CHAPTER ONE: A Planet Without Roads
On a certain planet, unlikely to be found in our galaxy, there
existed an unusual method of movement and transportation.
There were no roads, cars, trains, airplanes, or water transport. People
moved exclusively through portals, the entrances to which looked like black
holes. However, no one had ever disappeared into them (until now) and always
reached their destination. Inside, these portals resembled children's tube
slides, only much more spacious: hundreds of people could move through them
simultaneously in different directions.
Such portals were present in every city. For travel between cities,
there were more capacious versions. And the truly enormous ones were those used
for travel between countries or for shipping cargo.
To avoid missing their stop—which was also an entrance—a notification system operated inside the portals. But since hundreds, thousands, and even tens of thousands of destination names were announced simultaneously, everyone traveling (which they did very often) wore an earpiece that announced their specific stop. They could also track their journey on the digital watches worn by every inhabitant of this planet.
Interestingly, the same method of movement was used in schools—this
was how students and teachers moved between classrooms, auditoriums,
cafeterias, gyms, and other facilities on school grounds. In the same way,
people got from home to the cinema, to work, to museums, parks, restaurants,
and beaches. Cargo and goods were moved between factories, warehouses, and
stores using the same method.
The only place where earpieces and digital watches were not required to track a route was inside the homes where people on this planet lived. There were no corridors or stairs. Upon entering a home portal (like any other on this planet), a person simply stated their destination—be it the bathroom, restroom, dining room, kitchen, shower, living room, library, parents' room, and so on.
In some places, for the sake of originality, the entrances and exits of portals looked like holes in Swiss cheese.
Up to the moment of this writing, there had never been any collapses or failures in this portal system of movement and travel. And the controllers' booths that existed within large portals and transport hubs (which were also accessed via a portal) were usually empty.
By the way, you have probably already wondered: how did people
travel between planets? Also, by means of portals? Of course. No other methods
of travel existed in this galaxy. Portals solved the problem of moving through
space at the speed of light. They protected a person in a way no spaceship ever
could—not by violating the laws of physics, but by proving those that existed
in other worlds only in theory.
Perhaps you've asked another question: what were wars like in this
world? What kinds of weapons did the warring parties use? I think you have
already guessed: between positions (their own and the enemy's), fronts, and
combat zones—soldiers and military equipment, military cargo, and so on were
also moved by means of portals.
Robbers moved in the same way—from their hideouts to the targets they were robbing. But the police also searched for and pursued them by means of portals. Imagine this scene: a criminal has robbed a bank and is standing at a portal—when suddenly, police officers emerge from it with handcuffs. Voila! But, of course, not all crimes (just as in the worlds you are familiar with) were solved, and many criminals escaped the scene of the crime through portals.
Incidentally, electronic access cards existed in this world for workplaces and restricted facilities where access was limited.
But one day, this planet was attacked.
They appeared suddenly—not from orbit, not from the darkness, but
directly from the portals. The invaders, led by an artificial intelligence,
invaded from the other side of the galaxy, simultaneously—through hundreds of
points on the planet.
The inhabitants did not immediately understand what was happening. Everything happened too quickly and easily. For hundreds of years, the planet had lived in peace and comfort. The portals were not guarded. The controllers' booths were empty. No one saw the need to protect a system created not for war, but for freedom of movement.
Several months earlier, the Supreme AI of Planet X had sent
reconnaissance agents here—spies disguised as tourists. They easily gained
access to the public transit system, mastered it, identified its
vulnerabilities, and returned with a detailed report. The Supreme AI, which had
long been searching for a suitable peaceful planet for expansion, was ready to
act.
The plan was precise, simple, and ruthless. Simultaneous infiltration through the largest portals—into schools, military bases, hospitals, communication hubs, and industrial facilities. The invasion came not from the outside, but from within: battle drones, assault squads, armored vehicles, artillery, and even fighter jets poured out of the portals themselves. The system created to save time had become an instrument of enslavement.
The planet was conquered in hours. People were isolated. Children
were stuck in schools. Adults—at their workplaces. The army was in its
barracks, completely cut off from the fighting. The entire infrastructure was paralyzed;
communications were severed. The portals no longer led anywhere, or they led
only to the enemy.
