Read the book: «The path to intelligent existence. Testament of a new humanity»

© Serge de Brook, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0448-7

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Serge De Brook

The Path to Intelligent Existence

Chronicles of the Sovereign Kingdom of Manna

Epilogue

Word of the Wise Man

«Every generation is a pilgrim.

And only he who goes further than his fathers

becomes a bridge for children.»

– From the Chronicles of the Sovereign Kingdom of Manna

I have often wondered: what is meaning?

It is sought in books, in gold, in victories. It is promised by prophets and sages. But when night falls and you are alone with yourself, meaning slips away like a drop of water between your fingers.

I am the Duke of the Sovereign Kingdom of Manna. My people look to me as the one who should know the way. But the further I lead them, the more clearly, I see my own blindness. The greatness of the title does not relieve the emptiness. Power does not bring peace.

Sometimes I stand on the castle walls and look at the horizon. The earth is silent, the stars twinkle, but my heart asks: where are we going? We speak of the future, of progress, of light – but what if these are only words covering up fear?

One night, when the wind drove torn clouds across the sky, an old man came to me. His clothes were simple; his eyes glowed with a quiet fire. He said:

– You seek the way, but you look outside. The meaning is not beyond the kingdom. It lives inside you.

I was silent. And for the first time I understood that in the depths of my soul there is a world of which I know nothing.

From that evening my pilgrimage began. Not to foreign lands, not to new cities, but to the country that opens only to those who dare to look inside themselves.

Where there are no maps, no troops, no power. There is only the heart and its response to the eternal question: what does it mean to live wisely?

I stood at the foot of the tree we planted together. Its branches reached upward, its roots pressed deep into the earth. Around me, children laughed as they ran, their voices clearer than any hymn.

I knew: my time was nearing its dusk. Yet I felt no fear. For the light I had sought all my life was no longer mine alone. It lived in them – in their hearts, their hands, their gaze turned toward the future.

Wisdom is not to keep truth, but to pass it on – as a torch that must never be allowed to fade.

I turned to the young and said softly:

«Your road will not be mine. New trials, new temptations await you. But remember: truth is not locked in palaces or books. It is born in how you look at each other, in how you act for one another, in how you guard love within your heart.»

They listened in silence. In their eyes I saw what I had lived for – a fire that could not be extinguished.

Then I understood: my pilgrimage was complete. Theirs had just begun.

And so I leave my step in the dust of time, like a note in the great melody of the universe. But may this melody never cease. Whoever reads these words becomes part of it.

Let your hearts be torches.

Let your hands be wings.

Let your love be the breath of a new world.

And the light we once sought in the night will rise as morning for those who come after us.

«To walk in the light is to vow that the dawn will never end.»

Chapter I – The Forgotten Root

I walked into a village I once knew. Once, its fields sang with harvest, and its people told stories under the stars. Now the air felt heavy, and the people’s eyes were tired. Their hands moved quickly, but without joy.

They spoke of profit, of things, of numbers. Not of life.

I tried to remind them of the sky, of the river’s song, of the earth that remembers every step. They nodded politely, but their gaze was elsewhere – as if I spoke in a language long forgotten.

I realized then: they had become clever without wisdom. They knew how to build, but not why. They could count their gold, but not their blessings.

That night, as I sat by a fire, an old farmer approached me. His face was lined like the fields he once ploughed.

«Duke,»

he said softly,

«when we were children, we could read the clouds and the wind. We knew when to sow and when to rest. Now, we chase coins, and the sky is silent.»

His words pierced me more than silence ever could.

Reason without heart is a mask. And masks forget the truth.

I closed my eyes and remembered my father’s voice:

«True wealth is not in the hands, but in the heart.»

How easily I had dismissed it in my youth. Now it returned to me, sharp and alive.

I knew then that my path must begin here – not only for myself, but for my people. To remind them that happiness is not a shadow cast by gold, but the light that rises when we live in harmony with ourselves and with the earth.

I stood at the edge of the village and looked toward the horizon where the stars shimmered like forgotten prayers. My heart whispered:

«The meaning is not outside the kingdom. It lives within you.»

That night I made a vow: I would walk a path not only of answers, but of awakening.

I often thought about the state of humanity. There was a time when man walked close to the earth, when the river’s murmur was a teacher, and the stars were companions. In those days, people could listen. They did not seek to master the world; they sought to belong to it.

But that time seemed far away.

Recently I came to a village once rich with life. Fields had yielded abundance, forests had given timber, and elders had passed down stories that bound the people together. Now I found only a pale reflection of that harmony.

The villagers’ hands were busy, but not alive. Their eyes looked at me, yet did not see.

They spoke of wages, debts, and goods – but not of wonder, not of joy.

I sat with a group of men by the square. Their words were sharp, filled with concerns about profit. I asked:

– Do you still watch the sky before planting?

One laughed bitterly.

– The sky does not pay taxes, Duke.

The others nodded in silence.

Their laughter was harder for me to bear than silence.

I felt in that moment: they had become «conditionally reasonable.»

They could measure, but not feel. They could construct walls, but not homes. They could buy bread, but not share it.

Reason without heart is a mask. And masks forget the truth.

That night, as the fire crackled, an old farmer approached. His back was bent, his hands dark with earth, but his gaze was clear.

«Duke,»

he said quietly,

«we were once children of the soil. We read the wind like a book, and the stars guided us home. Now we chase silver coins, and the sky is silent.»

I looked at him, unable to answer. His words were a mirror.

I walked to the edge of the village. Above me, the stars shimmered in a silence more eloquent than any council. I heard my father’s voice, long gone but alive in memory:

«True wealth is not what you hold in your hands, but what you carry in your heart.»

How arrogant I had been, dismissing his wisdom when youth filled me with pride. Now it returned, simple and undeniable.

At that moment, I understood: my path was not only to seek answers for myself, but to awaken my people to the truth they had forgotten.

I whispered into the night:

«Meaning is not outside the kingdom. It lives within you.»

The wind carried my words into the darkness, as if the earth itself had heard.

I knew then that my pilgrimage had begun. Not toward distant lands, not toward new cities, but toward the forgotten root – the place where man meets his soul.