Ttak—takk—tikkk.
The sound of keys became a small metronome in the dim apartment high above the city. A desk lamp cast warm light across a spotless wooden surface: laptop in the center, coffee on the right, notebook on the left. On the wall, shelves stood in strict order—biographies of scientists, interfaith commentaries, Eastern and Western philosophy, "serious but skeptical" conspiracy books, programming manuals, and weathered fantasy novels.
Brian Brightveil sat upright, posture disciplined. His fingers danced across the keyboard, shifting between Java, Python, and PostgreSQL with practiced ease.
"If life is code," he muttered without looking up, "then fate is just a tricky test case."
He smirked.
On the monitor,
a Java record flickered:
Copy code
Java
public record UserTask(UUID id, String title, int priority) {}
var task = new UserTask(UUID.randomUUID(), "Finalize report", 5);
if (task.priority() < 1 || task.priority() > 5) {
throw new IllegalArgumentException("Priority out of range");
}
Run. All green.
Brian tapped the desk lightly, satisfied.
"If debugging were this easy," he chuckled, "life would be unbearably boring."
His apartment was spotless—no paper out of line, no mug left unwashed. For Brian, order wasn't obsession. It was respect for time.
A notification blinked. From Noel, his junior at work.
Lord Brightveil, this humble servant is stuck at endpoint /sync 🤺 Please enlighten me.
Brian shook his head,
replying quickly:
Check the Auth header. Don't use the old bearer token. And commit small, commit often. The world doesn't collapse because of big bugs, but because of giant PRs.
Reply came instantly:
Set! Long live Brightveil's banner!
Brian closed the laptop, grabbed his gym bag, and stretched.
"Work to eat. Train to live." His mantra, every day.
Gym — Sparring Session
The gym was three buildings away. The smell of rubber, chalk, and metal filled the air. EDM pulsed faintly through the speakers.
Brian wrapped his hands, skipped rope, and began shadowboxing.
Jab, cross, slip, low kick. Efficient, controlled, precise.
The heavy bag swung in wait.
Bam! Bam! Jab–cross–hook–pivot.
Tak! Tak! Tak! Compact, sharp combinations.
"Rasengan—ah, canceled," he muttered. "Just a straight punch, mortal."
A couple of trainees chuckled. Brian's random anime lines never felt awkward—they somehow loosened the room.
A stocky man approached: Caleb, a local pro MMA fighter. His sharp gaze kept most people at bay—except Brian.
"Enough with the bag?" Caleb raised an eyebrow. "Light spar?"
"'Light' is relative," Brian grinned. "Loser buys roasted chicken."
Caleb smirked. "Deal."
They climbed into the ring. Mouthguards in, 16oz gloves strapped. Coach tapped the ropes. "Go."
The invisible bell rang. Brian crouched, tapped gloves—respect—and they began.
Caleb pressed forward with tight jabs. Brian slipped narrowly, countering with a restrained cross—just a warning. Caleb adjusted, circling. A hook whistled by, Brian rolled under, rising with a clean uppercut. Not heavy, but crisp.
"Ha!" Caleb's eyes lit up. "Again!"
The sparring grew sharper. Caleb shot for a double-leg takedown. Brian sprawled, stuffed it, turned, then let go—choosing not to capitalize.
"Why didn't you finish?" Caleb asked, breath heavy.
"Because this is training, not war," Brian said calmly. "A system learns best from edge cases, not by exploiting one bug."
Caleb laughed aloud. "Philosophy again."
"This time it's engineering.
Coach strolled over, stroking his mustache. "Brightveil, ever thought of going pro? Your timing's too clean for a desk jockey."
Brian slipped his mouthguard out, smiling.
"I work for bread, Coach. And I live for books."
"Strange answer," Coach muttered. But his eyes showed respect.
Caleb slapped Brian's back. "Chicken after the shower."
"Add rice. I'm no elf."
Night — Silence
Later, hoodie damp with sweat, Brian walked home under the streetlights, reading a battered copy of Meditations.
"All that follows nature… follows the greater plan," he whispered.
He looked at the faint stars above the city. "Then what's my nature?"
His stomach growled. He chuckled. "Even an empty vessel needs filling."
At home, he cooked noodles with eggs and vegetables. Cleaned the dishes immediately. Order, always.
Back at his desk, three terminals blinked:
Java: a small refactor.
Python: analytic utilities.
SQL: temporary dashboards.
His notes read:
"Reality's joints can bend if you understand the rules. But some rules exist to be honored, not bent."
An email popped up: Reminder – Project Deadline Tomorrow 5PM.
Brian stared at it. Tomorrow wasn't just a deadline. It was his last day at work. His calendar block read: END OF ROUTINE (START OF REAL).
He pulled out an old paper notebook: Small Hypotheses for a Big World.
Premise: Freedom is not absence of rules. Freedom is choosing which rules to obey—consciously.
Experiment: Limiting functions to three lines keeps my thinking sharp.
Question: If the cosmos has a coding standard, who signed it across worlds?
The desk lamp dimmed. The city buzzed, but it felt far away. Sleep drew near.
Hint — Whisper of the Altar
Then—something slipped in.
A voice, not of any known language,
crawling like threads of light.
…Aš-tîl… Ma-ra… En-ûm…
In his mind's eye: an ancient octagonal altar. Floating above it, a black book—its cover like compressed night sky, stars slowly shifting across its surface.
Symbols streamed into the air. Too precise for handwriting. Too alive for machines.
The voice boomed suddenly, echoing like a cavern:
—K-H-A-L … A R-Û … S E M-E-N—
Brian jolted awake, sweat cold on his temple. He grabbed his pen,
scribbling furiously:
Dream #8 this month: Altar. Black book. Unknown symbols.
Voice—low, chant-like, not prayer.
Phonetics: Ash-til / Ma-ra / En-um / Khal / Arru / Semen.
Feeling—not fear. More like… being called to recognize.
He paused. The last line made no rational sense, yet felt sharper than hallucination.
Brian stood at the window. The city lights flickered below.
"If life is code," he whispered, "maybe there's a repository we still don't have access to."
A faint smile touched his lips. Not joy, not fear—just the look of someone who had found the thread of a greater weave.
He switched off the lamp, tidied his desk, and lay under the blanket.
Before sleep returned, a memory from Meditations surfaced:
"What comes to you, comes because it must be faced. What leaves, leaves because its time is over."
"Alright," Brian murmured. "Tomorrow… the end of routine. Then we'll see what waits beyond the altar."