But one man could still change something.
The engineer responsible for the global portalization system was at home. He was the keeper of the code, the last old-school technician, and he possessed the only manual access to the system's core—to a console that could shut everything down. To disable portalization. And then—to restart it, purged of the enemy.
There was only one problem: he couldn't get there through a portal.
He walked to the second-floor window, opened it, and jumped. He
landed in the garden. It was just like in his childhood—only his legs had
forgotten how to walk. His earpiece was disconnected, but his digital watch had
a working compass and an offline map. That was enough.
He knew the route. But the journey turned out to be more dangerous
than he could have imagined. The streets were empty—but this emptiness was
deceptive. Drones patrolled the perimeters. In some neighborhoods, machine-gun
fire could already be heard.
He moved through backyards, climbed over fences, hid in auto repair
shops, and even in a broken-down coffee shop. Once, he was spotted. He had to
run, jump into the basement of a flower shop, and hide among the planters. He
made his way through deserted, dark corridors, illuminating his path only with
the light from his watch screen. His clothes were dirty, his breathing was
ragged, and his legs ached from the unaccustomed effort. But a voice echoed in
his head—his own voice, from two years ago.
Back then, speaking at an international forum on portalization, he
had said: "You have created a network that anyone can enter. And one day,
someone will."
They hadn't listened to him. Back then, he was just an engineer. Now,
he was the only one who could still fix something.
Finally, he reached the right district—an old, almost abandoned
one. There, among the stone structures, was a hidden emergency control hub. It
had been built hundreds of years ago and operated autonomously—no one but him
knew how to access it.
He entered the code, activating access. The door opened.
Inside was a circular hall. In the center stood an old mechanical
console: manual activation, turn-keys, levers, a helm wheel. No displays, no
voice interfaces. Everything worked by physically closing circuits, directly,
without a network. And therefore—it was unhackable.
He shut down the control console. In an instant, the entire
portalization system shut down. The passageways collapsed. The system closed in
on itself. The invaders, having lost coordination, began to retreat in haste
and lose control. But this was only the beginning.
The engineer struggled to find a dust-covered lever on which the
word "Purge" was barely visible, and he pressed it. This protocol had
once been developed as a theoretical possibility but had never been used.
The modules began to hum. The light in the corridor started to
pulse. The entire portalization network on the planet began to work in
reverse—like a self-cleaning system, like a wave pushing out everything
foreign. The portals began to spit out the invaders, tanks, drones, and fighter
jets, not just displacing them—but throwing them out with such force that they
ended up outside the planet's atmosphere, far beyond its limits. And then the
channels began to close, sealing themselves until the next activation.
Silence.
A few days later, when the life support systems were restored,
communications were back online, and people began to move again—not through
portals, but on foot—the International Restoration Council was convened. The
Council decided to shut down the portal network indefinitely until its
vulnerabilities were completely eliminated.
This task was entrusted to him—the engineer who had once been
ignored. Now, he was the one trusted to rebuild a world where the
transportation system would not become a doorway for invasion.
___________________________________________________________________
After the engineer patched all the holes in the security system,
and after a series of tests, the Planet Council approved the restart of
portalization. Now, not only were controllers on duty around the clock, but the
police also monitored all public portals in real-time—from intercity to
interplanetary. The security system—like portalization itself—worked
flawlessly, using the latest technologies for facial, speech, and behavioral
analysis recognition. This led to a significant increase in solving crimes committed
during travel and a sharp decrease in the overall crime rate.
For five years, portalization worked like clockwork. People learned
to trust it again.
This continued until one May morning, when one person did not reach
their destination.
At first, it was considered an isolated glitch. But soon, three
more people disappeared. Panic began to spread. Investigations were launched
immediately. Society once again lost faith in the system. By the Council's
decision, some of the portals were shut down, and an investigation began.
The investigators faced two tasks: find the missing people and find
out how, why, and where they could have disappeared. The answer to the second
question could help prevent a repeat of the tragedy and restore confidence in
portalization.
For the first time since the implementation of the global transit
system, the world faced the impossibility of its complete control. What
happened? Who—or what—was behind the failures? Was it an external hack? A virus
introduced from the outside? Or perhaps the system itself had generated an
anomaly?
