Teresa, despite her age and the scars time had carved into her face, had never abandoned her obsession: dragging impoverished, neglected universities into the modern world and forcing them to stand on the same academic stage as their privileged counterparts. But her other mission was darker, more personal—like every idealist who had lost too much sleep. She wanted her students to become more than scholars. She wanted them to become human beings who chose correctly, who leaned toward what was noble instead of what was easy.

To achieve that, she didn’t restrict herself to her own discipline. She dissected scientific progress across every field, constantly weighing it against the myths, the religions, and the divine proclamations that shaped civilization. To her, history was not a chronicle—it was a warning. The deeper humanity understood its tragedies, its humiliations, its cycles of collapse, the closer it could get to a formula for peace. And perhaps then the future of nations would not be built on hunger, fear, or blood.

Her path had diverged from Mark and Süleyman’s long ago. But it would be naïve to think she had left their world behind. It was her intellect—cold, surgical, unencumbered by fear—that had shattered the global chaos strategy of the clandestine group they hunted.

After Bosnia. After Italy. After the smoke, the bodies, and the lies.

Mark and Süleyman had risen with a reputation they had never asked for: the Demon Hunters. And in the years that followed, they had torn apart one bizarre incident after another—cases soaked in superstition, madness, and violence.

Teresa had sworn them off more than once.

“Don’t drag me into your wars anymore,” she would say. “My path is different.”

But whenever they hit a wall—whenever the darkness presented a puzzle logic could not crack—they called her. And she answered. Not out of duty, not out of affection, but because she knew too well what kind of world would exist if she didn’t.

The public never learned her name. Most never even learned she existed. But among the few who whispered about her, a single title persisted:

“The Brain of the Demon Hunters.”

Teresa agreed with Mark’s theory that behind every mysterious incident there lay a philosophy, a myth, or a belief. Yet she had gone further—she had traced most of these phenomena back to the brain. It was why she had become, in every sense of the word, a professor of the mind.

The scientist had chosen to spend the rest of her life in Cyprus—a place known for its quiet beauty, often called the “Green Island” since antiquity. She had always loved plants, even as a child, and when she arrived she realized the praise had not been exaggerated. The island harbored hundreds—perhaps thousands—of rare species. At times, it resembled a fragment torn from those mythical gardens of paradise.

Oranges, grapefruits, mandarins—fruits of the Mediterranean—thrived here. But so did apples, plums, cherries, apricots, grains, and legumes. Evergreen pine, juniper, oak, and countless other trees crowned the island, giving it an almost intoxicating charm. Timber was no issue. Thick-bellied trees grew everywhere on their own—so abundant that the island could have exported them as raw logs.

And if the surface was rich, the depths did not disappoint. Ordinary metals, precious ores—all existed here. Some legends even claimed that Cyprus was so wealthy in copper and tin that it supplied Europe throughout the Bronze Age. Teresa found the idea absurd at first—until she read the archaeological records.

She began teaching at a private university. Cyprus, as she soon learned, was not a single land but a fractured one. Two administrations, two flags, two versions of history. Her closest friend embodied this division—Sara Anostosis, a historian whose mother was Turkish and father Greek. Raised on the island, Sara knew both the myths and the science behind its past.

Sara had a habit of starting conversations in the middle, without warning or ceremony. Perhaps sensing Teresa’s fascination with old stories, she asked her a question that sliced straight to the bone:

“Did you know you’re standing on a fragment of Atlantis—the very land that haunts half the world’s myths?”

She was about to begin her monologue when she noticed Teresa sweep her hand dismissively, urging her to get on with it.

“I could list you dozens of places claimed to be the Lost City. Right over there—Crete. Then Cuba, the Bermuda Triangle, Argentina, Indonesia, deserts, even Antarctica. The list doesn’t end.”

“But,” she continued, her voice sharpening with conviction, “there are written sources and scientific studies pointing to Cyprus. As far as I know, Plato lived in the fifth and fourth centuries BC. In his famous dialogues, Timaeus and Critias, he speaks of Atlantis. And he learned this from the inscriptions of Solon—one of ancient Greece’s greatest sages, who lived two centuries before him. Solon himself claimed to have heard the story in Egypt, from high priests who recounted the history of their ancestors. These priests told him that their ancient writings—thousands of years old—mentioned Atlantis.”

