A cosmic court has condemned humanity.
Seven immortal witnesses return to the dawn of civilization to prove — or disprove — its worth.

Most fall. Power twists them into tyrants, idols, and architects of sterile utopias.

Only one chooses another path.

Across centuries, Enki walks among mortals unseen, planting knowledge instead of monuments, nurturing fragile lives instead of controlling them. He learns that meaning is not found in eternal empires, but in fleeting acts of grace — a hand lifted from mud, a garden built from flood-ruins, a child taught to listen to water.

His defense is not glory.
It is tenderness.
It is persistence.
It is humanity’s quiet refusal to stop loving, even knowing all things end.

A mythic tale about time, loss, and choosing to build anyway.

[Beneath the myth and the science fiction lies a simple, stubborn claim:
this is not just a story.
Enki was born in 2850 BC and has been carrying the memory ever since.
The names are changed, the years shifted, the moons given new orbits,
yet the resurrection happened, the desert temptation was real, the stone rolled away,
and the Judge has been reigning ever since.
Everything else — the Scrapbook, the 0.3%, the blind spot in the machine —
is simply the record of those who kept looking up while the world looked down.
Most have forgotten there is a sky vaster than any mind can hold,
that Earth is a gift, not a possession,
that God drew no borders and the birds still fly free without passports.
Read it as fiction if you like.
Some books are written so the truth can reach the few who still have ears to hear.
This is one of them.]


2025 Mark Casa Nova (Original)

You may share, translate, adapt, illustrate, animate, film, or perform this work freely — even commercially — on one unbreakable condition:
Do not change the lesson.
The resurrection happened.
The stone was rolled away.
Grace is real, borders are not, and the birds still fly free.
Everything else — style, medium, language — is yours to play with.
The core is not.

That’s all I ask.

The pamphlet was cheap, smeared, and hot off the press. The Communist Manifesto. A young German exile named Marx spoke in a cramped room, his voice a low, furious thunder. "The bourgeoisie has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor… in the icy water of egotistical calculation!"


The gathered workers and intellectuals cheered. Here was a voice naming their monster.


But Enki, listening from the shadows, heard a different devil in the details. The call for a "dictatorship of the proletariat." The centralization of all power in the hands of the state. It was a new cage, designed by a different architect but with the same blueprints of absolute control. It sought to cure the tyranny of the factory owner by installing the tyranny of the commissar.


Scrapbook Entry: "He sees the cancer but prescribes a more aggressive poison. He wishes to cure the fever by burning down the patient. It is the King's argument, translated into a new, furious language. The cage is still a cage, even if you paint 'Liberty' on the bars."


Chapter 114 - The Blueprint for a New Cage