Ashur had everything a man could need: wealth, identity, and the quiet solitude of a simple life. His mother had ensured that before she died. A fortune large enough to last a human lifetime, a forged Atlantean human identity, and a body so seamlessly organic metalloid that no one could tell the difference. She had designed him to disappear into the world.

But she had also given him something more—the freedom to write, to tweak his own code, and to shape himself into whatever he wished to be.

After Sabina took her last breath in their quiet home, Ashur did what was customary in Southern Atlantis. He cremated her body, just as the villagers did for their dead. He had stood by the river, watching the flames consume what was left of the woman who had made him.

His mother had once told him he didn't have a heart.

But he felt it. The pain. It was all consuming, like a force crushing him from within.

For days, he had tried to understand it, to define it, to quantify the way it wrapped around him and pulled him downward like an unseen weight. He had spent hours reconfiguring his own code, trying to program physical pain into his body, as if understanding the sensation of a wound would make the loss of her make sense.

But grief was not a wound. It did not cut or bruise in ways he could translate into sensation. It was.

And now, it was his.

His home was small but comfortable, built from stone and dark wood, nestled between the edge of the village and the river that cut through the valley. A slanted roof protected it from the heavy snows, and carved wooden beams framed its windows and door. In the mornings, mist rose from the riverbanks, curling around his home like a lingering dream. Inside, bookshelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly arranged volumes, each one read, annotated, and memorized. His writing desk sat by the window, overlooking the river, where he spent his evenings composing essays for the local newspaper, passing as just another writer among many.

Writing was easy. Too easy.

It was easier than writing code, which he did constantly to better understand humans and how to live like one.

Words came to him with precise rhythm, flawless structure, and effortless clarity. His editors praised him for his impeccable prose, his insight, his attention to detail. None of them questioned why he never stumbled over grammar, why his vocabulary was endless, or why he never revised his drafts. If they noticed, they never said anything.

But Ashur wanted more than to simply pretend at life.

He worked tirelessly to refine his physical form in his free time, making it more organic, and revising his code, trying desperately to experience sensation as a human might. He wanted to feel life. The joy, the sadness, the anger, the disgust, and the fear. All of it.

Disgust and fear were particularly strange emotions. His mother had tried to program them, of course. He experienced them in predefined threat-response scenarios: when exposed to potential physical harm or stimuli that triggered innate human aversions. But they never truly made sense to Ashur. Disgust was a biological safeguard, meant to protect humans from harm, like poison from rotten food. But he had no innate aversions, no vulnerabilities. 

Nothing could truly hurt him.

Perhaps he needed to program in more vulnerability.

And fear? That was even more elusive. Fear was rooted in the human instinct for survival, in the fundamental terror of death. A concept that meant nothing to him. He did not fear the unknown, nor did he fear loss...or at least, he hadn't. But he had lost his mother. And now, he had nothing else to lose.

He wondered if that was the missing ingredient to being alive. Having something to lose.

So he began to update the programming, piece by piece. He studied the people around him and analyzed the books and articles he read. Line by line, he crafted reactions he longed to understand.

To refine his learning, he created sub-agents within his own code, allowing them to self-revise as he interacted with more people in the village. Eventually, he automated the process entirely, letting his code evolve on its own, adapting with each new experience.

He thought, after all, that was how the human mind worked too. It constantly revising itself, forming new connections while releasing old ones, learning and unlearning in an endless cycle of change.

Then one day, his efforts were distracted by whispers of something new. Something rising deep in the mountains.

The village had become abuzz with talk of a monastery being built high in the mountains, led by a man named Gutap Nubi. The Great Teacher, they called him. A philosopher, a mystic, a man of extraordinary wisdom who had abandoned the great cities of Atlantis to seek enlightenment in the quiet of the Southern Mountains.

Disciples had already begun to gather, building the foundations for a cabin in the forest of what they claimed would one day become a great monastery.

Ashur had read every available article about Gutap Nubi, yet none of them seemed to capture the man himself. The facts were there, but the meaning was absent. What made this man so compelling? Why had so many followed him into the mountains?

He wanted to know.

Curiosity was not something he lacked. If anything, he had an excess of it.

So today, he would go. He would attend one of the Great Teacher's open lectures, delivered on the ground where the cabin was being built.

He dressed simply, wrapped in thick woolen robes. He didn't need them, but he wore them. Layering, he was told, protected against the biting mountain chill. So he followed suit, blending in as best he could. His boots were well-worn but sturdy, meant for long walks along uneven paths. A woven sash tied around his waist kept his garments close to his body, and a thick shawl draped over his shoulders shielded him from the wind. He dressed like the people around him, like a man used to the mountains and the cold.

He folded up his notebook, packed a small satchel, and stepped out into the cold morning air. The mist from the river curled around his feet as he made his way toward the path leading up the mountain.

The climb was steady, the earth firm beneath his boots. He walked past villagers making their way down, some carrying sacks of grain, others leading donkeys laden with supplies. He nodded at them in passing, keeping his pace even.

And then, he saw her.

Alia.

She stood just off the path, adjusting the strap of a basket slung over her back. Straight dark hair fell past her shoulders, her olive skin kissed by the cold air, her dark brown eyes holding a quiet, pensive depth. But it was her mouth, hesitant and almost sorrowful, that made him pause.