“All of this,” she said, raising a finger, “is rooted in the earliest written historical work we know—Herodotus’ Histories, written in 440 BC. And Plutarch, another reliable ancient author, also recorded that Solon met Egyptian priests and received information about Atlantis from them.”

Teresa smiled faintly.

“All right, all right—you’re a scholar; you speak in evidence. But the way you enter the story already excites me. I’ve always been drawn to historical texts.”

Sara nodded, satisfied, and continued.

“According to the inscriptions, Atlantis lay where three continents nearly met. It had two springs—one cold, one hot. On the eastern side of the island stretched a vast rectangular plain that produced countless crops. Near the center of that plain stood the island’s temple, its administrative heart, and the acropolis where the people lived in modest homes.”

“The plain itself sat like a basin, ringed by mountain chains. Other parts of the island were higher still—ridges and plateaus towering over that fertile bowl. And to the south lay a lake, dividing the lowlands from the highlands. Scattered around that lake were clusters of small islands, used as stepping-stones between lands.”

“What an enchanting island,” Teresa murmured. Sara shot her a knowing glance.

“Wait until I tell you about the Acropolis. That’s when you’ll be enchanted.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice like someone about to reveal a secret.

“From the center of the hill, three concentric canals were carved outward toward the southern mountain range. A vertical canal stretched straight from the center to the sea. The ships arriving at the island could sail through these channels and reach the very heart of the Acropolis. For that age, this wasn’t just brilliant—it solved the greatest logistical problem of ancient societies: transport.”

“That’s extraordinary,” Teresa said. “And imagine the view from above—those circular waterways, homes neatly arranged between them, gardens, greenery... It must have looked like paradise. No wonder people claimed Eden was in Atlantis.”

“You’re close,” Sara replied, raising a finger. “But Eden wasn’t on the Acropolis. According to the texts, it lay by the great plain in the east. Whether that’s true or not… we don’t know.”

Teresa nodded, thinking. “That circular architecture reminds me of mosque domes—and even the Capitol in Washington. Maybe designers echoed the same idea. Though, honestly, such aesthetics don’t need ancient inspiration. They’re simply beautiful.”

“Perhaps coincidence,” Sara conceded. “But I doubt you’ll call the next part a coincidence.”

The brightness in Teresa’s eyes betrayed her curiosity. Sara noticed, and continued with a hushed enthusiasm, as if speaking forbidden lore.

“Atlanteans believed that the world was divided among gods. Atlantis fell to Poseidon—the god of the sea. He descended from the sky to the earth. You find a similar story with the goddess Ishtar. Ancient pagan peoples believed she fell to earth inside a colossal egg. Christian culture adopted the symbol—Easter eggs, brightly painted, celebrating resurrection. Pagan myths of gods descending from the heavens were everywhere.”

She paused, watching Teresa’s reaction.

“When Paul preached in Ephesus, the locals worshipped a goddess named Diana. They drove Paul out, defending the sacred statue they believed had fallen from the sky. Scripture records it. And, here is something even more intriguing: Muslims, during pilgrimage, visit the Kaaba—inside which lies the Black Stone, believed to have fallen from paradise in the time of Abraham.”

Sara leaned back, letting the implications settle.

“So tell me—if we gather all of this together… are those who claim that the Abrahamic religions inherited myths and rituals from ancient paganism right?”

Years ago, during that enigmatic investigation in Italy, Teresa had faced a similar question.

“I’m familiar with this,” she said, and began speaking.

“First, let’s correct a common mistake: the belief in one God—monotheism—did not begin with the three Abrahamic religions. In fact, it existed long before the earliest of them: Judaism. Both the Torah and the Qur’an mention figures who lived long before Judah, son of Jacob—figures like Abraham, Lot, Idris, Hud, Seth, Noah. And both texts describe Adam as humankind’s first prophet.”