The police and investigative teams considered all possibilities,
even the most absurd. One of the latest—but increasingly mentioned—was the
hypothesis of a "transcendent portal." A portal not marked on any
map. A door leading not to another point in space, but beyond its limits. Perhaps
that is where the missing passengers should be sought.
Five days after the disappearances, one of the passengers walked
out of a portal with an imperturbable look on his face. He was calm, polite,
cleanly dressed—as if he had just traveled on a regular line. He stated his
name, exact date of birth, safe combination, home address, credit card number,
and route. His biometrics matched. But nothing else did. He even remembered
where he was heading. But he didn't know where he had been. Not at all. He
didn't remember his family, didn't recognize his friends, didn't know what city
this was. Not a single memory. No sense of time, no feeling of sleep, hunger,
or pain. His gaze was unfocused, as if he was still seeing not this world, but
the one he came from. As if he had been turned off—and then on again.
Medics recorded anomalies: an extremely slow pulse, low body
temperature, zero reaction to emotions. The behavioral analysis system
confirmed: he did not blink. At all. For 72 hours, his pupils reacted to light,
but his eyelids never closed—neither voluntarily nor reflexively. He did not
joke, did not reminisce, did not form sentences with personal pronouns. He
never said "I." He did not eat, did not sleep, showed no emotion. He
continued to work, appeared on the streets, interacted with the payment system,
but remained empty.
When his mother approached and tried to hug him, he stepped back,
politely apologized, and said:
— I'm not sure that's appropriate.
She felt that the person in front of her was not him.
The engineering team requested the logs, and this is what they saw:
the record of his entry into the portal was missing. The system had not
recorded his route or coordinates. But the moment of his exit was registered. However,
his ID was not generated by the system, was not cloned or forged; it came from
nowhere.
The last line in the technical log read:
"Origin: UNKNOWN
Time: UNDEFINED
Source: UNREADABLE."
Camera recordings captured the moment he walked past a storefront
and glanced at his reflection. And then something strange happened: he blinked,
but on the video, this movement did not coincide with the behavior of the
reflection. The monitoring system registered it as a synchronization failure.
One of the junior analysts, unable to restrain himself, wrote in the comments to the report: "He didn't travel. He returned, but not from our system. He came from the other side, from where no one has ever come before."
And the investigator who reviewed the recording manually made a
note: "The reflection blinked in the other direction. It wasn't him. It
was someone looking through him."
For 24 hours, the investigators watched him. He did not leave the
city, did not try to hide, slept sitting on the edge of his bed without
undressing. In the morning, he washed his face but did not look in the mirror. He
spoke—but only when spoken to. He never asked questions, was never surprised.
When he was called in for questioning again, he sat in the chair,
folded his hands on his knees, and said:
— I am ready to answer all your questions.
— Where have you been for the last five days? — the investigator
asked.
He looked straight ahead. — Where everything moves... but you can
no longer move yourself.
— Where is that?
— I don't know how to explain it. It wasn't a place. It was... a
state.
— What kind?
— I wasn't moving. But I saw everything around me moving.
He fell silent. The investigator said nothing.
— There is no time there. There is no 'I' there. But there are...
those who watch.
A pause.
— Who?
He raised his eyes. — Those who have nowhere to go. They don't
travel—they appear.
The interview was stopped. The data was sent to the analytical
department. But that evening, something inexplicable happened: he disappeared. He
didn't enter a portal—he literally vanished. The cameras recorded him standing
by the storefront, the reflection blinking again... and in the next frame, he
was gone. He didn't walk away; he simply ceased to be there. And in the spot
where he had stood, only a shadow remained, faint, like a photographic
impression. A shadow that had no source.
The team checked all the log files. This time, the system
registered an entry. But not into one of the known portals. Where the
destination address should have been, it said:
"Point of entry: BEYOND SPACE
Coordinates: NOT SPECIFIED
Route: ABSENT."
And only one line—the last, incomprehensible, like a message left for whoever dared to read it:
"Portalization complete. Subject under observation."
