and senses. The mark made it flow more easily now, as if the earth were lending him its vitality.
"How do I start?"
Elara tilted her head, her eyes fixed on him, speaking with the devotion of someone who worshiped the Mother as the eternal source of life.
"The first steps are like planting a seed in fertile soil—simple, but profound. For a beyonder like you, even more so, thanks to the Mother's favor in your scar. Begin by producing an object in your mind to divert your attention and direct your energy—your potion's energy, your spirituality— inward. Choose something common, simple, easy to visualize. For you, as a Criminal, imagine something from your daily impulses: a rusty alley knife, a shadow stalking through fog. But give it a touch of the cycle: imagine that knife wrapped in thin roots, as if the earth were reclaiming it. Focus on it with repetition, draw its contours in your mind. Close your eyes and feel the mark beating in harmony with your breath."
Matt obeyed, closing his eyes. The scar pulsed warmly, easing the flow without incense or crystals—a gift of the Mother that raised his basic spirituality enough for this. He imagined a simple knife, the one that had opened his side nights before, its serrated blade and worn handle, but now with thin roots winding around it as if the earth were feeding it back. He repeated it: knife with roots, knife with roots, sharp and organic contours…
He felt an inward tug, as if his energy were retreating inside him, and for a moment he saw flashes of color in the darkness—dense red from his hatred, ash-gray from the Abyss, emerald veins from the mark.
"Good, little blessed one," Elara murmured, her voice like wind whispering through leaves. "Feel how the Mother embraces even your depravity, turning it into growth. Now the deeper entry: leave your mind blank, like virgin soil ready for planting. Change the object you imagined. Use something nonexistent—an object you create entirely from nothing. Follow this rule or you will not enter. Imagine, for example, a seed sprouting in total darkness, with dagger-like thorns but flowers that bleed green sap—something that does not exist in the world yet unites your Abyss with the Mother's cycle. Draw and repeat its contours until your body and mind calm. Only then will you transcend the concept of the 'self,' joining the limitless universe, the Mother's eternal garden, where you will see truths only you understand, like roots extending into the unknown."
Matt frowned internally but shifted his image. From the rooted knife he moved to something absurd and nonexistent: a dagger made of living soil, with bud-eyes blinking and a blade that withered and rebloomed in endless cycles. He traced it in his mind, repeating its contours until his body relaxed, his mind floating in relative calm.
He felt his spirit retract slightly, a light emptiness where his criminal impulses quieted, as if the earth absorbed his malice and turned it into fertilizer. It felt like floating in the Tussock River—but without the stench—pure, connected to something larger, the scar pulsing in harmony.
Elara waited before continuing, her devotion evident in every word.
"Now the exit: think of something distracting, like returning to a simple object from before—perhaps that rusty knife without roots. This will pull you out of Cogitation. Control your spirituality and repeatedly tell it to end, like ordering the earth to stop growing for a moment. When you open your eyes, any budding Spiritual Vision will end. This is the most basic method, clumsy like a seed that has not yet sprouted. With daily practice—half an hour at dawn, when the Mother renews the world—you will slip repeatedly into Cogitation to influence your spirituality."
She continued explaining, teaching him how to create mental "switches," how to activate or end spiritual vision, and how to adapt the process to his habits.
Matt opened his eyes eventually, feeling strangely refreshed though slightly dizzy.
"It works… better than I expected," he admitted. "I didn't see spirits or anything crazy, but it calmed me. The impulses aren't shouting as much. I feel… like the earth is anchoring me."
Elara smiled faintly, like a proud mother.
"The goal does not have to remain fixed; you may return to a previous one if the nonexistent object fails. The Mother nourishes flexibility. Practice, and you will deepen your understanding of your Criminal potion, removing the risk of losing control."
Matt flexed his fingers, feeling his latent weapon proficiency—how even a nail nearby could become a lethal dagger. But now a subtle control accompanied it.
"And now what? Does this help me act my role without losing myself?"
"Yes," Elara replied. "Cogitation anchors you to the Mother's garden. But the cycle demands action."
The lesson then shifted to ritual magic.
