Light between worlds: Where time disappears

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.

His path lies beyond the Gates of Manna, where time disappears, remaining only an echo in eternity.

Jan, led by a voice from his dreams, begins his journey, which cannot be avoided and the outcome of which he is not yet able to imagine.

Chapter XI – The Clock of Synchronization

“TRUE TRANSITION BEGINS NOT WHEN THE OUTER WORLD CHANGES, BUT WHEN THE VIBRATIONS OF THE SOUL COINCIDE WITH THE BREATH OF THE COSMOS.” – FROM THE BOOK OF LIGHT BY THE ORDER OF MANN

“Seraphielis cantus resonabit in hora tertia – et lineae coadunabuntur in lumine.”

(Iz Libri Prae Aeternae Lux, Tabula III)

“The song of Seraphiel will sound at the third hour – and the lines will unite in the Light.”