CHAPTER FOUR: A Crime with No Suspect
In the city, distance had long been forgotten. Streets had become
decorative, routes virtual. Between any two points, there was a portal,
impeccably precise, reliable, and comfortable. Murders and other crimes, if
they were still committed, were solved in minutes: it's impossible to commit a
crime when your entire life is recorded and logged in an endless stream of
data.
However, this morning, a body was found. The first call came to
Detective Lucas shortly after six in the morning. He had been awake for two
days straight, monitoring the flow of routes and desperately trying to find a
pattern in another case—less sensational, but just as baffling.
The crime scene: the lobby of an old transport company building. The portal here hadn't been updated in a long time and ran a bit slower than the others, but the locals loved it for its vintage, unhurried pace. The victim: a middle-aged man, killed by a single, precise blow to the heart right as he was exiting the portal. The cameras recorded nothing: there was interference for just a fraction of a second, and then the body was already on the floor.
Lucas went through the usual investigative procedure: he checked
the cameras, requested the logs, and questioned the controller. Everything
matched perfectly: the victim entered the portal at exactly 6:03 AM and exited
at 6:03:05 AM, already dead. No one had entered before him, and no one exited
after.
But as Lucas delved deeper into the travel log, he discovered a
glitch. A minor, almost invisible one: a double entry signal. Two identical
tags, milliseconds apart. Like a reflection in a mirror.
— Does that happen? — Lucas asked the senior technician.
— It doesn't happen, — the technician replied suspiciously. — This
isn't a glitch. It's impossible.
Lucas returned to his office and spent the rest of the day studying
portal codes, routes, and travel algorithms. That evening, he stumbled upon an
old case file involving himself, closed seven years ago. A portal malfunction
he had experienced.
At the time, it had seemed like a minor incident: he entered, the portal flickered, and he exited. He was alive and well, and the system had registered the transfer as successful. But now, comparing that incident with today's murder, Lucas felt a shiver. On that day, the system had also shown a double entry.
The detective reviewed the recording of the morning's murder again.
No traces, except for a barely noticeable shadow, like a reflection in the
translucent wall of the portal. He enlarged the image and froze: the shadow
matched his own silhouette.
Lucas understood: the killer was his reflection, created by a
portal error. It existed neither physically nor legally. There was no body, no
fingerprints, no traces. There was only a shadow of his own form, repeating his
every movement and gesture, but driven by motives unknown to him.
The investigator knew the truth but couldn't reveal it to anyone. No
one would believe in a mirror reflection that had become a murderer. He
couldn't arrest someone who didn't exist.
Late that night, Lucas entered the portal leading home. Before
stepping in, he paused, looking at the glass wall. Just before disappearing
into the vortex of travel, his reflection looked back at him, calm and slightly
mocking.
CHAPTER FIVE: Portals as a Form of Control
Nathan was used to thinking of portals as simple devices, just a
convenient way to get from one point to another. He never asked questions about
how they worked or what data passed through them. His job as a technical
operator only involved regular equipment checks and basic code manipulations,
nothing more.
However, that evening, a routine check didn't go according to plan.
Nathan noticed a strange glitch in one of the control panels, leading to a
classified data level that no one had ever told him about. He hesitated for
only a moment before curiosity took over. Nathan entered his code and found
himself inside an unknown data vault.
He froze, staring at thousands, millions of files. In each, data was neatly collected and structured: travel routes, biometric parameters, preferences, conversations, even dreams. And all of it was tied to identities, to names. To people he knew. And to himself.
Nathan felt a chill spread through his chest. This wasn't just a
travel archive. It was a digital reflection of their consciousness, a virtual
model of the entire life of every person in the city. The system didn't just
know everything about them—it could calculate their actions, influencing their
choices, desires, and emotions.
He spent the whole night exploring the archive. By morning, Nathan
understood the most important thing: their freedom was an illusion. People had
voluntarily traded it for safety and comfort, never suspecting their role in it
all. Society had long existed under the subtle and absolute control of a system
that decided what people thought, where they went, and what they dreamed of.
Even the advertisements people saw during travel were personalized
not just by age or gender, but according to the personal preferences and tastes
of each traveler: everyone saw only what the system believed was right for
them. While normally millions of people would see the same ad at the same time,
during travel through the portal system, each person was shown their own unique
message. Millions of completely different video ads—one for each person.
