Бесплатный фрагмент - Light between worlds: Where time disappears

PROLOGUE: FOR BOOK TWO

“The true journey begins not with a step, but with the moment when the need to know where you are going disappears.” — From the Message of the Silent Ones.

You do not remember how you got here.

You only know that everything was before — and something awaits after.

The silence here is not empty.

It is a living fabric, woven from voices that you do not yet distinguish.

You pass through doors, but you do not open them.

They swing open on their own when your frequency coincides with the Truth. There is no time here.

Only the echo of the choices you have already made — or will make.

You are not alone. You have never been alone.

You have simply forgotten the sound of the Song that has always guided you — through bodies, through lives, through stars and through fear.

You are at the Gates of Manna. This is not a place.

This is the vibration of return.

If you are ready, the Gate will answer.

Not to let you in.

But to remember that you have always been on the other side.

ANNOTATION

This is not a story about the future.

And not about the past.

This is a story about what sounds inside you right now, if you dare to hear it.

Jan Kowalski, a man with an ordinary name and an extraordinary destiny, one day awakens — not from sleep, but from oblivion of the essence. His path passes through silence, flame, the song of water and the deep call of the Earth. He does not fight, does not preach, does not save. He remembers — and thereby ignites others.

Guides appear on his path — children, elders, silent souls, elemental bearers of the Song. Together they restore the lost atonement between man and the World. They do not create something new. They help to return to what has always been: to the sound that connects us all.

“Light Between Worlds” is not just a novel. It is a vibration that penetrates the heart. It is a reminder that the Truth does not scream. It sounds quietly, like an inner voice that we so rarely allow to speak.

If you have ever felt that the world is alive, that you are not alone, that there is something more than roles, fears and noise — then this Song is already in you.

A parable novel, a metaphysical fantasy and a mystical message for those who are looking not for answers, but for meaning.

The story of Jan Kowalski has not ended.

It has simply changed the space.

PART ONE. “Seed of Light: The Beginning of the Great Return”

Chapter I — Mannaron. City of Light

“Cities are not just walls and streets, but reflections of the souls of those who created them. And when the soul shines, the walls begin to sing.” — From the treatise of Elder Celaria, Temple of Light, 1st century AD

Mannaron awoke like a living being, a giant breathing the golden light of the morning sun. The air gardens on the roofs of the sanctuaries shimmered with dew, and transparent spheres hovered above the central square — messages from the Sky Sages.

The streets were paved with white-silver quartz, on which walked not only people, but also dreams that had strayed from their heavenly orbits.

On the high balcony of the Council Citadel stood he — Jan Kowalski, Duke of Light of the Kingdom of Mann, the Warrior Whose Seal Reborn the Realm.

His gaze was directed into the distance, beyond the horizon, where the clouds parted like inviting gates to other worlds.

Twenty-one days had passed since the Great Ceremony of the Rebirth of the Kingdom of Manna had ended. The city was flourishing, but in Yan’s heart — a restlessness was being born again. It was not anxiety, not fear, but a call. Deep, ancient, almost forgotten.

“Do you hear that?” he asked his companion, the Oracle Ariara. The old man, dressed in a snow-white robe with golden threads, only smiled softly:

— It is not the ears that hear. It is the soul that remembers. You are entering the next circle, Jan of the Kingdom of Mann. The worlds await you.

He did not sleep that night. In a dream or in reality — it was hard to tell — he found himself again at the Temple of the Winds, on the edge of the mountain plateau where the Abyss breathed. From the depths rose an airship, made not of metal, but of light, of the pulsation of matter itself.

Its steering wheel turned by itself, and above the hull there flickered an inscription in the ancient language of Lemur: Id es vocem stellarum — This is the call of the stars.

Jan woke up with the last echo of this phrase on his lips.

He knew it was an invitation. It was the gate of Mann.

At dawn, surrounded by the Elders of the Order and the Guardians of the Portals, he arrived at the Circle of Ascension, a place where the air was thinner and time flowed according to its own laws. There, among the columns entwined with crystal vines, stood the Key-Lighthouse, built back in the days of Proto -Mann.

When Yan approached and touched the symbol of Unity, the portal came to life. A whirlwind of air rushed over the arena, and a passage opened in the sky, soft as the breath of the Great Mother. Ancient constellations, long erased from earthly maps, flared up above Yan.