“All of them,” she continued, “preached one God. It’s clear from their narratives that monotheism predates every organized religion we recognize today.”

“So, when people suggest that the idea of one God emerged late, as a cultural evolution of pagan myth—it’s either ignorance, or an attempt to promote the idea that belief in God is merely a product of myth-building.”

She leaned back, letting her words settle.

“And let me give you something from Atlantis lore itself. Correct me if I’m wrong: the story says Zeus divided the earth among gods, and Atlantis was given to Poseidon. Poseidon descended and taught the primitive people living there. He led them into settled life—teaching them to build homes, to design cities like the one you just described.”

“He taught them how to make food from grains, how to graft wild trees, how to plant vegetables and fruits, how to harvest. And he taught them moral virtues—equality, justice, compassion, mutual respect.”

“He established laws to punish wrongdoing and preserve fairness.”

She gave a faint smile.

“All of this mirrors what prophets are said to have done. According to sacred texts, prophets didn’t just say ‘worship God.’ They sought to civilize their societies—to shape economic, social, and political life so that people might live in peace.”

Sara nodded slowly.

“The ancient sources do mention advances in agriculture, so I can’t dismiss what you’re saying as mere religious preaching. But what’s your point? How do these ideas connect to Atlantis?”

Teresa smiled back, her eyes narrowing with quiet anticipation.

“Even if I cannot prove it, I argue that the figure known as the god of the sea, Poseidon, was in fact a prophet of God. His actions mirror the revolutions brought by the prophets to their communities—material, moral, and intellectual.

And consider the well-known story of Abel and Qabil. After Qabil murdered Abel, he fled with his children, distancing himself from Adam. Yet eventually, by some means, those descendants must have been reached, and the belief in God must have been conveyed to them.

If, before Poseidon, the native people of Atlantis were savage and devoid of moral values, and if the island flourished—materially and spiritually—only after his arrival, then it is reasonable to suggest that Poseidon came to educate the children of Qabil.

But as with every righteous guide, time and corruption intervened. Through the deliberate efforts of certain human devils, and the ignorance of later generations, Poseidon was elevated from mentor to deity. A tragedy repeated throughout history.

Look at the people of Noah: towering idols carved in the likeness of men. According to some credible traditions, these statues represented wise men—perhaps even prophets—who had once uplifted their community. At first, statues were built out of love, as a reminder of their virtue, as a symbol to preserve their teachings.

But later generations abandoned remembrance and turned to worship—believing the statues were not signs of wisdom, but its very source.”

Sara cut in, pushing her thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, a skeptical glint in her eyes.
“Are you suggesting that deifying a human is that easy?”

Teresa leaned forward, voice low and edged with irony.
“Are you sure you want to ask that? Even in the so-called pinnacle of civilization, I can name countless examples. Look at those who claim, ‘If it weren’t for this leader, we would have no faith, no freedom, no homeland,’ and then cloak him in sanctity. Tell me—what do we call them?”

Sara frowned.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Not a person—people,” Teresa replied. She swept her right hand through the air as if wiping dust from an invisible surface.

“But let’s not confuse the matter,” she added, her tone tightening. “There is a difference between honoring leaders, saints, and ascetics who devoted their lives to peace and truth—and elevating them into gods.”

She turned to Sara.

“Do you know what Poseidon looked like?”

“There’s a drawing believed to depict him,” Sara answered. “A man—human—carrying a staff with three prongs, white beard, dark hair.”

Teresa’s eyes spoke before her lips did. She didn’t need a lecture. She only looked at Sara with a faint, knowing expression that said, You just admitted he was a human being.

“To summarize,” she continued, leaning back with a weary scholar’s certainty,
“The belief that the Black Stone in the Kaaba descended from paradise traces back to the time of Adam. According to tradition, when Adam was expelled from heaven and sent to earth, God sent angels with a celestial pavilion for him. The Black Stone—then a white ruby—was part of that sanctuary.

I believe pagan civilizations imitated this myth—creating their own tales of divine stones, falling eggs, descended deities. Still, it is also possible that certain pagan rites and customs seeped into monotheistic practice later, detached from their original theology.

