The Gate Traveler

In Calgary, I rented us a house on the outskirts of the city, close to the direction of Mount Rundle. We needed a while on Earth to finish the last tasks. Rue resumed his patrolling, delivering a daily “report” in the evening that left the three of us with a telepathic headache. He stopped being glued to the TV, at least.

Setting up my workstation, I continued to write a full account of my journey. For the first time, I felt the full impact of the stats. I always had an excellent memory, but not to the extent that I could remember exact conversations, facial expressions, or every minute detail of an occurrence. Now I could like it happened an hour ago and not eight years ago. It shocked me in the beginning, and I thought I might be imagining it and creating false scenes in my mind—but no, I REMEMBERED EVERYTHING!

“I thought you were done with the lists?” Mahya asked, her eyes curious as she glanced at the computer screen.

“I am.”

“So what are you writing?” she continued, tilting her head slightly.

“Everything that happened to me since discovering the Gate,” I explained, leaning back in my chair. “I want to warn Earth so they can get ready.”

“Can I read it?” she asked, leaning forward, looking eager.

“Sure, when I’m done,” I said with a smile.

Al approached me next, his steps slow but deliberate. “Why did we never visit Ikea?” he asked, his brow furrowed, as if it had been on his mind for a while.

I shrugged, glancing at him. “I don’t know. We just didn’t.”

“I’m going to visit Ikea and need money,” he said, nodding to himself, as though making an important decision.

I gave him $3,000, then another $5,000, and then another $3,000. It looked like we had some visits to make, and Al looked smug. I would have suspected he did it on purpose to visit more drug dealers, but I heard him gush to Mahya about Ikea, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and continued writing.

Mahya came to me again, her expression serious. “I need you to channel Restore into the cars, bikes, ATV, and jet skis.”

“It will kill them,” I pointed out, frowning as I stared at her, unsure if she really meant it.

She gave me the look, her eyes narrowing. “I know.”

I was utterly confused, my eyebrows knitting together. “Why are we killing our transportation?”

“Remember the smart homes we saw in that news story, where all the systems went haywire?” she asked, her tone patient but firm. When I nodded, still unsure where this was going, she continued, “I don’t want to risk something like that happening in a mana world. We know Restore fries electronics and everything electric, but the physical parts stay intact without a problem.”

“We need one jeep for everyday use,” I added, still trying to make sense of her request.

“No problem, just kill the rest,” she said with a shrug, as if it were the simplest solution in the world.

So, I channeled Restore into all the vehicles. At first, I thought about keeping three jet skis for us and donating the rest, but Mahya wouldn’t hear of it. In the end, I had to “kill” a Grand Wagoneer (courtesy of the drug dealers) that only needed a small dose of Restore, and the second-hand Wrangler that needed a lot more. Mahya put her motorcycle back together—it didn’t need any restoration—but I still flooded it with mana to kill it. Al’s bike and my ATV? Both met their untimely end. It took me a couple of days to regenerate, and then I systematically “murdered” 12 jet skis.

I expected Mahya to jump on the vehicles project after my acts of murder, but she surprised me. She stored all the vehicles, took out the balloon, and began embroidering it with gold wire. Every time she looked at me, I felt the need to dust off my shoulders smugly. I got the evil eye every time, and she threatened to make me join the project. I still felt the need to dust my shoulders occasionally and immediately vacate the premises.

Canada is crazy about hockey, and they infected Al with the bug. Since it was summer, there were no frozen lakes, but that didn’t stop the Canadians. The city was full of skating rinks, and Al was in heaven. I was less in heaven when he took the rest of the money to buy hockey gear. From sticks and nets to pucks and skates in every size in triplicates or more.

When I tried to complain about it, he reminded me about three and a half tons of coffee, and I had to admit defeat and drive two hours to visit some drug dealers. We had a busy night, my nerves wrote me a complaint letter, and Al and Mahya were all smiles. He got more drugs, she got more guns and ammo, and I got $37,000. I used to think about Mahya as a playful, trouble-making imp, but lately, my impression of her shifted to a crazy, gun-toting maniac.