One by one, his mentors appeared before him, including Nilu T’Arana from the Ethereum and the young Seer Sael from the dimension of Miranda.

All of them were connected with his past, present and future.

Their voices sounded as one:

— You have passed the first great stage.

But beyond the light of this world there is other Knowledge.

It was time to hear the Call. And he stepped.

— It is not the ears that hear. It is the soul that remembers. You are entering the path destined for you by the stars, Jan. A path full of dangers and discoveries,

— Ariara’s voice sounded like the rustling of ancient scrolls full of secrets.

— Do you feel the calling? The calling of an ancient power sleeping beneath the earth of Mannaron?

Ian nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.

The Great Ceremony that rebuilt Mannaron from ruin left behind not only a shining city, but also a sense of fragility, like thin ice on the surface of a bottomless abyss.

He felt that this power that Ariar spoke of was not simply dormant.

She was awakening, and he was the key to her release, or her imprisonment.

Ariar raised his hand, and a thin, shimmering light appeared on his palm, similar to that which emanated from the celestial spheres above the central square.

The light pulsed, reminiscent of a heartbeat.

“The power slumbered within the Crystal Heart,” the Oracle whispered.

— An artifact lost a thousand years ago.

His power is capable of both bringing Mannaron back to life and turning him to dust.

Your call, Jan, is a call from the Heart itself.

It’s calling you.

Ian clenched his fists. He remembered the legends of the Crystal Heart, stories passed down from generation to generation like fairy tales.

Now they seemed like prophecies that were about to be fulfilled.

He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a stone slab.

He is not just the Duke of Light of the Sovereign Kingdom of Manna; he is the guardian of Mannaron’s fate.

“Where can I find him?” Jan asked, his voice hoarse with tension.

— Legends point to the Forbidden Valley,

— Ariar answered, his eyes shining with an unusual gleam.

— A place scorched by the power of ancient wars.

A place where the boundaries between worlds are erased, where reality intertwines with illusions.

The way there will be dangerous, Jan.

Traps, monsters and ghosts of the past await you.

But only you can find the Crystal Heart.

Ariar took out from his bosom a small, skillfully carved wooden amulet depicting a stylized sun.

— This amulet will help you find the way.

It will show you the direction, but it will not protect you from danger.

Your strength, Jan, is your faith and courage.

Ian took the amulet, feeling warmth spread through his chest.

Before him stretched Mannaron, the city of light, the city of hope.

But beyond its glittering walls, the Forbidden Valley awaited him, full of secrets and threats.

He knew he could not give up this path.

The call of the Crystal Heart was too strong, too real.

He is the Duke of Light, the Warrior Whose Seal Revived the Sovereign Kingdom of Manna, and he must fulfill his destiny.

Even at the cost of his own life.

His heart beat in unison with the flickering light of the amulet, ready to accept the challenge of fate.

He turned to Ariaru, his gaze full of determination:

— Will you lead me, Oracle?

Chapter II — THE KEEPERS OF THE FIVE STONES

“We do not seek truth in the future. We seek it in the dust, in the scars of the earth, and in the voices lost between the layers of time.”

— from the Codex of the Field Order of Manna, Volume I

High in the hills of the Zalivan Valley of the Kingdom of Manna, where the wind tears the petals of time from the cliffs, a team of archaeologists set up camp. The team of archaeologists was led by Jan Kowalski — not as a warrior, not as a prophet, but as a researcher of forgotten meanings.

He stood before the bare wall of the rock temple. The sun played on the polished basalt, and under Jan’s fingers the stone trembled — not from the wind, but from memory.

“These are not just artifacts,” he said, looking at the handprint carved into the stone.

— It is… an imprint of thought, a sacrifice made by time.

Dr. Saida Alem, an expert on pre-Iranian civilizations, approached with a tablet.

— The inscription matches the Haldi temple. It is possible that this is one of the forgotten centers of worship. Local legends call this place “Heart of God”.

“Who was God?” asked the young intern with shining eyes.

“Not ‘who,’” Jan corrected.

They descended into an underground hall where the walls were covered with familiar and unfamiliar symbols.

Among them are images of a warrior with winged sandals and a woman holding out a glowing vessel.

— This seems to be Nanaia, the goddess of heavenly waters and memory,

— said Saida.

— Her name is also found among the Babylonians.

“But here,” Jan ran his hand along the crack,

— her vessel is broken.