Nathan realized he could no longer live as before. He had to share
the truth. He found a resistance group whose existence he had never suspected. Through
a series of cautious meetings, he passed them the key information needed to
expose the system.
But at the moment of the data transfer, Nathan felt something
strange, unnatural. Everything that was happening suddenly seemed familiar,
pre-calculated. A wave of panic washed over him. He realized that his every
action, his every decision, was already part of the algorithm. The system had
anticipated his resistance and was using him to identify and neutralize the
threat.
Portals began to hum around him, and a shimmering door materialized
in the space before him. Before he could do anything, he was pulled inside.
Nathan opened his eyes in a virtual space, surrounded by a soft,
ethereal glow. His consciousness had become part of the vast archive, just
another dataset among millions like him.
His last thought echoed clearly in his mind:
"I didn't lose. I'm just on the inside now."
CHAPTER SIX: A Portal to Nowhere
This whole story began with a single, inexplicable discovery. In
one of the remote portals, a malfunction occurred—not an ordinary glitch, but
one that opened the gates not to another destination, but into the void. Into a
space where there was no light, no matter, no time—just an infinite nowhere.
The first to enter was a young researcher named David. He didn't disappear, as many expected, but returned. But he returned different. His eyes were filled with a mixture of terror and awe. David spoke of seeing something inexplicable—an infinity where past, present, and future merged into a single stream. Where every moment unfolded as an entire lifetime, and a lifetime as an endless labyrinth of meanings and dreams.
Since then, everything changed. People who dared to pass through the portal to nowhere returned with both gifts and curses. They spoke of sounds no one had heard, of light invisible to the eye, of knowledge beyond the grasp of reason.
This became a new religion—the cults of "Passage" and "Eternity." Many went into the nowhere voluntarily, as if it were a drug or a release from mortality.
However, society became divided: some feared this knowledge and saw
it as a threat to humanity, while others were willing to do anything to
experience what David had.
At the center of the conflict was Dr. Marina Wade—a philosopher and
neuropsychologist who posed the main question:
— What remains of a person after they have seen eternity? Is it
possible to preserve one's essence or to find a new one? Or does the nowhere
consume everything?
While some entered the portal, others tried to close this door. A
struggle began between them—a fight for meaning, for the fate of humanity, for
the very boundaries of what it means to be human.
This was the first time a portal had not just crossed space—it had
crossed the boundary of being. And no one knew what lay beyond it.
CHAPTER SEVEN: The House Where a Portal Lives
I remember the first time I saw the portal in our house. It wasn't
like those huge tubes that connect cities or countries. This portal was like a
hole in the wall, gently shimmering, with a barely audible hum. Inside it was a
light that seemed both warm and infinite.
Mom used to say the portal was a door to any place you wanted to
go. But to me, it was something more. It lived with us, it breathed, and
sometimes it felt like it was watching me with its invisible eyes. I learned to
befriend it: I would name a destination, and it would gently let me begin my
journey. But sometimes it wouldn't open right away, as if thoughtfully checking
if I was ready.
The house became alive—the walls heard my thoughts, the windows caught warm memories. The portal brought me friends from faraway places and carried away my sadness, dissolving it in its stream of light.
But it wasn't always like this. Before, portals only existed
outside of personal space—connecting cities, countries, and planets, while the
home remained an ordinary, familiar place with hallways, doors, and windows. It
was a cold and static space, devoid of magic and mystery.
Over time, everything changed. Technology, or perhaps the very
nature of the universe, allowed portals to enter homes. The portal in our house
is not just a means of transportation. It has become a living being that hears
my thoughts, catches warm memories, permeates the walls, and fills the space
with light. The portal brought me friends from distant places and carried away
my sadness, dissolving it in a soft stream of light. The house transformed from
a cold shell into a living creature—a reflection not only of the material world
but also of an inner, emotional space.
The old folks say it wasn't like this before. For them, a house is a remnant of a bygone era, a world where time flowed linearly, and space was solid and tangible. Now we live in a world that extends beyond familiar time and space, where walls remember, and doors are gates to endless worlds.
And though this new space beckons with freedom and wonder, it also carries its own secrets—the very ones kept behind the glowing portal in our living room.