While writing, so many memories came flooding back. The first time I met Rue—then Stretch—baby Sophia, meeting Lis for the first time. Our two years in London before rescuing Mahya, our journey around Europe, and all the crazy workshops. My first dungeon and the giant, terrifying snake. Meeting Al for the first time—Spirits, he was such an ass back then. China, saying goodbye to Lis and those stinky rats. The house on the ocean with the balloon in the air, my show in SF, and that interesting flight to Vegas. Sonak is still an idiot. Milking Vegas, the rescue, the insane robbery, and so much more.

During my writing, I laughed, shed a few tears, facepalmed more times than I care to count, and shook my head in embarrassment, resignation, helplessness, and probably every other emotion under the sun. It was quite the rollercoaster. Comparing myself now to who I was nine years ago, when Sophie died, it was like looking at two completely different people. Back then, I was closed off, angry, and weighed down by grief. Now, I felt like I’d shed layers of myself that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. Sure, I still had some work to do—I wasn’t delusional about that. I was self-aware enough to know I lacked empathy for people I didn’t form a connection with, and, if I did make that connection, I tended to get a little too clingy. It’s a balancing act I hadn’t quite mastered. But despite those flaws, I could see I was a better version of myself, miles ahead of who I used to be.

I felt lighter, like some weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Maybe it was the Vitality mental aspect that helped, or maybe it was just the progress I’d made emotionally and mentally over the years. Honestly, I didn’t care what caused it. What mattered was that I enjoyed life so much more now. I laughed—a lot—and I had friends who I could do all kinds of crazy stuff with, things I never would’ve dared to try before. I let go of so much baggage I’d been dragging around like a twisted, hidden treasure locked deep inside me. My journey helped me shed all that, helped me leave the past where it belonged and actually start looking forward to the future.

And the future? Well, the future looked pretty damn amazing.

I felt like a phoenix that had been through the crucible, reborn in the fire, stronger and somehow more alive than ever before. That feeling was so powerful, it inspired me in ways I hadn’t expected. I ended up writing two songs to try and articulate everything I was going through. Or, more accurately, I didn’t write them—they just burst out of me, fully formed, like they’d been waiting there all along, simmering under the surface until I was ready to let them out. And I even played the piano for the first time—I was that inspired.

Phoenix’s Flight

Verse 1:
In the heart’s forge, where sorrows smolder,
A phoenix stirs, its wings aflame.
The past, a pyre—memories grow colder,
From ashes, hope ignites its game.

Chorus: 
Rise from ashes, wings unfurled,
Let go of pain, embrace the world.
In flames reborn, your spirit soars,
Healed and whole, forevermore.

Each tear shed fuels the fiery ascent,
Breaking chains that bound despair.
Embrace the flames, their fierce intent,
To lift you high into the air.

Rise from ashes, wings unfurled,
Let go of pain, embrace the world.
In flames reborn, your spirit soars,
Healed and whole, forevermore.

Each tear shed fuels the fiery ascent,
Breaking chains that bound despair.
Embrace the flames, their fierce intent,
To lift you high into the air.

Verse 2:
Embers of memory, fierce and bright,
Kindle anew, a phoenix’s birth.
From smoldering remnants, take your flight,
Feathers ablaze, reclaim your worth.

Chorus: 
Rise from ashes, wings unfurled,
Let go of pain, embrace the world.
In flames reborn, your spirit soars,
Healed and whole, forevermore.

Each tear shed fuels the fiery ascent,
Breaking chains that bound despair.
Embrace the flames, their fierce intent,
To lift you high into the air.

Bridge:
The pyre of heartache, once consuming,
Now fuels ascent, a celestial dance.
In skies uncharted, find your blooming,
A soul set free from circumstance.

Verse 3:
Embers fade, yet memories remain,
A tapestry of ache and might.
From smoky remnants, courage gained,
The phoenix sings of dawn’s first light.

Chorus: 
Rise from ashes, wings unfurled,
Let go of pain, embrace the world.
In flames reborn, your spirit soars,
Healed and whole, forevermore.

Outro:
In flight, you trace new constellations,
Each star a beacon in the night.
Wings whisper tales of transformations,
As healing winds lift you to height.