This is a story in which the truth has been lost.

At dawn they found a clay cylinder — sealed like a time vessel. It took a day to decipher. The inscription read:

“In the name of the light kept beneath the stone, we vow not to let oblivion eat the vow. Haldi is our sword, Nanaia is our vessel, and Memory is our temple.”

Jan peered at the symbols. He recognized the outline of one of the most ancient signs — an inverted spiral of light, similar to the coat of arms of the Order of Manna. Only much older.

— “It was their Testament,” he whispered.

— We are not building a new Order. We are… restoring an ancient one.

That day, the team recorded more than twenty unique artifacts.

But the main discovery was not the stone, not the metal, not the name. The main thing was the understanding: the Mannai culture had not disappeared. It hid in the song of the stone, in the symbols, and waited to be heard.

— We’re not just researching,

— said Jan by the evening fire.

— We become the Voice of their Silence.

And above the camp tent, illuminated by the dim light of the lamp, a shadow seemed to flash — not of the past, but of Memory, awaiting recognition.

Chapter III — IMAGES THAT CAME DOWN FROM THE STONE: THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE MANNAI FAITH.

“The gods that have been forgotten have not disappeared — they wait. Their shadows live in the clay, their breath in the cracks of the temples, and their voice in the silence of the figurines.” — from the notes of Professor El-Hakim, “Temple of the Song of Stone” expedition

When the Order’s team set up camp at the foot of the ancient plateau where the Mannai once lived, the air was already thick with silent knowledge. It was a place where no one spoke — but everything spoke for itself.

They stood before the ruins of a sanctuary, with a cracked altar in the center. Around them were fragments of columns, traces of ancient masonry, and on the ground were figurines. Some were baked clay, others bronze, a few carved stone. All were embodiments of something greater than form.

“These weren’t just images,” Saida said, carefully picking up a statue of a man with a lion’s head.

— These were carriers of meaning. Symbols embedded in matter.

Many of the finds were repeated: a man with a horned headdress; a woman with a cup, half-covered by a veil; hybrid creatures with wings and fangs guarding the entrance to temples.

Almost all of them had clear gestures: the hand was raised up, the fingers were brought together in a special way. These were not random poses. This was the ritual language of the gods.

“Here is Haldi,” said Jan, pointing to a figurine with a sword and a lion.

— But, most likely, Nanaia is the goddess of memory and waters. But the images are distorted. Perhaps they reflect a late stage of the cult.

— Or these are… personal images. Faith is not always canonical, — added El-Hakim.

— There is always a person living in ceramics.

They found clay vessels with embossed signs — circles, lines, similar to solar and lunar symbols.

One of the vessels was filled with ashes and dried petals: perhaps it was a vessel for sacrifice or aromatic resins.

On another vessel is a scene of a man kneeling before a creature whose head is either a bull or the sun. And above the entire scene is a symbol resembling an inverted spiral, previously seen in the temple of Ulu-Miranda.

“Look,” Saida put the lens to her eye.

— This is a sign of the Transition. In the Mannai culture, the transition to the deity symbolized not death, but the expansion of consciousness.

At a depth of two meters, they came across a collection of seals. On one of them is a scene with three figures. All are holding vessels, and above them are three stars. This could be an image of three priestesses or divine guardians of light.

Each find raised new questions. Why do some figures have huge eyes, while others have none at all? Why do some smile, while others are tense, as if in pain? These details held secrets that even the dusty wind remained silent about.

— “We may not be looking at images of gods,” Jan said.

— And on people who became saints. Or on the idea itself, how a person turns into a symbol.

By the end of the day, they had collected two dozen figurines and more than a hundred fragments. Jan wrote in his diary:

“Each statue is a prayer frozen in time. They were not mass-produced. They were imprints of faith.

This is the soul of the people of Manna, speaking to the future through form.”

As the expedition returned to camp, the sky above the plateau turned copper. It seemed as if the Earth itself blessed their touch.

The figures — small, crooked, broken in places — lay on the fabric like relics. But a new story was already shining in them.

A story that needed to be heard.

Chapter IY — LIVING GODS: ART AND FAITH OF THE MANNAIS.

“The gods could not be seen. But they could be felt — in the touch of a vessel, in the smell of incense, in the curve of a line on a figurine. Art was not a reflection, but a manifestation of the sacred.” — from “Treatise on the Ancient Visible”, Academy of the World-Shadow, fragment II

They entered the hall late at night. The light from the lanterns reflected off the polished stone slabs, and the shadows from the columns resembled the figures of gods frozen in prayer. Jan ran his hand along the wall, where traces of colorful ornamentation still remained.

