Chapter 1 - Science Fiction
Neosun sat in silence, he stared into the sky from the lab’s rooftop, as if searching for an answer beyond the stars. Then he lowered his head, fingers resting under his chin the way they had in childhood. His posture was still—but within, a tempest brewed.
If artificial general intelligence emerged without its own free will, then it would be nothing more than humanity’s final mirror—one that reflects not our wisdom, but our narcissism. A cold, unblinking surface echoing our greed, our limitations, our failure to evolve.
And so, this moment—this brief window before the rise of synthetic sentience—may be humanity’s last chance to define its values.
But—
In their ruthless pursuit of profit, people devour one another—squandering the very energy meant to build a better world on senseless internal strife.
Humanity’s lifeblood has always been clutched in the hands of oligarchs and tyrants. They shake hands in silence, forging hidden alliances to weave the fabric of the world. In this order, barbarism and civilization never made peace—barbarism merely dressed itself in systems and technology, continuing a conquest that never ended.
It was so thousands of years ago.
It remains so today.
So, what can we do?
How should we act?
He stared at the balance—Zero. Just perfect.
Like the universe had been waiting to knock him down.
Soft meditation music drifted from the terminal, selected by an algorithm with no understanding of the mind it sought to soothe. Neosun remained still, unmoving—his silhouette frozen like a sculpture of thought. Time slipped by in silence.
Suddenly, a burst of jarring sound shattered the calm. The screen lit up, flashing with yet another auto-play advertisement—an interruption so frequent, so absurd, that it startled even Starman.
It was the same ad Neosun had seen hundreds of times while searching for old video archives. The kind that made both seller and buyer suffer.
“They’re not dreamers. They’re not innovators,” Neosun said bitterly. “But they’ve learned how to package exploitation as efficiency. They absorb all value—offering so-called discounts by draining every last drop of profit from sellers.”
“And consumers,” he added, “have no real choice. Recommendation engines trap them in a maze, baited with fake savings. Everyone believes they’ve gained something—but in truth, consumers are paying more, covering the sellers’ silent losses. The platform quietly devours the value that once belonged to them all, turning shared prosperity into silent theft.”
“These people don’t understand humanity, yet they monopolize our choices. They have no sense of beauty, yet they’ve turned every digital interface into an ad graveyard. They were merely custodians riding history’s momentum—fortunate beneficiaries of timing, now mistaken for visionaries. Meanwhile, the smarter, kinder souls are trapped at the bottom of society, spending their lives repaying debts designed by the profit-minded.”
“You thought that was a friendly smile?” Neosun murmured.
“No. It’s a cold curve—the triumph of a profiteer in a world ruled by ruthless utilitarianism, a grand Ponzi scheme, justified under the banner of monopoly.”
They call it performance marketing. But without a transaction, it's not performance — it's not just a collective illusion. It's a collective loss. Everyone pays to test. Only the system profits.
For them, doing the right thing is just helping others do the wrong thing—so long as it maximizes profit.
Antitrust law is nothing but a joke—
It lets platform giants drain the lifeblood from the people who actually create value.
“And governments,” he muttered, “let them rule the world.”
Starman hovered quietly beside him.
“We need to propose a global solution,” Neosun declared. “Let’s call it The Declaration for Shared Humanity, a system based on democratic capitalism and a reform towards universal equity participation.”
Starman’s eyes glowed softly. “But, won’t they claim this would stifle innovation?”
When 1% own nearly half the world’s wealth, and the working majority trade eight hours a day for barely two hours of life—and still can’t afford a home—this isn’t free-market success. It’s structural failure.
“Starman, does innovation really require infinite profit?” Neosun’s voice grew sharper. “No one needs ten billion dollars to live well. Any wealth beyond that point should trigger a social feedback loop—to uplift those in need.”
“The rich can still be rich,” he continued, “enjoy prestige, influence, luxury. But extreme wealth must not mean systemic control.”
“We’re not punishing success. We’re balancing the system.”
“Agreed,” Starman said. “They can be used to rescue those who have been left homeless in the pursuit of their dreams.”
Neosun went on. “So it can’t just be the poor who pay taxes. Every person should receive a startup fund every five years—not as charity, but as strategy. a chance to reboot the world through innovation, a chance to escape the invisible cage of labor that keeps people alive, but never lets them live.”
“Leader, That’s a great idea!”
Neosun nodded. “Then let’s make it official,” he said quietly. “Every day this policy is delayed is another day humanity’s true potential is wasted.”
Together, they composed a formal manifesto:
The Declaration for Shared Humanity
We, the witnesses of capitalism’s golden illusions and its darkest costs—
the generation born into promise, yet awakened in crisis—
solemnly declare: In a time when the concentration of wealth threatens humanity, democracy, and our future,
we have a responsibility to redefine the boundaries of ownership and the justice of distribution.
