Part VI: The Place of Growth
Refinement, Remembrance, and the Call to Rise
The storm had passed. The winds that once howled through the stone corridors of Taben’Rael had quieted, leaving behind a hush that felt almost sacred. Morning light crept across the college grounds, casting golden warmth on the portrait of the founder whose eyes seemed to follow Elias even in stillness.
At precisely 5:00 a.m., Elias stirred. His body ached—the sting and burn on his buttocks a lingering echo of the ritual he had endured the night before. But he smiled. Not with pride, and not with defiance. It was the smile of a man who had faced the fire and found grace in its heat. He lay still for a moment, letting the silence speak. Then, as if drawn by something beyond himself, he looked upward toward the ceiling. A single tear slipped from his left eye and rested on his cheek. He whispered thanks to the Only God above—for another day, for breath, for the chance to continue.
Today, Elias was not just a student of Taben’Rael. He was another step closer to refinement.
He rose from his bed and dressed in his ritual garments: a white tank top and briefs. The marks from last night’s correction were still visible, but they no longer felt like wounds. They were reminders—sacred inscriptions on flesh, etched by grace.
Just as he sat to gather himself, a knock echoed through his quarters. Elias frowned, puzzled. “Who would be knocking at my door this early?” he muttered, rising slowly. The soreness made each movement deliberate. He opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was a man dressed in an orthodox robe, a scroll in his hand. His presence was striking—broad-shouldered, smooth dark skin, no facial hair, and eyes that carried both fire and forgiveness. Elias squinted into the candlelight as the figure stepped forward.
“I am Malaki,” the man said. “We have been awaiting your arrival for many years. And here you are.”
Elias’s breath caught. His face flushed red with recognition. “Malaki! How are you? It’s been a long time, my friend!”
Malaki nodded, but his expression remained solemn. “I am fine. But I’m not here to reconcile our friendship. I’m here to take you to the Place of Growth.”
Elias instinctively straightened his posture. The sting in his body reminded him—this was not a casual reunion. This was a summons.
Without another word, the two men began walking through the stone corridors of Taben’Rael. The halls were lined with etched prayers, broken chains, and mirrors that reflected not the face, but the soul.
Elias walked in silence, heart pounding. Malaki led with purpose, the scroll still in hand.
They arrived at a large wooden door, carved with the words:
“Refinement is not punishment—it is prophecy.”
Malaki paused, then slowly opened the door. His voice was low, almost liturgical:
“This is where your beginning began. Remember—nothing truly begins until you’ve begun.”
Elias stepped inside. The aged door groaned as it shut behind him.
Clink. Clunk.
The sound echoed like a seal. Elias flinched and turned instinctively.
Malaki placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Elias, my friend. Never look back—always look forward. Let this be your second lesson: if you stare too long at your past, you’ll lose sight of your future.”
Then, with reverent precision, Malaki gave Elias a swift swat on the backside—not in anger, but in awakening. Elias smirked, nodded, and turned toward the room.
The chamber was vast and solemn. Portraits lined the walls—each framed in gold, each bearing a name and year. Beneath them, engraved plates marked the lineage of the elect: members of Discipline Matters, stretching from 1773 to 2024. These were not mere participants. These were the chosen.
In each corner stood a throne-like chair—royal in stature, golden and crimson. At the center, a diplomat’s table of cherry wood gleamed with a sacred finish. Upon it lay:
• An open book, thick with history
• A Bible, reverently placed
• A red oak paddle, engraved with “Growth”
• A razor strap, equally marked with “Growth”
Beneath the table, a crimson carpet bore a radiant symbol encircled by the words:
“Discipline Matters.”
From the right corner, a door creaked open. An elderly Black man emerged, cloaked in a white gothic robe. His hood was drawn, face obscured. Even as he stepped into the light, mystery clung to him.
In his hand, he held a bronze paddle etched with a lightning bolt. He walked slowly to the center, behind the sacramental table, and raised the paddle toward Elias.
His voice was steady, grave, and full of grace:
“Elias Juan Dento, we have waited many years for this moment. Your childhood and youth were marked by a rebellious nature. You carved your own path—often at the cost of others. You wounded people in body, mind, spirit, and trust. You rejected help, choosing darkness over light.”
He stepped closer.
“You were not promoted. You were not elected. You were selected—by fate, not by faith. Your record bears the weight: armed robbery, threats, vandalism, possession, distribution, and disobedience. You could have gone to prison. But the Good Lord Above intervened. Someone still believed in you. And so, you stand here today.”
He placed the bronze paddle gently on the table and walked to the throne on the right. Silence fell. Malaki was gone.
Elias turned sharply.
“Malaki?”
His voice echoed off the stone.
“Malaki!” he called again, louder, frustration rising.
Then—swat.
A firm strike landed on his covered backside. Sharp, but not cruel. It silenced him.
The elder stepped forward, placing the paddle once more on the table. His smile held no amusement—only compassion.
He spoke:
“Come down to the river, Elias. Where understanding meets you. Where freedom begins. Where purity and hope dwell. Come down to the river—not of water, but of spirit. For all things manifest in the spirit before they appear in the flesh.”
He paused.
“When you reach that level, Malaki will lead you to the river. But once there, the choice will be yours alone. No paddle. No whisper. Just you—and the Father.”
Elias lowered his gaze. The words pierced, but did not condemn. They named what must be named.
The elder gestured toward the symbol on the floor.
Elias breathed in.
The sting was fresh.
The truth was fresher.
He understood.
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