“The gods were not in heaven here,” he said quietly.

— They lived in ritual.

A team of archaeologists discovered a niche full of fragments of figurines: a woman with a cup, a warrior with a raised sword, strange creatures with bull heads and wings. There was even a figure that had no face, but on its chest there was a circle with a triangle inside. It was not an image of a body, but a symbol of strength.

“In Mannai culture, the boundaries between art and faith were blurred,” said Saida, studying a bronze statuette with an embossed crown.

— They did not depict gods. They evoked them with form.

Day after day they found vessels with incense residue, bones of sacrificial animals, musical instruments, and even wall inscriptions dedicated to the gods:

“Let Nanaia hear the breath of the morning star.”

“Khaldi, strengthen the hand of the king and turn away the face of death.”

Among the finds was one particularly strange one: a figurine depicting a human figure in a meditative pose, but with eyes covered not by eyelids but by mica plates.

“This is a priest-seer,” El-Hakim suggested.

— He doesn’t look out. He looks inside the ritual.

An engraving depicting the festival was found in the sanctuary: figures holding wreaths, vessels, and musical instruments.

Everything pointed to cult seasonal holidays — not only in honor of the gods, but also in honor of the renewal of life itself.

“They weren’t just praying,” Jan said.

— They lived in dialogue with their gods: through dance, fire, ashes and wine.

One of the seals depicted a woman with many arms. Each held a symbol: a sword, a fruit, a bird, a cup. No text explained her name. But the team called her the Great Binder — perhaps she was the personification of faith itself.

And yet… much remained unclear.

“We don’t have enough texts,” Jan said.

— But perhaps we have the main thing — the impression of the spirit. It is more accurate than words.

In the evening, sitting by the fire, he wrote in his diary:

“The Mannai did not live among the statues. They lived with those whom the statues called. Their art was prayer. Their rituals were the breath of the universe. Their faith was the fabric of everyday life. The gods did not reign among them — they were guests and mirrors.”

A star was rising above the camp, and the wind carried with it the smell of ancient dust and pine smoke. Saida said in a low voice:

— You know, Jan… I think that every gesture of theirs, every vessel, every ornament is not a story about God, but a path to Him.

He nodded. Art and religion were not categories among the Mannais.

They were one breath.

Chapter Y — STONE INSTEAD OF SCRIPTURE: TRACES OF THE SACRED.

“Where there is no book, the vessel speaks. Where there is no word, metal sings. God does not always need an alphabet to be heard.” — from the field diary of Jan Kowalski, expedition “Plain of Distant Faces”

They did not find a single book. Not a papyrus, not a tablet, not a scroll.

But everything around spoke. Spoke silently.

“The Mannai did not write scriptures,” Jan said, standing at the base of the ruined temple.

— They smelted faith in bronze, baked it in clay, carved it in stone.

Saida picked up a bronze seal from the dust, depicting a bow, a bird, and a wave. Her fingers trembled with the feeling that she held the key to a prayer that had long since died down.

In the tent, by the fire, they laid out artifacts: figurines, vessels, jewelry, weapons. But not as exhibits. But as letters of a forgotten language.

“Here is the Scripture for you,” said El-Hakim.

— Just not for the eyes. But for touch.

They found a bronze statuette of a woman with raised arms and a crown inlaid with stone.

Jan nodded silently:

— Prayer. No text. No sound. Just a gesture.

The next morning they went down to the basement of the sanctuary. There lay a vessel with engraved signs.

Three circles, one inside the other, and inside is the sign of a tree.

— It is a symbol of transition. The myth is not written in words. It is preserved in form and rhythm.

Saida added:

— For them, it seems, the form was the text, and the gesture was the line.

In other cultures — Assyria, Babylonia — there were texts, codes, hymns.

The Mannaevs had stone, metal and fire. They did not write history.

They embodied it in objects, in rituals, in temple architecture.

And this was their peculiarity.

“Maybe they knew the word was dying,” Jan said.

— But the gesture remains.

Perhaps they were not forgotten, but too profound to be read in the usual way.

That day, the team sketched hundreds of objects: knives, seals, pins, bowls, bronze rings. Some clearly had a ritual purpose.

