The Man the Mountain Kept (M2K)

Beneath the cold and damp earth, Hulio sat with his knees drawn to his chest.

The humid air clung to his skin like whispers, and massive roots dangled from above—like fingers watching in silence.

What day was it? What week?

Time didn't move straight down here. Sometimes, he felt as if he had just closed his eyes… only to wake and find a beard on his face. Sometimes he opened his eyes and everything he once knew—voices, hunger, fear—felt like fragments of a dream slipping through his fingers.

And each time he tried to still his mind, the voice came back.

"You still think you matter?"

It wasn't a creature's voice. It was his own thoughts, pulled from the depths and turned into something that could speak—something that split him from the inside out.

"No one's looking for you. No one remembers you. Up there… you're already buried."

---

Aboveground. Rio de Janeiro.

Camera shutters snapped. Microphones lined the steps.

Dozens of journalists crowded the colonial-era building—headquarters of Moreira Corp.—awaiting the official announcement.

In the center of the spotlight stood an old man in a grey suit, gripping a silver cane etched with the family crest. This was Dom Aureliano Moreira, patriarch of the great family whose influence still reached deep into Brazil's cabinet.

His face was stone. His gaze, as sharp as a blade.

"We, the Moreira family, hereby declare Hulio Moreira legally deceased. No body has been found. No credible proof of life exists. In order to protect our lineage and the honor of the Moreira name, we are removing him from the official family registry."

The cameras exploded in flashes like lightning.

Beside Dom Aureliano stood a man with a hard, weathered face—Captain (Ret.) Antonio Moreira, Hulio's biological father. His eyes were hollow. He stood like the shadow of a once-great soldier who had saved countless lives in Brazil's largest military campaigns.

But today, before all the flashing cameras, he could not save his own son from being erased from history.

"So this whole time... what did they think Hulio was?" he whispered, the words barely audible—even to himself.

---

Deep below the earth, the echoes of those words struck Hulio like a hammer.

He didn't know how he could hear them. Voices from above. But somehow, they reached him. Maybe through stone, maybe through root. Or maybe... the mountain itself was alive.

"I'm already dead…"

"I've been erased from history…"

He collapsed onto the damp ground, breath caught in his throat.

"If I've died up there… then what is this place? Hell? Heaven? Something in between?"

He clutched his chest, where the glowing root-shaped wound still pulsed red. He refused to believe he was just a lingering ghost.

"I'm still alive," he whispered. "I'm still human."

He fought back against the voices—those twisted whispers that told him he was nothing, that he should just die, that his life had no meaning.

No.

Hulio made a choice.

He would find the source of the voice. And if it was some creature that wished to destroy him, he would fight.

If it was a shadow of who he used to be—he would bury it with his own hands.

---

São Paulo.

Mateo Moreira stared out the window of his luxury sports car. He had just finished an interview with a popular business magazine. The sky above Brazil looked crystal-clear, almost innocent.

But his father's words still echoed inside his head—Julius Moreira, cold and calculated:

"The Moreira name must remain clean. We erase the weak from our history. That includes Antonio and his son."

Mateo had said nothing at the time. But this morning, a message had arrived on his phone. No name. Just a single image.

A young man stood at the edge of a jungle, his eyes dark, his body filthy.

Could it be… Hulio?

He's still alive.

Mateo stared at the image. Then answered the phone.

"Send our men there. Now."

"The target?"

"Make sure Hulio doesn't make it out alive."

The public had no idea what kind of man Mateo truly was.

In front of cameras, Mateo Moreira played the role of a kind, loyal, noble soul. The golden heir who defied his grandfather's orders and swore never to stop searching for Hulio. His statement melted hearts across the nation.

The Brazilian media praised him as a hero. His name soared in popularity. He was hailed as the future noble who carried both compassion and power.

Wealthy women and international celebrities declared their admiration for him. Mateo relished every second.

He flew to Lombok, Indonesia, and held a massive press conference at the base of Mount Rinjani—complete with private helicopters, international SAR teams, and the Moreira flag waving behind him.

"We will not rest until we find Hulio," Mateo said, his voice heavy with emotion.

Days later, a body was discovered—young, unrecognizable, face too damaged to confirm an identity. But there was a glowing, root-shaped wound on the chest.

Mateo wept for the cameras. The body was flown back to Brazil.

The public adored him. He had "brought his brother's body home." Mateo was their hero.

But only Mateo and his men knew—the body wasn't Hulio.

---

Deep inside Mount Rinjani, Hulio kept walking.

Here, there was no day. No night. No dusk. Time didn't move—it only lingered.

Ancient roots crawled across the cavern walls and ceiling. Steam hung thick in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a sound—like the breath of a prehistoric beast—echoed. Or maybe it was only his fractured mind whispering back at him.

But Hulio didn't stop.

He had made his choice: to find the source of the voice that had tried to break him.

His steps led him into a vast chamber carved of stone, lit by an eerie glow from the crystals above.

And someone was waiting.

Not a beast.

Not a demon.

Himself.

A version of him—older, taller, quieter.

The figure's eyes glowed red, like the embers that burned in Hulio's chest.

"What... is this?" Hulio whispered.

The figure didn't answer. It stepped into the light—and Hulio saw everything. The same face. The same body. But something was different. This version stood with purpose. He knew who he was. He knew where he was going.

"You're already dead in the world above, Hulio," the voice echoed. "But here, you can choose to live again… or become part of the mountain."

"Who are you?"

"I am you. The version of you that stopped begging. The version that stopped being afraid. The version that understood: the world will never give you a place. You must take it."

Hulio trembled.

"Take it... how?"

"Take back the name they stole. Take back the life they buried.

But first… you must kill me."

Hulio stepped back. But something deep inside him had started to burn.

Maybe he had died up there.

But here—beneath the ancient roots and molten stone—Hulio Moreira was being born again.

And the fire…

had just been lit.