 

Wings of Rebirth

Verse 1:
In the caverns of my heart, ember-lit,
I cradled memories like fragile glass,
Each shard a testament to pain endured,
A fractured mirror reflecting my past.

Chorus:
I am the phoenix, rising from the pyre,
Wings aflame with hope, my spirit higher.
In the alchemy of healing, I aspire,
To rewrite my story, set my heart on fire.

Verse 2:
But the alchemist moon whispered secrets,
How to transmute sorrow into gold,
To weave new constellations from old wounds,
And find solace in stories yet untold.

Chorus:
I am the phoenix, rising from the pyre,
Wings aflame with hope, my spirit higher.
In the alchemy of healing, I aspire,
To rewrite my story, set my heart on fire.

Verse 3:
So I stitched stardust into my veins,
Painted galaxies upon my skin,
For the universe is vast, and I am but
A wanderer seeking where dreams begin.

Chorus:
I am the phoenix, rising from the pyre,
Wings aflame with hope, my spirit higher.
In the alchemy of healing, I aspire,
To rewrite my story, set my heart on fire.

Verse 4:
Now, I stand on the precipice of dawn,
My scars no longer chains but battle hymns,
And as the sun kisses my broken edges,
I leap—my phoenix heart ablaze, wings trimmed.

Chorus:
I am the phoenix, rising from the pyre,
Wings aflame with hope, my spirit higher.
In the alchemy of healing, I aspire,
To rewrite my story, set my heart on fire.

Outro:
For the past is but a canvas, and I,
An artist with colors yet untried,
I’ll paint my tomorrows with hope’s brushstroke,
And let healing winds carry me skyward.

 

It took me nearly two full months, working twelve to fifteen hours a day, but I finally finished my account. I printed one copy and handed it to Mahya to read, along with all the pictures I’d taken throughout the journey. I heard her laughing her ass off more than once, and I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t because of my witty writing, but more at my expense.

In the evening of the first day she was reading my account, she came to me and asked, “If you had no electricity, how would you use the enlarger.”

“Mirrors and the sun. Why?”

She burst out laughing again and said, “Don’t you ever dare to protest the name Clueless. It fits you even more than John.”

I just looked at her, perplexed and confused.

She hit the back of my head and said, “You have an Adaptable Light Ball.”

I facepalmed. I was never getting rid of the Clueless moniker.

While Mahya was reading, I went looking for a bookbinder. I had a lot of books without runes or magic scripts that I could bind in the “technological” way. I found a big bookbinding service in Calgary and brought them all the books on A4 pages, held by rubber bands. They stared at me and stared even more when they saw the letters were like nothing they had ever seen.

The clerk at the bookbinding service, a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and kind eyes, looked at the pages with curiosity. “What is that?”

“Fantasy books for Dungeons and Dragons.”

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aren’t they supposed to have nice covers?”

“When they will be published, sure. Right now, I’m looking for a company that will buy them from me, but to do that, I need them bound.”

The clerk nodded, giving me an encouraging smile. “Good luck, man.”

They bound all my books, and I went looking for a bookbinder that did traditional binding with glue and thread.

I found somebody like that!

I told her the same story I’d used at the other place, but when I came back to collect the books, she confronted me, her expression a mix of curiosity and suspicion. She flat-out refused to believe they were just fantasy props. “Every time I try to read them,” she said, her voice low and uneasy, “it feels like my eyes are sliding right off the text. And then the headaches... I’ve been having the strangest dreams since I started working on them. They’re not normal, are they?”

Her words lingered, and it was clear she wasn’t going to drop it. I could see the mix of fear and fascination in her eyes, and I knew exactly what was happening. The books weren’t just some props—they were part of the truth I had written, the actual story.

I met her gaze and promised, “I’ll give you answers soon.” She didn’t realize it yet, but I had already written those answers in my account—the truth of everything that had happened. As I added her to my future mailing list, I knew she’d be among the first to learn what was really going on.

Mahya was done with the reading, and we moved to the next stage of my plan. I prepared a long list of addresses of every government on Earth and of the main management of every first responder force—like firefighters and paramedics, etc. We bought more A4 paper, sent the file to the printers, and also the three of us used the spell Copy Text to duplicate the story again and again. When Mahya would run out of mana, she would put copies in envelopes and write the addresses. It took us two weeks to finish the full list, but the envelopes were ready.