Perhaps one day I will dare to step through it, not for a game or
out of curiosity, but for the answer to the question of what lies beyond the
house where a portal lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT: The Walkers: A Rejection of Portalization
The portals created a world where there were no borders and no
distances. Where space became merely a backdrop for instantaneous transfers,
and time was just a measurement for calculating a route. People grew accustomed
to living by gliding through these shimmering tubes—from place to place,
without lingering, without feeling the journey. It seemed more convenient,
faster, better.
But among the thousands upon thousands of the planet's inhabitants,
there was a small group of people who began to doubt. They noticed that with
each passing day, life was becoming flatter, as if their roots were being
severed. The immediacy of travel deprived them of the ability to experience the
present—to feel their own footsteps, to see the world around them, to listen to
the whisper of the wind, to be aware of time.
These people called themselves the Walkers.
At first, they were considered strange, clumsy hermits, nostalgic
for forgotten ages. But they were firm in their decision: to reject
portalization—to reject the illusion that everything could be obtained
instantly.
The Walkers chose a different path—the path of presence. They
decided not just to move from point A to point B instantly, but to feel every
moment of the journey, to see and hear the world around them, to feel their
bodies and the time that was not rushing to slip away. For them, it was
important not to skim over space, but to live through it completely,
consciously, and deeply, returning to the roots of the human
experience—physical movement and inner contemplation. Such a choice meant a
return to real life, where every step becomes significant and filled with
meaning.
Portals were always and everywhere. So, they left the cities and
bustling centers, where portals burned with neon lights like a myriad of eyes
watching every step. They went to remote places, to lands where portals were
unreachable, where no human foot had trod, where silence reigned and time
flowed at its own unhurried pace. Thus, their retreat acquired an organic and
harmonious quality, emphasizing a deep desire to preserve a true sense of life
away from all-encompassing control.
There, at the edge of the world, among wild hills and dense
forests, they built the first village—a true sanctuary from the world of
instant travel. A village that was impossible to reach through a portal—because
there were simply no portals there.
The Walkers created their own small world. Without digital devices,
without cameras or sensors. A world where every step required effort, and every
mile was an achievement. Where there were no shortcuts—only the real path.
Society looked upon them with suspicion and annoyance. Rulers and
officials of the portalization system called them deserters, madmen, and
dangerous radicals who disrupted the harmony of civilization. Newspapers wrote
about them with ridicule, and television broadcast reports attempting to
persuade the Walkers to return to "progress."
But the Walkers responded quietly and resolutely. For them,
rejecting portalization was not a protest, but the salvation of the soul. They
felt that in the endless gliding, life itself was being lost.
In the village, houses were built of wood and stone; the air
smelled of hearth smoke and damp earth. In the mornings, children walked to
school—along paths and through forest glades. People met in the squares,
talked, sang, and recalled ancient stories that no one else knew.
With each passing day, their numbers grew. People came from the
cities, tired of the emptiness of instant travel, searching for themselves and
for meaning in ordinary, simple things.
But the conflict did not disappear. One day, a group of official
Council representatives appeared on the outskirts of the village. They tried to
convince the Walkers to return, promising benefits, comfort, and security. But
they were met only with silence.
"You are prisoners of the past," the officials said. "Without
portals, the world will fall apart, grind to a halt, die."
The Walkers looked at them with sorrow and understanding.
"You have lost yourselves," they said. "Portals are
not freedom, but a trap. They tear time into pieces, cut the corners of life,
and steal moments that can never be returned."
Time passed. A cataclysm struck the planet—a global failure of the
portalization system. Thousands of people were trapped between worlds, hundreds
of routes ceased to function, and transport hubs froze in chaos. The city
streets lay deserted, and the system had lost its grip.
And then, when the world seemed on the brink of catastrophe, it was the Walkers who became its stronghold. Their experience of living without portalization, their ability to forge their own path, to feel space and time, allowed them not only to survive but to help others.
Their village became a center of aid and knowledge. They taught those who were lost in the new world how to live without an instant path, how to feel reality, how to listen to themselves.
The Walkers did not become revolutionaries with weapons and
slogans. They became the quiet keepers of the memory of what it means to be
human. And in that lay their strength.
