The consolidation of Safira’s newfound power had reached an acceptable state, and Malik figured they had milked all the time they could afford, so they packed up a few essentials and started heading south again.
Hours turned into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. All until time itself felt like some never-ending loop. Something that he was quite used to by now.
Wake up, move, kill the occasional monster, train, avoid the occasional Seeker, camp, repeat.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.
They simply trained every chance they got.
If they weren’t walking or fighting, they were cultivating.
Malik barely slept anymore.
His cultivation routine was practically meditative, healing his body and clearing his mind enough that he didn’t need much rest.
While not to the same intensity, Safira went hard as well, lowering her sleeping hours a tad.
Surprisingly, she didn’t complain. Rather, she threw herself into it, biting off whatever bits and pieces of technique he fed her.
And she was sharp. Way sharper than her lazy, sarcastic front let on.
Sure, she still tossed out a snarky comment here and there, usually right when Malik was hitting a flow in explaining something, but it was never mean-spirited.
Just her way of keeping him on his toes…
Stubborn, this one.
“You’ve got to twist your hips more when you’re striking.”
He told her once while they were drilling punches.
She mimicked the motion, twisting her body so dramatically that it almost looked like she was trying to snap herself in two.
“Like this, oh great master? Should I add a spin for dramatic effect?”
Malik just stared at her, deadpan.
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do.”
Safira grinned, going back to the proper technique without missing a beat.
If that example served to show anything, it was that she was a pain sometimes… most times, but he couldn’t deny she learned fast. Too fast, maybe.
For his part, he had to admit that he was getting into the whole “teacher” role more than he ever thought he would.
It wasn’t like he had planned to become someone’s mentor when he went to kill those bastards, but her progress made it… satisfying.
Malik wasn’t slacking either.
His cultivation was progressing in steady, quiet intervals.
It wasn’t flashy like Safira’s progress—no big “aha” moments—but the man was slowly becoming a walking arsenal, his foundation becoming steadier by the day.
Magi didn’t survive long without learning a trick or twenty, and he needed not only to live but also to thrive long if he wanted to fulfill any of his goals.
Of course, Ascending into a Jinn would exceed such gains by a thousandfold, but unfortunately, that wasn’t possible out here, at least not to his knowledge.
To become a Jinn, a pure one, he had to perform the pilgrimage, Arba’in.
A long journey to the Land In Between, the Land of Forgotten Borders, the True South, the Valley of the Unseen… Wadi Al-Ghayb.
Life ceased to exist in this land known as the unknown’s threshold, a place said to be neither here nor there, where reality itself thinned and Jinns gathered to whisper.
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Malik didn’t know much more about it.
It was only mentioned a few times in Rafiq’s Grimoire.
He knew the location, though, and that was enough; everything else he’d learn on the way.
All this… he’d do was for one thing… Cyrus’s death. His main goal.
Even this, the teaching of his little student, helped in that.
It was an opportunity for him to revise the basics.
Something he hadn’t done in so long.
The sparring too.
It was half training, half therapy for them both.
Safira got to burn off her frustration from being unable to find a place in what remained of his little stone of a heart—though she’d never admit it—and Malik got to let off steam in a way that didn’t involve talking about his feelings.
Win-win.
Still, it was where he had to hold back—a lot.
The girl was no pushover, sure, but he wasn’t about to go all out and break her bones with a flick.
Even so, she got banged up.
Malik made sure of that.
Safira needed to feel the pain of a real fight, the sting of getting hit, the humiliation of hitting the ground.
“Better to get bruised here than dead out there.”
He’d say every time she stumbled, clutching a fresh welt or wiping blood off her lip.
“Yeah, yeah.”
She’d mutter, irritated, but she always stood back up. Always came at him again. Stronger, faster, a little more calculated than before.
It was working.
One time, she actually managed to land a punch.
A clean one, right to his ribs. But… that wasn’t during a spar.
Right. She attacked him when he was deep in cultivation, the one time when he was most vulnerable.
He barely felt it, and it didn’t really count, but she lit up like she’d just felled a giant.
“I got you!”
Malik stood up, cracked his neck, and looked down.
“Congratulations. Now do it again.”
She didn’t land another hit for a whole month after that.
Their journey south took them through some truly unforgiving terrain.
Al-Fawra was not kind to travelers, not even its first layer.
The closer they got to the south, the fewer landmarks they passed.
Just cracked, parched earth stretching as far as their eyes could see, broken only by the occasional stubborn shrub or jagged outcrop of rock.
But then, one day, the landscape slowly began to change.
The hard, broken ground softened, and dunes began to rise in waves around them.
At first, they were small, rolling hills of sand, but soon they grew, stretching into vast golden mountains that rippled under the Shams.
The heat was worse here, as the sand reflected the starlight like a mirror, making it feel like they were walking through an oven.
“So… this is it, huh?”
Safira squinted at the horizon, a scarf they’d ‘borrowed’ from some random Seeker wrapped tight around her head.
“The great southern dunes. Al-Fawra’s Edge. Real inviting place.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Malik didn’t sound particularly convincing.
He was sweating just as much as she was.
“If I don’t melt first.”
She kicked at the sand and watched it scatter.
“Is this stuff gonna be sticking to everything now?”
“Yes…”
Malik was already resigned to the fact.
“Get used to that, too.”
She groaned but didn’t complain further.
They kept walking, their footprints quickly erased by the shifting sands behind them.
It was almost poetic. Almost.
They didn’t get much farther before he raised his hand, signaling her to stop.
His eyes had caught something—a dark speck in the golden expanse to their right.
“What is it?”
She followed his gaze but saw nothing.
“A sign.”
He turned toward it, his steps cautious, and she reluctantly followed.
As they got closer, the speck grew into a weathered wooden sign planted crookedly in the sand.
The paint was peeling, the letters faded, but they were still legible—barely.
Malik brushed off some of the dust clinging to the surface and leaned in to read, now able to… somehow.
“Be warned.”
Her brows furrowed, and she stepped closer to listen.
“Sandworms populate the land behind this sign.”
He paused, glancing back at her.
Her eyes widened.
“Sandworms?”
“Do follow the Sand Walk not to arise them. A drumming beat.”
There was a long, heavy silence after he finished.
“…This is it.”
Malik muttered, more to himself than to her, his gaze lingering on the warning as if the words were etched into his soul.
“The beginning of the end.”