While Mahya was almost done with the balloon, I searched for sites that allow a person to publish a story and preppers and survivalists’ sites through the internet, social media, and various forums. I uploaded my story to all the writing sites but didn’t publish it yet. I kept it as a draft.

Mahya was done with the balloon, and we went to a field to fill it with air until it floated. Once it was up, she sent Al and me to make sure nobody was around. After we gave her the all-clear, she casually shot the balloon with a rifle!

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” I cried, staring at her in disbelief.

She just laughed and pointed at the balloon. There wasn’t even a mark on it, let alone a hole. The thing looked completely untouched. My jaw practically hit the ground. She clapped me on the back, still laughing.

Then she handed me a bow and had me shoot arrows at it. Same result. Nothing. The balloon was still pristine. Next, we tried burning it with a torch, but it didn’t even singe. I had to admit; we had one hell of a balloon.

After all that, she did something weird. For a second, I felt foggy, and suddenly I became convinced that we were starving and needed to go eat right away. Al enthusiastically agreed, and we started walking off without a second thought.

But Mahya’s laughter stopped us. “Close your eyes, boys, and give me your hands.”

That didn’t make any sense, especially when we were clearly in desperate need of food. She actually grabbed our shoulders to stop us and pricked my finger.

“Ouch! What the hell are you doing?” I snapped, getting more than a little annoyed.

She did something, and just like that, my mind cleared. I remembered the balloon, and that we were supposed to be testing it. Also, I’d already eaten like an hour ago.

“How did you do that?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around it.

Mahya looked pretty pleased with herself. “Runes,” she said, pointing to a row of them on the balloon’s side. She listed them off—Bend Light, Memory, Confusion, Obfuscation, Recall, Clarity, Blood, Protection, Binding—and then pointed at the key rune, the one she used our blood on to cancel the effect.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

She grinned. “I’m a genius. Don’t you forget it!”

“This is truly a remarkable feat,” Al chimed in, sounding genuinely impressed.

Mahya gave us both a nod. “Thanks, boys.”

After we were done with the balloon, we had a short deliberation on whether to go or delay and came to an agreement to delay for a short while for workshops.

Mahya had over 250, I had 199, and Al had 84. Since I was stocking for two, it was less than it looked. We decided Mahya would start working on one jeep to convert it to Magitech, and Al and I would attend workshops.

 

• Advanced Painting Techniques
• Carving for Beginners
• Glassblowing Fundamentals
• Woodworking: Building Your First Project
• Leather Crafting Essentials
• Metalworking and Blacksmithing: The Art of Shaping Metal
• Creative Writing Workshop: Finding Your Voice
• Bookbinding: Traditional Techniques
• Wine Tasting and Pairing
• Artisanal Cheese Making
• Gardening and Horticulture: Growing Your Own Vegetables
• Urban Farming: Maximizing Small Spaces
• Sustainable Living Practices
• Fitness and Personal Training: Getting Started
• Introduction to Ballroom Dancing
• Film Production and Editing Basics
• Graphic Design Essentials
• Web Development: Building Your First Website
• App Development for Beginners
• Social Media Marketing Strategies
• Photo Editing with Photoshop
• Interior Design: Transforming Your Space
• Fashion Design: Sketching
• Cosmetology Basics
• Nail Art and Design Techniques
• Hair Styling 101
• Mindfulness and Stress Management
• Public Speaking and Communication Skills
• Leadership and Management Training
• Entrepreneurship: Starting Your Own Business
• Financial Planning and Investment Strategies
• Career Development and Networking
• Environmental Conservation: Protecting Natural Resources
• The Basics of Rock Climbing
• Survival Skills and Wilderness Training

 

Attending workshops with Al felt like navigating a maze of contradictions so severe that I half-expected someone to diagnose him with a split personality disorder. In public, he carried himself with a regal air that completely vanished when it was just us. Still, beneath that polished exterior, his knack for picking up new skills was undeniable—though he never missed a chance to complain or hold his nose a little too high.