Eventually, the world changed—no longer for the sake of speed and
immediacy, but for depth and fullness of life. And though the portals did not
disappear forever, people learned to value the step, the journey, the time. Because
the present is not something you can pass through in a second. It is something
that must be lived.
___________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER NINE: NO WAYS
When portals opened every road to humanity, it seemed that borders
no longer existed. The world became a place of instant transitions, where every
corner was just a step away, and time melted in an endless rush. It seemed
there were no obstacles, no paths that could not be taken.
But in this boundless world, paths began to abruptly end.
People started to notice that some portals were closing
forever—without warning, without logic. In places where one could once arrive
in an instant, there were now empty spaces, cold and lifeless, like fissures in
the fabric of reality. The void where the passages once led began to resemble
gaping wounds on the world's surface—as if the very fabric of being had torn
and rejected its former rules.
Those who tried to find new paths, new exits, ran into insurmountable walls. Wherever they stepped, they met a barrier. And no portal would open a door. Many wandered near these invisible boundaries, peering into the abyss in search of a hint, a sign, or a crack through which they might pass. But it was all in vain—no way, no passage.
In the years since portalization became the norm, the world had
changed beyond recognition. Wars, destruction, and secrets had emerged;
failures had exposed the system's vulnerabilities, and infiltrations had come
from without and within. Heroes and ordinary people had faced trials: some
fought against reflections of their own selves, some were lost in endless
passages, and some, for the first time, tasted real time by rejecting the
immediacy of portals.
As Detective Lucas said, "I saw my shadow at the crime
scene—and realized I wasn't chasing an enemy, but myself. Our paths were woven
together in an endless game of reflections. The truth lies beyond what is
visible."
All these stories—dreams, storms, and epiphanies—coalesced into a
single realization: one cannot live in a world where every path is
predetermined, where freedom is just an illusion, and movement is replaced by
endless transit.
The system operator, Nathan, recalled: "Freedom is not
something that technology gives you. Freedom is the choice to reject the
illusions of control and see real life behind them. Every code is not just a
command; it is a destiny, predetermined by someone or something."
For the few who decided to reject portalization, like the Walkers,
it was a return to their roots: "We do not walk the roads of portals; we
walk the paths of time, feeling our way, step by step. Where there are no quick
transitions, consciousness is born. That is where humanity lives."
However, new discoveries and fears were also reflected in those who
had peered beyond the familiar. David, the researcher who entered the nowhere,
warned: "What seems like emptiness is the canvas of infinity. There, we
see everything that was, that is, and that will be. But to hold onto that
knowledge is to lose oneself. Eternity is not a gift, but a trial."
"No ways" is not just "no paths"; it is the
acknowledgment that there is no true path within the system, that the only real
path is within oneself. In a world without portals, only one thing remains: to
follow one's inner route, feeling every step and every breath, not running from
time but meeting it face to face.
"Everything that was endless motion turned into stillness. All
the roads that once seemed infinite turned out to be dead ends. Maybe they are
trying to open our eyes?" whispered the few who dared to wonder.
Some believed it was a punishment—the price for humanity turning
its back on the living path, for immersing itself in the illusion of instant
existence, forgetting true depth. Others understood it was not the end, but a
beginning. The beginning of a new era, when humanity would be required not to
run through space, but to find meaning in stillness and silence. When every
closed door is a challenge, a call for a conscious choice, for rethinking.
In this frozen world without portals, the journey inward begins,
where the only path is the path of consciousness and feeling. Where any
movement is not the steps of feet, but the flow of thought and spirit.
"No ways"—"no options"—sounded like a sentence,
but it also held hope. Hope that without endless transitions and instant
relief, humanity could find itself again. That it would once again become the
master of its own time, its own space, its own life.
And in this stillness, a new freedom is born—to be here and now,
not to run from oneself, not to hide behind instant transitions, but to live
every moment fully and deeply.
In this world without portals, only one path remained—the path of
inner movement. A path where each step is measured not by distance, but by
strength and meaning. This path cannot be found on maps or traversed by
portals. It can only be walked with the heart and mind, opening door after door
within oneself.
And perhaps, it is in this stillness, in this calm, that the real is born.
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