In the beginning, learning is euphoric. Every discovery is a blaze, every theory a spark. You move forward endlessly, not questioning why—just chasing brilliance.
That was the state of mind that Professor Hugo Humphrey had when he became 30.
He devoured disciplines like others drank water—physics, biology, chemistry, philosophy, engineering. He built theories that revolutionized entire fields. His name was etched into scientific journals, whispered in academic halls. Humanity had nothing more to offer him. He had reached the summit.
But no one tells you what’s at the top of the mountain.
For Hugo, it was a void.
A deep, gaping emptiness in his chest that no Nobel prize or peer-reviewed paper could fill. Despite everything he had achieved, he felt nothing. The pursuit that once gave him purpose had become a cold, mechanical march forward. And so he tried everything—philanthropy, travel, sports, he left no stone unturned. But no matter how far he went or how much he gave, the void remained.
He grew eccentric. Detached. He laughed less. Slept less. Spoke to fewer people. And eventually, he found himself standing in the center of his apartment, facing the most ancient of elements death—one that he had chosen to bring forth..
He tested the rope one last time. Not out of fear—out of habit. Everything had to be precise. The knot was tight. The stool was centered. The math was right.
He took one slow breath.
And then—
—knock.
It echoed through the apartment like a slap across time. But it wasn’t the stool falling. It was the door.
He froze. Not in fear, but confusion. No one ever visited him. Not anymore. He hadn’t heard a doorbell in months, maybe even years. Both curious and wanting to avoid the definitive answer of the rope he hid the instruments of his demise and answered the calling. Slowly, he stepped off the stool, moved to the door, and opened it.
There was no one there.
Just a letter and a book resting on the welcome mat.
He looked around. Nothing but silence. Frowning, he picked them up and stepped back inside. Likely a fundraiser or some misguided gift from a former colleague. He was ready to toss it aside, but the book caught his eye.
It was beautiful—smooth, polished, almost... humming. A strange warmth pulsed from it.
Curious now, he unfolded the letter.
Dear Professor,
If this letter reaches you, then I know exactly where you are—not physically, but emotionally.
I was there once too. Brilliant, accomplished, and yet empty. I thought my research would impress Death itself. That I could show the Reaper a resume and earn his acknowledgement.
But Death doesn't care about your resume.
When I finally met him, I listed everything: the awards, the discoveries, the adventures. How I climbed Everest, visited every country, discovered and learn, lived more than most could dream.
And still, he just stared.
So I asked him, “Why aren’t you impressed?”
He answered:
“Are you impressed with your life? Was it a good one?”
That was the moment I realized what I had missed. Despite all I had done, I hadn’t truly lived. Not in the way that fills the soul, not in the way that matters.
Stolen novel; please report.
And then—just as he reached for me—a light appeared. A letter and a book. Just like the ones you now hold.
I don’t expect you to believe me. I didn’t at first either. But I beg you—wear the ring. This will be the beginning of the hardest and most transformative journey of your life.
Before you do, some advice I wish someone had given me:
- Once you wear it, there is no turning back. It stays on.
- This is your one and only chance. Lose it, or reject it, and the door closes forever.
- Most importantly: have fun. Don’t treat this as a problem to be solved. It’s a chance to evolve.
With respect and understanding,
Mr. ()
Hugo stared at the paper for a long while.
“Mr. Blank?” he muttered. “Seriously?”
He scoffed. Probably another scam. A delusional hippy trying to sell crystals and cosmic energy to the depressed. The letter was poetic, sure but also absurd. As he moved the stool back into place, he paused. He had nothing left to lose. And so, he decided he would devote a day and if nothing happened well the alternative was always available.
There was something about it. Not magical, exactly, but... intentional.
After waking up he went about his normal routine. A routine unchanged since he could remember. He brushed his teeth, made breakfast, drank his coffee and went to the gym for an hour. By the end of all that it was about 9 in the morning, that is around the time that he would hit the books or would train for his next race or any of the things that he picked up to fill his time. But today there was nothing to be done he reached the peak of humanity and when you are at the top and crave for more there is nowhere to go and so he stagnated. He saw the letter and the book and so he told himself.