Our first workshop, Advanced Painting Techniques, started with Al strolling in like he was walking into a banquet, glancing at the brushes and paints like they weren’t quite up to his standards. “Is this really the best they have?” he complained. But by the end of the session, he’d produced a beautiful sunset.

We also tackled Carving for Beginners, where he wrinkled his nose at the sawdust. “This is... primitive,” he commented, but by the end, he carved a detailed lion’s head that caught everyone’s attention. I noticed a smile when the instructor praised his work.

Glassblowing Fundamentals was bound to be interesting. Al, clearly fascinated by the molten glass, got a little too close and singed both his sleeve and hand. So I had to heal him discreetly.

In Woodworking: Building Your First Project, Al couldn’t help but complain. “This is commoners’ work,” he grumbled, but his beautifully carved wooden box said otherwise. He might’ve acted like he was above it, but the care he put into his work was obvious.

As we attended more workshops—like Leather Crafting, Blacksmithing, and Creative Writing—Al’s pattern remained the same: he complained, acted as if the work was beneath him, but ended up excelling. His storytelling during the Creative Writing Workshop was where he really shined, spinning tales of daring princes and epic adventures. “I have come to realize that I possess an innate ability for storytelling,” he said earnestly, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t just recounting stories from his family’s archive.

By the end of the workshops, Al had proven himself talented in areas ranging from Wine Tasting to Artisanal Cheese Making, though his complaints never stopped. “This is not my calling,” he said while working on Web Development, yet there was no denying the satisfaction on his face when things finally clicked.

Despite his occasional arrogance, Al’s talent and determination were undeniable. He might’ve masked his insecurities with bravado, but watching him grow through these workshops was proof that even a prince could learn a thing or two.

Still, the experience left me feeling like I had whiplash. The minute we left the workshops, he reverted to the usual Al—overly formal language, but otherwise... normal. Not the arrogant prick he was in public. I started to suspect his pompous attitude might be a front for deeper self-esteem issues, but I didn’t have proof beyond what I saw during the workshops.

By the time we were done with the workshops, Mahya still hadn’t finished the jeep, but there was no reason to delay anymore. We spent the last bit of money, and as I watched the UPS truck drive away, filled with envelopes containing my story, a strange mix of relief and anxiety hit me. I had poured months into writing everything down—every detail, every memory—and now I was sending it out into the world. The weight of it suddenly felt immense. I wasn’t just telling a story. I was warning Earth about dangers it had never imagined. Would they believe me? Would they prepare in time? Or would they dismiss it as fantasy and continue on as if nothing had changed?

I pressed ‘publish’ on all the sites where I had uploaded my story. It felt oddly anticlimactic after so much work, like there should’ve been some grand moment. But instead, I just sat there staring at the screen for a long time.

Mahya and Al helped me spread the word, posting on hundreds of forums, social media pages, and survivalist sites:

This is not a fantasy!
Verify the facts given in the story.
Get ready to survive.
The Gate Traveler—with a link to the story on Royal Road, or Scribble Hub.

With the links shared and my story out there, I leaned back and let out a long breath. It was out of my hands now. The world would either take this seriously or they wouldn’t. A part of me hoped I wouldn’t need to be proven right.

I stored all the computers, wishing them well in my mind, as if they could somehow carry the weight of the warning. We packed up and drove to Mount Rundle. It was late, the quiet darkness surrounding us as we parked. I channeled Restore into the jeep, experiencing the familiar feel as the magic seeped into it, then stored it away. One more thing was behind us.

We stood there for a moment, just the three of us, looking at the Gate. The next step of our journey awaited. I felt a swirl of emotions—excitement, apprehension, and a strange sense of closure. Earth was behind me, at least for now, but the unknown stretched out ahead. Even Mahya, though reluctant, stepped forward to touch the Gate and read the World Information. We were in this together.

It was time for a new adventure.

---

Those are pictures of us.

I hope you believe me,

John Rue

Me and Rue

 

Lis

 

Mahya and Lyura

 

Alfonsen Holerand Mirbit VII

 

The Idiot, AKA Sonak Susil

 

Rabban Vin Fish