Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 432

**Chapter 432 – Harvest**
**Northern Shore of the Conqueror Sea, Turois.**

Midnight, moonless and absolute. A lavish hotel room lit by harsh overhead lamps. Dorothy sat sunken into a deep-cushioned sofa, unmoving, her consciousness tunneled through the long-distance tether linking her to Fania. Through Fania’s borrowed senses, she consumed one sacred document after another from the Summer Tree tribe’s protected archives, absorbing them with ravenous intensity.

Now familiar with the Summer Tree’s “Bathing Tide Method” for gathering Cup-type spiritual power, Dorothy plunged further into the Mystic teachings. The Way of Waves was a path categorized under Mystic arts—its primary attribute: Cup; its secondary: Lamp. If one method for Cup existed, surely others waited buried. And soon, another surfaced: the “Faith Gathering Method.”

The name itself was telling—power accumulated by harvesting belief. The tribe held martial prowess in high esteem, their customs fiercely celebratory of strength. Each year they hosted public trials: unarmed combat, ocean-distance swimming, outrageous strength contests…

Warriors proved their might before roaring audiences. Victors earned prestigious titles—Chosen of the Sea God, Sea Warrior, Tide Strider Incarnate. Glory rained. Priests conferred validation. Applause thundered. This reverence didn’t dissipate; it crystalized, transmuting into Lamp-aligned energy.

…

‘Faith Gathering Method… the tribe’s route to collecting Lamp. Just like Adelle’s Desire Dance, or the Eight Points’ Fear Torture. Every one of them harvesting some deep-rooted emotional force—Desire Dance devours longing, Fear Torture draws from terror, and this one thrives on reverence… even worship. Ideal fuels for primal spiritual categories: Cup (desire, craving), Shadow (terror), Lamp (honor, devotion). Uta’s drills pushing Kapaq to project an aura of awe? Another form of this—turning fear and admiration into a resource. Lamp’s unusual—rarely is there a structured way to stockpile it. Needs mass recognition. Yet here, somehow, they’ve done it.’

Dorothy continued pulling the threads apart from her plush fortress. Faith Gathering centered around the mind. In contrast, the Bathing Tide method? It felt wild, raw, elemental.

‘Bathing Tide… chasing currents of power throughout the sea. Absorbing ambient spiritual charge. It’s primal. Like Soul Sculpting. Or Blood Offering. But more savage. The deep tears at you.’

Her thoughts shifted again. More unusual notes cropped up within the ancient, half-rotted texts.

The tribe’s myths labeled them “Crippled Folk” or “Defective Kin.” Stories spoke of a disaster from ages past—a “Defect” that ravaged the people. Only the Tree Mother’s blessing held the scourge at bay. Remove Her grace? The Defect would awaken, smother the tribe, erase their future. The towering trees weren’t merely botanical—each was a symbol of Her mercy, living proof of balance.

It was hazy—myth layered upon oral legend, never written in clear terms. Yet the tribe clung to it, fiercely loyal, refusing to abandon the Goddess who preserved them. Dorothy flagged it mentally: theory, not fact. Lacking proof.

Beyond power-gathering and path theory? The revelation of the Abundant One brought rare clarity.

‘Three goddesses echoing maternal archetypes. Cup Mother. Holy Mother. The Abundant One. When did we last see three divinities sharing such closely linked maternal and Cup resonance? But dig deeper—each governs different realms.

‘The Abundant One… an ancient fertility spirit, earthbound, grounded. A stable, nurturing force. Tribes pray to her for children, harvest, survival. Cup Mother’s path? It dives into flesh, blood, offering. Her motherhood is consuming, grotesque, birthing mortals and monsters alike. Her followers scream in devotion—“Blood Mother!” The Holy Mother, meanwhile, holds maternity as secondary. The faith turns her into a silent vessel of salvation. Almost abstract.’

The contrast was stark. In order of maternal weight, Cup Mother held the most, followed by the Abundant One, then Holy Mother. Dorothy logged the details. Fania’s focus never wavered. With the intel gathered, the task felt finished.

It was time to collect the spoils.

She had raided well: sacred rites tied to the Abundant Mistress and the Tide Strider. Esoteric diagrams. Depth teachings of the Wave Path at Obsidian Earth and Chalk White levels. Bathing Tide and Faith Gathering methods unlocked… and along with them came loot—poison-encoded legacy knowledge: 30x Cup, 2x Lamp, 1x Stone, 20x Enlightenment. After subtracting the 3x Cup needed to operate Fania and the trio of puppet scouts, the tally now read:

32 Cup, 5 Stone, 20 Shadow, 4 Lamp, 14 Silence, 34 Enlightenment. Cup vaults overflowed.

‘Thirty-plus Cup… jackpot. No more famine. The priests were hoarding rich veins. Beautiful.’

She felt a deep satisfaction as the Cup balance climbed—finally, resources flowing again. It had been dangerously close—down to 2 Cup, relying solely on future gains. Manipulating Fania and the tribal hunters had nearly drained her dry. Now? She was back in the black. Flush.

The log gleamed. She exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the firm leather armrest. But a note of dissonance tugged at her. One oddity: a spike of “Stone.” Unexpected.

She’d consumed knowledge built of Cup, Lamp, Enlightenment, and Stone. Cup, obvious—it was the Abundant One’s signature. Faith Gathering clearly led to Lamp. Enlightenment served as the backbone of any advanced ritual decoding. But “Stone”? What piece had she missed?