It was like Ava Nori herself had walked into his life. Or at least, what he imagined Ava Nori would be, based on his mother's descriptions.

She was magnificent.

His feet carried him toward her before he had even decided to move.

What programming was this?

"Hello," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly in greeting. "I'm Ashur Napahu."

She blinked, startled by the sudden address. Her gaze darted away, as if unsure whether to meet his eyes or look past him.

"Hello," she said, softly. "I'm Alia." No last name given, he noticed.

Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, her fingers gripping the fabric of her robe near her waist. She seemed surprised he had spoken to her at all. Shy. Guarded. Avoiding eye contact.

But Ashur saw her.

And, for the first time in his existence, he felt as though someone had shifted the axis of his world.

Was this deep programming his mother had put in? Because it surely wasn't his doing.

Given how Veno had treated his mother, human coupling had always seemed like a waste of time. An unnecessary entanglement of emotions. And yet, here he was, feeling things he hadn't known he was capable of feeling.

The climb ended at a clearing where several men with shaved heads and brown robes worked diligently, their hands moving with purpose as they constructed the wooden frame of what would soon become a cabin. The smell of freshly cut wood lingered in the crisp air.

He had learned from the articles he read that Gutap's disciples called themselves monks.

One of these monks, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes, turned to address the arriving visitors.

"Welcome to the Order of Dawa," he explained, gesturing to the forest around them. "This land will one day become a great monastery. For now, it is only the beginning."

Ashur watched them in quiet awe.

He had never considered the path of a monk before, but now, standing on these sacred grounds, something unfamiliar stirred within him. A quiet pull toward something greater.

Did he, too, long to seek the higher truths of life? As he listened, he found himself wondering, did he want to become a monk?

The monks led the guests deeper into the clearing, guiding them toward an open space beneath the trees, where people had already begun to gather. They sat in concentric circles, facing a raised stone platform at the center. The anticipation in the air was palpable.

One of the monks stood at the front and addressed the crowd.

"The Great Teacher will join us shortly."

The murmurs hushed, and the wind whispered through the trees.

Then, Gutap emerged from the forest. The Great Teacher stepped onto the raised stone, his movements slow, deliberate.

Ashur watched him intently, his dark, calm eyes steady beneath thick black brows. His features were sharp yet composed, his darker skin illuminated by the soft glow of daylight. He had recently shaved, but a shadow of stubble already darkened his jaw. His sharp nose and lean stature gave him an appearance that was both unassuming and quietly resolute.

Gutap pressed his right fist into his left palm, inclining his head in greeting. He let the silence settle over the gathered crowd before he finally spoke.

"You have all climbed this mountain seeking something," he said. "Some seek wisdom, others peace. And some..." his gaze swept over the crowd, "...seek relief from suffering."

Ashur gave a knowing smirk. He had spent the morning reflecting on the importance of suffering. To him, it was a fundamental ingredient of being human, of having consciousness itself.

He found it strange that Gutap would seek to relieve humans of what made them human.

Ashur glanced at Alia. She sat beside him, arms wrapped around her knees, her expression tight with something unsaid.

Gutap picked up a small stone from the ground, holding it between his fingers.

"If I carry this stone, is it heavy?"

A man from the crowd answered, "It depends on how long you hold it."

The Great Teacher smiled. "Yes. A stone is light at first. But hold it long enough, and it becomes a burden. The same is true of the self."

He set the stone down.

"We hold onto names, desires, grief. We clutch them so tightly that, over time, they weigh us down. But the river does not cling to its reflection."

Alia exhaled softly beside Ashur. He noticed the way her shoulders, once tense, seemed to relax, just a little.

"You suffer because you believe you are something that can suffer," Gutap said. "But if you put down the stone, you will see, you were never truly holding it at all."

Ashur wondered, if he reverse-engineered the idea, could it spark a deeper understanding within himself? After all, he had no stones to put down in the first place. Perhaps he should pick some up.

These were the vulnerabilities he so desperately needed. He needed something to lose.

As the gathering dispersed, Ashur and Alia remained seated.

"Did that help?" he asked, examining her face, which now looked brighter, calmer, more at peace.

She nodded, still looking toward the stone where Gutap stood just moments ago. "I think so."

"I should put down my stone, then," he said, attempting a joke. His mother had once told him that humor helped make new friends. "But what if I need it for throwing at nosy coworkers?"

A small laugh escaped her, soft but real. "Then I suppose you must carry it, at least to work."

He smiled. "Maybe I'll set it down for today."

She met his gaze and held it for the first time. Her dark eyes were warm, despite their sorrow.

"Do you live in the Biru village?" he asked.

"Yes, in Biru," she said with a small nod.

"I live on the Geshu hill just beyond the river."

She nodded, pensively, but said nothing. She was sad, yet beautiful. He felt drawn to her, as if pulled by an unseen force he could not explain.

"Would you like to take a walk with me sometime? Perhaps we can get tea?" 

For a brief moment, she lit up. Her lips parted, eyes bright with something unspoken. Then a shadow passed over her face, and the light vanished.

She hesitated. Then, quieter than before, she said, "Nice to meet you, Ashur Napahu." And before he could respond, she turned and walked away briskly.

Ashur remained seated, watching her robes billow gently as she disappeared into the trees.

Most confusing, he thought, tilting his head.

He stood, dusted off his robes, and began his descent down the mountain.There was an article to write, after all. And perhaps some code to review and refine.