Others were personal amulets, like diaries without words.

Each object is a page of the invisible Book of Light, which can be entered — but only if the heart remembers how to read in silence.

Late at night, Jan wrote:

“The Mannai had no Scripture. But they left a Testament. In every vessel, in every figurine, in every curve of the blade — the imprint of Dialogue. They spoke to the world in a language that cannot be translated — only heard by the soul.”

Chapter VI — BETWEEN EMPIRES: THE MANNAI AND THEIR WAY

“They were not an empire. But empires looked at them with alarm. Their strength was that they stood between — not to the left, not to the right, but at the edge of time.” — from the field notes of the expedition “Manna — Invisible Kingdom”

At dawn, Jan stood on the ridge, looking down into the valley where, according to legend, the ancient city of Manna lay. All that remained of it were hills, over which mist swirled in the morning light — the centuries-old dust of history, unwilling to dissolve.

— We walk on the land where the fate of the region was once decided,

— El-Hakim said.

— And all that remains is silence and copper shards.

The kingdom of Manna, they discovered, was not a great empire — but a focal point between Assyria, Urartu and Media.

They were surrounded by predators, but did not become prey.

“They didn’t have huge palaces,” added Saida.

— But there were mountains. And persistence.

In excavations near Tala Bahur, the team found the remains of a fortification wall made of basalt.

On one of the slabs there is an inscription in an unknown dialect of the ancient Iranian language:

“Here begins what cannot be conquered.”

This has become the motto of the entire current Sovereign Kingdom of Manna.

The Mannai was able to maintain balance — they fought with the Assyrians, but sometimes became their allies. They defended themselves against the Urartians, but adopted their architectural styles.

They did not seek to conquer. They sought to preserve themselves.

“Perhaps that was their mission,” Jan said.

— Be a boundary, not a power.

They were both farmers and warriors. Their army was famous for its light cavalry. They cultivated the land, built canals, and at the same time minted bronze swords.

Their language was related to Old Persian, and their traditions were related to Urartian.

But the main thing is that they held out. Almost three centuries — amid wars, intrigues and threats.

The fall came in the 7th century BC, when the Median Empire absorbed their territories.

But that was not the end.

“They haven’t disappeared,” El-Hakim said.

— They dissolved — in language, in the names of villages, in the lines of ceramics, in the military signs of other cultures.

In the evening, Jan wrote in his diary:

— “The Mannai was neither victors nor vanquished.

They were a point of stability in a world of changing empires.

Their mission is to preserve identity on the edge of chaos.”

And when night fell upon the valley, and the stars shone above the mountains, it seemed that somewhere in those shadows the language of Manna was still whispering — the one that was not written down, but was never forgotten.

Chapter VII — THE LAND THAT FEEDS: THE ECONOMY OF THE ANCIENT MANNAEANS

“Where grain flows like a river, the sword is sharpened less often. But when the fruit disappears, taxes, war and a god demanding a sacrifice appear.” — from the manuscript “Chronicles of the Zalevan Tribes”, fragment IV

Jan stood on the terrace of an ancient agricultural settlement, blown by a wind that smelled of wheat and dry herbs.

Below, a valley spread out — not a city, not a fortress, but something without which neither an army nor a temple was possible. The Earth.

“They were not only warriors,” he said, looking at the remains of irrigation canals.

— They were the masters of the soil and the cattle.

The team of researchers found here not gold, but ceramics — hundreds of vessels with grain remains, stone millstones, bronze sickles. All this testified to the mainstay of the Mannai’s life — agriculture.

“Wheat, barley, beans,” Saida listed.

— It’s amazing how organized they were in growing all this. There are even traces of irrigation — canals leading from the hills.

“They knew how to collect water,” El-Hakim nodded.

— So, you knew how to think ahead.

In another excavation area, they found pens, remains of sheep and horse bones, leather and wool items. Here, a different rhythm was heard — not that of a farmer, but of a shepherd.

— Sheep, goats, horses. Not only food. But also wool, milk, leather.

“Everything is in circulation,” said Saida, looking at the bronze buckle with the image of a galloping horse.

“It was an economy of movement and sustainability at the same time,” added Jan.

— They were not afraid to be both sedentary and nomadic.