There was no resonance. Unless… maybe something overlooked in the margins? She scanned her memory again, digging. Then, a half-buried possibility: a relic. A tattered hide bearing faint glyphs.

Inside… references to the Bountiful One—Forest Force, Succor Giver, Field’s Bounty. One ancient title stood out: “Earth Mother Goddess.” It hinted at ties not to Cup, but Stone.

‘Strange… Earth Mother links directly to Stone domains—opposed, even contradictory, to Cup’s essence. It doesn’t fit Mystic models. Could this be tribal myth shaping spiritual identity—belief itself corrupting the field? What’s poisoning me exactly? Curious… drifting.’

She rubbed her temple, the motion neither soothing nor useful. A task to smother the rising noise. Focus again.

“All documents reviewed. Energy patterns stabilized. Extraction secured. Time to give back.” Her back stretched; she spoke aloud into the still, plush air.

Constructing the faithual disguise would demand enormous effort—ritual revisions, prophecy rewrites, the forging of future narratives. Even with access to Mystic blueprints, it wasn’t a one-night job. But her “Enlightenment” at Chalk White rank broke through such human limits—her mind processed centuries in compressed form.

‘Operation framing complete… intercept targets prioritized…’

Dorothy sealed her eyes, reached for Fania.

…

The moon had nearly vanished. Islands cut crimson shapes into the east as the sun crept in. Winds whispered sharp through vine-choked ravines.

Main island of the Summer Tree. Priest longhouse beneath the Fertility Tree.

Fania sat cross-legged on the worn floorboards, her body coiled tight. Around her sprawled senseless geometric patterns. Useless harvest charts scattered the room, taking up space, wasting her attention. Then her awareness shifted—a command line reopened. Her posture snapped rigid. Priest Anman’s voice grated from behind:

“Sister Fania… has transmission concluded?”

“Essential knowledge delivered. Our Mystic Leader now initiates the plan. Details to follow.”

She responded like part of the building itself—still, solid. Anman exhaled a sigh that rattled the beams.

“Delivery confirmed… Our thanks span generations. Should we escape destruction, your Order holds our eternal debt, even if we vanish to the last child.”

The sacred words echoed in the pine walls. Fania held back her tongue, temples pulsing. They’d learned so much, received immense blessings… and now shackled themselves to eternal service? Disquieting.

She masked her discomfort, voice sharp as a dagger:

“Question redirected. Intelligence leak—how was our convoy’s location pinpointed and defenses stripped?”

Anman hesitated. His throat visibly worked.

“A calculated strike… enemy ships mapped… maps supplied by reliable source. Hostage-based leverage planned from the beginning. The informant? Our highest-ranking merchant—Otobey.”

“Otobey… a tribe’s prized asset. His fleets scour coasts. He fed queries through the sea lanes, reaching rebel islands… tides shifting.”

He spoke carefully. Fania processed it.

“Otobey…”

…

Sunlight split apart the clouds. Screeching pelicans circled in the blaze.

Priest Anman called for an emergency assembly of the Twined Covenant Spears. The tribe’s elders arrived with stiff faces, key advisors trailing behind in silence. Beads clattered as confusion spread.

Then, Anman dropped the truth like a hammer: a midnight vision. An ancestral spirit had spoken—mercy came from the Earth Mother. If they resisted the Congregation’s might, destruction was certain. Their only salvation? Surrender the hostages. Swear loyalty to the Profound Radiance Holy Mother. She would protect them—quietly.

Murmurs broke into distress. Anger burst like boiling water. Betrayal? Forsaking vows? Better to bleed out on the salt-raked beaches!

Anman responded with force—quelling rebellion through sharp command. Then, the real reveal landed:

This wasn’t betrayal. It was strategy. Worship of the Mother would persist—hidden behind the façade of Holy Mother faith. A ruse. Their hearts remained loyal. Only their masks had changed.

The Profound Radiance demanded covert operations—cloaking old faith behind new symbols. National survival required it. Ancestral edicts had demanded as much.

The room froze. Such a shift—such calculated heresy—was unthinkable.

Disbelief boiled up, clouding the air like storm mist. How could they prepare? There was no warning! Yet Anman pressed forward with the force of a crashing tide. The vision came with instructions: protocols, battle-ready and precise.

The tribe’s entire religious structure began quiet reshaping. Public prayer rerouted. Sacred dates rewritten. Ceremonial tools repurposed. Confusion dulled their senses.

But layer after layer, the new rites masked the old. Holy days mirrored the saints’, gestures hid private oaths, bronze bell hymns carried veiled prayers. Baptisms disguised the Tide rites. It was intricate, labyrinthine—religion bent into a hidden blade.

It all snapped back into place. A tapestry of invisible rebellion. Like roots swelling under frost, ready to burst.

The realization struck like an avalanche.

They weren’t betraying tradition. They were enacting perfect warfare—sacred subterfuge encoded over generations. The ghosts had taught them well.

When debate raged—apostasy or extinction—none dared contradict the will of the dead. The scriptures, reborn in silence, moved too swiftly to resist.

Fury dimmed. Elders nodded, reluctantly compliant. Except for Otobey. He alone looked crushed beneath the weight—his features locked, a slab of dry stone at last fracturing.