-Well today there is nothing else but this.
Before reading it he carefully examined it. It was leather, with stones embedded into the cover and looked handmade something of the highest quality. He tried to determine the material it was made of, identify the stoneswere on it but despite his best efforts no conclusive evidence where found. It was something alien, not of this world or it was something so elaborate that the techniques that where available were useless, or maybe it was a new alloy something that was untraceable and the scientist that made it was not sharing the discovery. His curiosity intensified and so after all this research without anything to so for it there was only one test to be conducted. And thus he opened it.
And nothing. The entire book was empty apart from the first page. Which only had one word.
“Unbound”
Nothing happened.
He laughed once, bitterly. Another charlatan. Another false promise. He whispered aloud
-Unbound what a weird word.
But as he turned away, he felt it, a pull. Like gravity itself had changed direction. The air thickened. His skin tingled. His fingers stretched, then his arms, his body—distorted, as though sucked into a black hole.
He should have felt pain. But he didn’t. Only motion.
Then—stillness.
He stood upright in the middle of a golden field, wheat swaying around him in a perfect breeze. No buildings. No city. No sound but the wind.
He staggered forward, stunned. Crossed the field. Climbed a low hill.
And then he saw it.
A wall.
It rose higher than any structure he had ever seen, stretching endlessly in both directions. As he stepped closer, he passed a shallow rain puddle.
He paused.
In the reflection, he saw himself his hair now streaked black and white. His eyes glowed sapphire blue, deep and crystalline. Alien.
He had changed.
He followed the wall, trying to understand what he was seeing—what he was feeling—when a wooden cart creaked up from behind him, pulled by two horned beasts. An old man rode it, hair blue as the ocean, skin sun-wrinkled.
Hugo flagged him down.
“Excuse me, sir. What is this place? Where are we?”
The old man blinked at him. “What, did you hit your head?”
“I... I don’t know how I got here. I woke up in a field.”
“Well, you’re outside the wall. Ain’t safe to wander here. Beasts come out at dusk. Come on hop in. I’ll take you to my place. We’ll figure this out.”
Hugo climbed aboard, too confused to argue. They rode in silence for a while, the countryside rolling past in strange, gentle waves.
The man introduced himself as Pablo, a farmer. His home was a simple stone-and-hay structure that looked straight out of medieval Europe. Yet somehow, it felt warm—lived-in.
“Pablo what year is it?”
“What do you mean what year, that fall must have really messed you up it is 2025.”
So, he did not time travel, he knew the idea was absurd but still with all the things he saw so far, he had to ask.
“I’ll make something to eat real quick, and then we’ll sit down and figure out what happened to you. In the meantime, can you fetch some wood for the fire?”
A fireplace, no electricity, what is this place? These people have not seen any progress for the past 5 centuries. As he was going to get the wood he remembered the book. Maybe he was drugged so that someone would kill him. He had no family or real friends so ransom wasn’t something that anyone would offer. In any case he had come to terms with death and so he did not care. As he went back Pablo started cooking and he sat beside him. Pablo was around 55 with long blue hair and black eyes.
Hugo found it strange—but then again, nothing here felt normal.
He was wearing clothes of no brands but seemed really good quality. As they were breaking bread Hugo begun to tell the old man his story. Pablo sat quietly and listened to him where he was born, about the country he lived in, his achievements and he finished with the story of the book.
Pablo listened patiently, nodding.
“I don’t know the places you talk about,” he said. “No countries here. Just one kingdom. The wall divides the safe from the wild. People don’t go beyond it except for farmers like me... and soldiers.”
“Tomorrow, you should head to the capital. Ask for the Library. Find a Scholars. Maybe they’ll have more answers.”
The next morning, Hugo packed what Pablo offered—bread, water, a simple cloak—and began the march toward the wall’s nearest gate.