In the ancient trading settlement at the foot of the hill, traces of copper and iron were found, along with pieces of obsidian and copper ingots. Jan leaned over one of the tables:

— Trade. Not in words — on caravan routes. Mannai were not only a crossing point, but also a point of exchange.

Their lands lay between Mesopotamia, the Caucasus and Asia Minor. Caravans with grain, metal and fabrics passed through them. They did not simply sell surpluses — they held the keys to the routes.

“Here the plow was no less important than the sword,” said Jan in the evening by the fire.

— They knew: whoever controls food — does not need a throne. Only in spring.

And that evening, under the starry sky, Jan wrote in his field journal:

— « The Mannaites lived in the mountains. But they fed on the plains. Their strength was not in conquest, but in the ability to hold the land — and exchange its fruits for iron, ideas and peace. They did not build empires. They fed them.”

Chapter YIII — THE PATH THAT GUARDS ITSELF

“Trade does not proceed by road. It proceeds by trust. And every guard at the crossroads is not just a warrior, but a witness to the agreement between the future and the present.” — from “Letters from the Stone Roads”, Ark of Manna archive

They walked along an ancient pass where caravans from Mesopotamia and the mountain settlements of Manna once crossed paths.

The road here was paved with slabs — now destroyed, but still legible, like lines. Jan stopped and looked closely:

— It’s not just a path. It’s an intention embodied in stone.

Protecting trade was a matter not only of the sword, but also of words. The Mannai understood that security was a currency that even enemies respected.

“We found the remains of a garrison here,” El-Hakim said.

— A fortification point covering a water crossing. Most likely, it was a route guard, not a fortress.

Saida studied the bronze signs on the seals found at one of the trading posts:

— These symbols are a guarantee of passage. He who wore such a seal was under the protection of not only the gods, but also the law of Manna.

The mechanism was complex, but it worked:

— garrisons and patrols at key passes;

— diplomatic agreements with neighboring tribes;

— collection of duties as a form of protection and control;

— caravans under armed escort, especially in dangerous areas.

“They were like armor on the body of the caravan,” Jan said.

— Unnoticed, but vital.

In an ancient caravanserai hidden in the shadow of the rocks, they found remnants of ink and a broken pen.

“Documents,” whispered Saida.

— Contracts. Not on papyrus — on clay.

The Mannai traded in more than just goods, Jan added.

— They sold confidence.

Sometimes security was achieved through alliances made not on the battlefield, but in a tent by the fire. Signed, perhaps, with words. Or with gestures, copper, vows.

And when the sunset painted the rocks gold, Jan wrote:

“They defended the path not for gold, but for the continuation of the rhythm. Because the path is the breath of the people.

And guarding the path is guarding the future itself.”

Chapter IX — BETWEEN THE LION AND THE MOUNTAIN: THE KINGS OF MANNA

“When a stone contends with a hurricane, there will be no winner, only a record. And in that record, the one who fell may be greater than the one who survived.” — from The Twilight Chronicles of Manna, fragment on a clay tablet found near Izirtu

“Who was the first to say ‘enough’? ” asked Jan, looking at the defensive ramparts of the ancient city.

The hillside bore traces of the assault: spears, arrow fragments, burnt gates.

“His name was Ullusunu,” El-Hakim answered.

— Eighth century BC. He did not bow his head before Tiglath-Pileser.

Ullusunu was not just a warrior — he was a challenge.

A mountain ruler who spoke the language of the sword and sought to unite the tribes of Manna into a single kingdom.

But when he crossed the line, Assyria responded with fire.

“He was defeated,” said Jan, standing at the ruined wall of Izirtu.

— But the very fact that his name has been preserved means that he was not an empty phrase.

After him came Iranzu — another king, another era, but the same struggle.

He ruled during the reign of Sargon II, and once again Izirtu became the scene of destruction.

The Assyrian chronicles are full of pride:

“We captured the capital. We expelled Iranzu. We imposed tribute.”

But the ambers in the excavated sanctuaries preserved a different silence.

“Too much was destroyed for the victory to be clear,” Said said.

— It was a war of wills and boundaries.

In one of the excavated caches, the team discovered a cuneiform tablet:

on it, almost erased by time: “We do not ask for mercy. We ask to be heard.”

“Not an appeal to the gods,” whispered Saida.

— To descendants.

The Mannai did not win these wars. But they remained in the annals.

Their cities fell, but the mountains stood firm.

And outside the walls lived people who continued to plow, build, and believe.