For example, pagans performed rituals on specific days. When they accepted monotheism, the dates remained—only the object of worship changed. What matters is that those rites are performed for God, not for gods, and in accordance with divine revelation.”

Sara pressed her fists under her chin like a chess master contemplating her next move.
“What I’m curious about is this: how do we know that stone in the Kaaba descended from heaven at all? If I don’t believe that, am I a heretic?”

Teresa smiled faintly, as if she had been waiting for that question all along.

“That is precisely the point I’m trying to make. According to Muslim scholars, believing that the stone is sacred is not part of the core creed. What matters is belief in the six pillars of faith. The heavenly origin of the stone is a detail—a narrative around the margins.

Even Caliph Umar said, ‘It is merely a stone,’ and that the only reason Muslims honor it is because the Prophet honored it. No Muslim believes the stone is a fragment of God, or a divine entity in itself—unlike pagan traditions, where objects were treated as literal embodiments of the divine.”

Sara and Teresa were nearing the end of their theological chess match. “All right then,” Sara said. “Let me ask you this, Teresa: if God is everywhere, and one can worship Him from any place, why do we have structures like the Kaaba—places that appeal to form? Doesn’t this conflict with the idea that inward devotion matters more than outward ritual?”

Teresa exhaled slowly, as if she were releasing memories she had long buried. She was, according to rumor, something between myth and anomaly—raised under both the Christian and Islamic traditions, taught the details of both the Qur’an and the Scriptures, and later dissecting them with a scalpel sharpened by reason and contemplation.

Yet there was one detail people always misunderstood: No member of their order ever identified as Christian or Muslim. They defined themselves only as believers in the singular message carried by Jesus, Muhammad, and every prophet before them: the oneness of God.

They would never utter a sentence that insulted Christians or Muslims. But their relentless study of divine texts and history had made them aware—painfully aware—of centuries of distortion, superstition, and theological decay.

Still, they never voiced conclusions directly. They would simply say, “Study it yourself—reach your own verdict.”

And despite what outsiders imagined, they never demanded a new religion, nor a reformist sect, nor a spiritual revolution. They lived among their communities, unnoticed, unthreatening—because, as they often said,

God knows the heart. That is enough.

Teresa noticed the way Sara was looking at her—curious, skeptical, almost accusatory.
A look that whispered, What are you? Your name is Christian, yet you understand Islam better than most Muslims. Who are you to explain their sacred rituals?

Teresa hesitated. For a brief moment, doubt flickered in her eyes. But she trusted Sara: she was not one to twist words into weapons.

So Teresa began her answer cautiously, with the kind of humility that only the deeply informed can afford:

“As far as I understand…”

“In religion, what truly matters is that human beings turn their hearts toward God— that they know Him as He ought to be known, and that they feel themselves as mere servants standing in His presence.

There is no contradiction in reaching this purpose through outward rituals. Prayers, liturgies—whatever you call them— offer an escape from a world choked by work, money, and survival.

Think of them as frequency-shifters, pulling the soul toward the magnetic presence of the Divine. When believers travel to Mecca or Jerusalem, when they stand before a holy site, they are reminded of God’s majesty—a reminder desperately needed in a world poisoned by pride, vanity, and selfishness.

Muslims believe a beam of light rises from the Kaaba toward the heavens, and that by turning toward that light, they stand before their Creator.

Yes, the Kaaba is covered in black silk; yes, it has been destroyed and rebuilt several times;
yes, people can even enter it; yes, workers sometimes climb onto its roof. They respect its form, but its physical structure is nowhere near as sacred to them as its spiritual meaning.”

Sara—whose mother was Muslim—remembered certain conversations in her family,
remarks about prayer that never sat well with her.

“In Islam there is balance—avoiding excess and deficiency,” she said.
“It is a grave mistake to reject prayer under the excuse that only sincerity matters. How can a believer deny a practice God explicitly commands? But the opposite is also true: to reduce prayer to mere bending and standing—to feel no love, no humility, no justice,
and to call that numbness normal—that too is a distortion.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment there was unspoken danger in the silence— the kind of silence where a theological debate can turn into an interrogation.