Elara placed a clay cauldron, herbs, a lead dagger, and three green beeswax candles on the ground. She explained how rituals worked: preparing a spiritually clean environment, building a wall of spirituality, lighting candles with one's own spiritual essence instead of ordinary fire, and reciting a four-part incantation—often in Hermes, the ancient mystical language.
She taught him the structure of ritual prayers:
Invoke the being's title (for example, the Mother Goddess).
Pray for grace or power.
State the request in one clear sentence.
Empower the ritual using symbols or elements tied to that being's domain.
Matt practiced lighting the candles using his spirituality and imagined roots forming a protective barrier around the altar.
Elara also explained offerings, sacrifices, and the possibility of praying either to the Mother Goddess or even to oneself as a spiritual entity—drawing power from one's own spirituality.
Eventually, after nearly an hour, she began teaching him simple phrases in Hermes, the mystical language used in rituals.
Finally, she stood and gave him a mission.
"Knowledge without action is a sterile seed," she said. "You will kill a man named Joren Vex. He is a member of the Naturist Sect, a branch of the Rose School of Thought. They worship a usurper and believe in abandoning civilization to embrace raw instinct. They are spreading influence in East Borough near the Tussock docks."
She explained that Joren was a Sequence 9 Prisoner, someone with abilities similar to Matt's Criminal pathway: strong body, sharp senses, clever escape skills, and the ability to weaponize ordinary objects.
"Capture information before you kill him," Elara instructed. "Learn who his contacts are and why they are expanding now. This mission will give you merit with the Mother and experience in the hidden world."
Matt was overwhelmed by the flood of knowledge—pathways, rituals, Hermes incantations, secret sects—but he kept his composure. Complaining was weakness.
"Understood," he said hoarsely. "I'll do it."
Elara placed a hand on his scar, sending a pulse of warm green energy through him.
"The Mother will guide you. Return with what you learn… or the garden will claim you."
Matt remained still for a moment, feeling the warmth fade slowly, like sap flowing beneath his skin. The memory of a buried body and strange flowers blooming afterward surfaced in his mind—proof that the Mother's influence had touched his life long before he knew her name.
Elara watched him silently, then spoke in a low murmur:
"It was never just an isolated act, Matt. The Mother has always had…"
ancient alliances. With forces others call demonic, depraved, abyssal. They are not enemies; they are parts of the same cycle. What rots, what destroys, what desires without restraint… all of that also nourishes, when it is properly returned to the earth. Your act in that vacant lot was not accidental to Her; it was an echo of something far older, a bond that already existed between rot and renewal. That is why the mark found you so easily when you were on the brink of death. You are not a mistake or a whim; you are a branch that was already growing in the right direction, even if you didn't know it."
Matt swallowed. He wanted to ask more—what alliances, what demons, what it exactly meant that his cruelty had been "seen" by a goddess—but the words stuck in his throat. His level was too low; he felt it in his bones. The Abyss within him was young and raw, barely Sequence 9. Asking more would be like demanding that a seed understand the entire forest.
Elara seemed to read it in his expression.
"Keep moving forward," she said simply, without condescension, only with the calm certainty of someone who had seen many cycles. "Sequence after sequence. Each advancement will show you more of the garden, more of the roots that connect what you call 'evil' with what I call 'necessary.' When you reach high enough, you will understand why the Mother claimed you, and not some other thief from the docks. Until then… act. Nourish. Survive. That is what She asks of you now."
Matt exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening a little. There was no point resisting; the scar pulsed in agreement, and the Abyss within him was already eager for the hunt. The scores he had to settle at the docks—that old grudge he still hadn't named—could wait another day. This mission was the most direct path to grow stronger, to understand, to repay what he owed.
"All right," he muttered, his voice firmer than he expected. "I'll go after Joren Vex. I'll get whatever information I can before I finish him."
Elara nodded once, satisfied.
"Return with the information… and with your own rot intact, but directed. The Mother will be waiting."
The vines parted again, letting in the gray light of East Borough filtering down from above. Matt climbed the root-carved steps, the lead dagger tucked into his belt, the weight of the unknown still on his shoulders—but now with a purpose he could not ignore. The cycle had begun long before he knew it; now all he had to do was keep growing within it.