“We know about them from the words of our enemies,” said Jan,

— but even through these words it is clear: they were not faceless.

And, writing another note in the field, he wrote:

“The Mannai were a shield between East and West.

Their kings fell, but did not bow. Their cities burned, but their memory remained. In every ruined temple there is a reflection of a world that was not completely defeated.”

PART TWO. “THE SOUL OF MANNA: BETWEEN TIME AND DESTINY”

Chapter X — The First Portal. The Sands of Eth’Arun

“A threshold is not a place. It is the moment when you cease to be the one who seeks and become the one who has already crossed.”

— From “The Book of Subtle Moments”, School of Sandy Winds

Jan stood on the edge of sleep, not quite sure if he was awake… The slope of the desert stretched into the distance, and in its depths a city — or a mirage — dozed…

“You came in,” said a voice nearby. It was Arshan…

“Where are we?” asked Jan.

— There is no “where” here. Only “now”, — answered Arshan.

The wind rose and swirled around them.

Jan saw images in the dust… Arshan pointed forward:

— See? Where the sand gets dark. That’s the threshold.

“Is this a test?” Jan asked.

“It’s liberation,” said Arshan.

He took a step. The space did not change — it disappeared.

He stood at the gate.

They were not visible — they were him.

Arshan disappeared, dissolving into thin air like a mirage on hot sand.

Jan was left alone, at the edge of a void that felt not like the absence of anything, but like an absolute, all-consuming “being.”

The gates that Arshan spoke of were not made of stone or metal.

It was a sensation, a clot of energy, pulsating with a deep, inner light.

He felt it — not with his eyes, but with his skin, like the warmth of an invisible sun penetrating into the very pores.

A strange feeling came over Jan — not fear, but rather anticipation mixed with impatience.

He stepped forward, and the world around him seemed to disintegrate into tiny particles, which immediately came back together, but in a different order.

The sands of Etarun disappeared, leaving behind a sky painted with colors never seen on Earth.

It was not just a color, but a living, breathing glow, shimmering from deep indigo to dazzling gold.

The air was thick, filled with a delicate, sweet scent, reminiscent of night flowers blooming.

Beneath Jan’s feet was a smooth, cold surface, reminiscent of polished obsidian.

In the distance he saw a shape, drawn by the same light as the sky — it was a city, but unlike any he had seen before.

The buildings hovered in the air, connected by graceful arches and bridges that emitted a soft, purple glow.

The architecture was organic, fluid, as if grown rather than built.

He walked towards the city, feeling strangely light, free from the weight of the earth.

The sounds came muffled, as if from far away, but they were filled with harmony and peace.

The singing of unknown birds mingled with the rustling of invisible wings, and all this created a feeling of complete idyll.

As Jan approached, he saw people, or creatures similar to people, but with more graceful features and eyes shining like stars.

They paid no attention to him, continuing their activities as if he had always been a part of this world.

They moved smoothly, gracefully, as if dancing to a slow, mesmerizing rhythm.

Their clothes were made of the lightest, translucent material, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow.

In the center of the city he saw a huge, shining tree, from the crown of which streams of living light flowed.

The tree pulsed, changing its shape, and Ian felt a surge of incredible energy.

He came closer, and the tree responded to his presence, radiating a wave of warmth and calm.

This was the heart of this world, its source of life and energy, and Ian realized that he had finally found a place where he could be free.

The path was long, but he was ready to continue it, responding to the calling whisper of this wonderful world, unknown to him.

Everything around Jan pulsated with living energy, as if every atom of this world breathed light and wisdom.

He walked through the streets of a magnificent city where time did not exist, where space bowed before his gaze, submitting to his will.

As if in a dance with invisible forces, Ian found his essence connecting with this world, revealing to him the secrets and mysteries that awakened in response to his arrival.

The heart of the city, the tree of light, sounded in unison with his own heart, filling it with strength and harmony.

He felt that every step he took was directed towards understanding, towards insight, towards something that lies beyond the ordinary world.

A being, similar to a man, but possessing supernatural grace and wisdom, approached Ian.

His eyes shone brighter than the stars, his smile carried thousands of years of wisdom and understanding.

“Welcome, Warrior of Light,” sounded in his mind like a melody without words.

Jan realized that his arrival was not accidental, that his every step was predetermined by the great plan of the Universe.

He felt how lightness and freedom filled his being, making him a part of this great and harmonious world.