Teresa laughed abruptly, as if breaking a tension neither had acknowledged.

“How the hell did we end up here?

Atlantis, the Vatican, Mecca—what kind of map are we drawing?”

Sara smirked.

“I was just about to drift through the canals of the Acropolis on a boat,
and you dragged me back with your ‘Poseidon was actually a prophet’ theory.”

She stood, crossed the room, and reached for a book on an upper shelf.
She dropped it onto the table with a soft thud.

It was Robert Somest’s The Discovery of Atlantis.

“Some of what you told me earlier is mentioned in this book,” Sara said, tapping the cover.
“But what I really want to show you is the topographic map he produced using specially designed sonar systems—of the sea floor around Cyprus.”

She paused—measuring Teresa’s attention—then continued.

“Without drowning you in technical details:
If we descend roughly sixteen hundred meters below the current sea level, we discover that Cyprus was once connected to Syria and to Turkey’s southern coast. The entire arc of the Cypriot ridge would have been exposed above water.

Look at the Taurus Mountains in Turkey—how they run parallel to the mountains in the north of Cyprus. Rainfall between both ranges, and rivers that now carve their way through the Taurus and vanish into the Mediterranean, would have once collected in basins between them.

This means the northern boundaries of Atlantis were surrounded by water,
and only a narrow eastern corridor remained connected to Syria.

In other words, the half-island shape, the lake, the vast rectangular plain, the freshwater sources, and the scattered islands along the arc—all of it matches Plato’s geographic  description of Atlantis.”

Teresa leaned back, eyes half-closed, absorbing the picture.
“So you’re saying there was once a magnificent island here—advanced, powerful, civilized. Fine. But what happened? What drowned it?”

“Earthquakes. Volcanoes,” Sara answered, almost automatically.

Teresa cut her off.
“That’s the predictable answer. But catastrophe on that scale feels too… casual to dismiss so quickly.”

Sara frowned.
“If you’d let me finish—”

She opened the book, turning to a marked page.

“Geological studies indicate that thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of years ago, the Strait of Gibraltar didn’t exist. Africa and Europe were fused there, forming a natural barrier.The Atlantic lay beyond it. The Mediterranean basin—on this side—was empty. Bone-dry.”

She ran her finger across the illustration—a desert where a sea should be.

“The salt layers on the seabed are evidence of that ancient drought, that desertification. Then, something violent happened. An earthquake—massive, apocalyptic—shattered the barrier. The Atlantic poured in. Not as a trickle, but as a deluge.”

Teresa whispered, almost involuntarily:
“A biblical flood.”

“Exactly. A real one,” Sara said.
“And it annihilated most of Atlantis.The fossils found in Cyprus, the flood myths in Persia, Egypt, Greece—they all trace back to the same trauma. Plato wasn’t writing poetry. Something catastrophic happened here. And Atlantis took the impact.”

Teresa had heard that islands sometimes sank beneath violent earthquakes, only for their peaks to resurface centuries later. She had read of similar cycles in the southern coasts of Italy. She gave a brief, sardonic laugh:

“We might as well call the Mediterranean a sea that births islands only to drown them again.”

She remembered a myth tied to Atlantis and asked:

“They say the Garden of Eden was once here, swallowed by the sea. Some claim it existed on earth; others insist its true form remains in heaven. Even the Old Testament leaves traces: ‘And the tree of life was in the midst of the garden; and a river went out of Eden to water the garden, and from there it parted and became four heads.’ (Genesis 2:9–10)”

Sara waved her hand dismissively.

“Forget Eden. Think about what caused the flood we’re trying to explain through science and history.”

Teresa didn’t fully catch her words. All she understood was that Sara was focused on the flood. She was about to speak when her phone rang, its sharp tone slicing through the silence.

The university secretary’s voice was urgent: there would be an emergency meeting.

Without hesitation, Teresa stood and walked out, forcing her mind to reboot, clearing away myth and speculation, preparing for the list of crises waiting behind a conference room door.