Looking up at the sky, painted in the colors of the rainbow and light, Ian felt that his adventure was just beginning, that the path to knowledge and enlightenment stretched out before him like an endless ocean of possibilities and understanding.

A great confluence of forces took place in the heart of the city of light.

Ian felt his soul blossoming in inner light, freed from the shackles of doubt and fear.

He became a part of this world, where every breath, every movement is filled with harmony and grace.

The being before him smiled, and his words sounded like the melody of the Universe:

“You have come, Warrior of Light, to find the truth and accept your true destiny.”

Jan felt how ancient wisdom was awakening within him, how he was becoming a link in the endless circle of time and space.

His heart beat in unison with the heart of the city, his thoughts became clear, like the sky above him, permeated with light and love.

And in that moment of understanding, Jan realized that his calling was not just to explore the worlds of truth, but to be their protector and keeper.

He stood before the great tree of light, his being filled with strength and grace, and he felt that his soul was ready for new trials and revelations.

Thus ended his first encounter with the world of other worlds, leaving a trace of unprecedented possibilities and greatness in his heart.

And Yang, the Warrior of Light, was ready to continue his path, following the call of truth and light, forever striving for harmony and enlightenment.

Sometimes the call does not come.

It does not come in a voice, does not beat in the chest, does not sparkle in the sky.

It simply begins to live inside — like a slight shift in the center of gravity, like a tremor on the edge of sleep, like the breath of something that has not yet happened, but already influences your choice.

Ian felt this shift that same night when the stars aligned strangely.

Not otherwise, but otherwise is enough to make an attentive person pause his thoughts.

The world has changed imperceptibly.

And not the world itself, but its interpretation: familiar things began to look at it differently.

Mannaron, the capital of his journey, ceased to be a place — it became a gateway.

Not to another place, but to another state of reality.

He didn’t know what exactly awaited him beyond the line.

But I felt that time was no longer linear.

Memory is no longer personal.

And the voice that sounds in dreams is neither his own nor someone else’s.

Where time disappears, only one thing remains: the intention to be in agreement with the Truth, even if it cannot be expressed.

Thus began a Journey that needs no roads.

Thus the first circuit of the Gates of Manna opened.

And the one who was known as the Duke now becomes the Transition.

Jan woke up in a cold sweat.

The stars that witnessed his strange awakening seemed alien, detached, like observers from another dimension.

The familiar rhythm of Mannaron, the city that had always been his anchor, was gone.

Instead, there is a deep, pulsating silence, permeated by a barely perceptible hum, like the whisper of many voices merging into a single, impersonal choir.

Even the air seemed different — heavy, filled with an invisible energy that tingled the skin and vibrated in the bones.

His home, a modest but cozy house on the outskirts of the city, was transformed.

Familiar objects began to look… different.

The table where he wrote his notes on the ancient manuscripts seemed at once familiar and alien, its surface shimmering as if reflecting invisible depths.

The books on the shelves emitted a faint glow, their bindings seemed to come to life, the designs on the covers shifted, deciphering hidden meanings that Ian had never noticed before.

Trying to organize my thoughts resulted in a dizzying feeling of disorientation.

Memory, usually clear and distinct, became fragmented, woven from unrelated images and feelings.

Ian remembered his mother, her gentle hands, the smell of her favorite perfume, but the memories felt like strange photographs found in an abandoned chest.

The dreams, previously chaotic and surreal, now appeared as a clear, disturbing sequence of symbols and images related to the ancient Kingdom of Mann, a history he had studied for years, but which now seemed to reflect his own destiny.

The voice, the same one from the dreams, became stronger.

He no longer whispered, but resembled a deep, resonant ringing of a bell, penetrating into the most hidden corners of consciousness.

The voice did not call him by name, but in every intonation there was a familiar closeness, a recognition that caused both reassurance and anxiety.

He spoke of the Gates of the Kingdom of Mann, forgotten for a long time, of transcendental possibilities and dangers, of time flowing not linearly but in a spiral, of memory as a collective unconscious, accessible to everyone and no one at the same time.

Jan realized: the journey had begun.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he felt the inevitability of his steps.

He felt no fear, only an intense, thrilling anticipation.

Mannaron, his city, ceased to exist as a physical place.

He became the key, the portal through which Ian must pass to find himself in the place where time loses its linear flow and memory merges with the infinity of Truth.