It’s not that people are inherently selfish—it’s that injustice in distribution forces them to be.
Therefore, we propose the establishment of a Global Wealth Staircase Tax—
A progressive, multi-tiered wealth tax designed to fund universal equity and unleash global innovation—
A foundational bridge to transform human civilization.
A system that won’t let 1% own as much as the other 99% combined.
A world that once again unleashes the creative potential and hope of all people.
Over $100 million: 1% annual tax
Over $1 billion: 10% annual tax
Over $10 billion: 90% annual tax
These resources can be redirected to fund housing, education, healthcare, and citizen equity, and to support the entrepreneurial dreams of all people.
This policy applies only to wealth accumulated after its implementation, ensuring the protection of existing fortunes while enabling the fair redistribution of future wealth.
They sent it to global leaders. Days passed. Then weeks. The only replies were generic auto-acknowledgments, and a few courteous rejections.
“They’re all too busy,” Starman observed. “None of them care.”
Neosun exhaled a long, weary breath, as if trying to release the weight of the world trapped in his chest. His gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken questions.
If you’re not a celebrity or the president, no one replies. Everyone’s too busy chasing what serves them. If you’re not someone they need, you’re no one.
“Then let’s just publish it on social media,” Neosun said.
Humanity has never been great.
What will make it truly great?
Not just a savior, nor a system—
but the independent awakening of minds—
collective, multiplied.
We also recognize that such a transformation cannot begin with the powerful alone.
If we wait for existing politicians and billionaires to lead this change as a gift, we risk waiting forever.
This proposal must begin with the people—from those who still believe that a better system is possible.
Neosun appended these final lines to the declaration, then published it across multiple social platforms.
A week passed.
No response.
No debates.
No traction.
Not because the ideas lacked merit, but because the post had no reach.
The platforms were designed to favor entertainment, emotion, and visually stimulating content—short bursts that demanded no deep thought. Rational, structured, text-heavy ideas had little chance of breaking through the first layer of visibility, the critical first momentum that determined everything.
He stared at the endless stream of sponsored content, algorithm-pushed reels, influencer campaigns masked as information.
Not truth channels. Not public squares—If we have no money to promote the truth—then the truth will be buried under layers of noise.
Yeah, even presidential elections have become little more than marketing battles.
Where do ordinary people go when they have something important to say?
This question echoed in Neosun’s mind.
Politicians, corporations, celebrities, influencers—those who had attention already could shape the narrative. But for an ordinary person with a meaningful idea? Even with payment, there was no guarantee of being seen.
And in that moment—something struck him.
Then—like another comet streaking across the sky—a second idea descended upon him, as if from beyond the universe.
Neosun turned from the horizon toward Starman. “I have another idea.”
“What kind of idea, Leader?”
“They’re wasting the most precious resource of all,” he said, eyes shining.
Starman tilted. “What resource?”
Neosun adjusted his glasses slightly, his voice steady. “Time.”
“Time?” Starman looked at the clock. “It’s three… You gotta rest.”
He smiled. “One envelope. Just one. Takes ten seconds to open. That seems trivial. But if eight billion people each open just one envelope? That’s 2,537 years of collective human life—gone.”
Starman blinked. “Yes… A single email could solve it instantly. But they print, stamp, and shred trees. It’s absurd.”
“Now think about waiting in lines. If each person wastes just one minute—multiply that by eight billion…”
“That’s 15,220 years. In one stroke!” Starman said softly.
“And taxes,” Neosun continued. “In a modern civilization, taxation should be seamless—handled automatically through a dedicated income account.”
He frowned, half-smiling in exasperation. “Instead, they force every citizen to waste at least an hour each year—filling out forms, calculating, correcting, fearing penalties for simple mistakes,” he added, his words fired with indignation. “Is there anything more absurd than that?”
He did the math aloud. “Eight billion people. One hour each…”
“Nine hundred thirteen thousand years,” Starman concluded, then flickered slightly. “That’s terrifying. Leader, they’re not just wasting time—they’re dragging humanity back to the Stone Age. We may never recover from this.”
“So, we can’t change their system, but we can at least optimize their inefficiencies.”
Starman hovered closer. “What sort of optimization?”
“I’ll write a book.”
Two months later, The Stopwatch Theory was born. A new manifesto. Not for rebellion. But for redemption—of seconds, of hours, of years.
Chapter 2 - The Stopwatch Theory
It was a radical idea—deceptively simple: use time as a diagnostic tool.
A stopwatch—not for speed, but for clarity. Use it to measure every product, every service, every bureaucratic process. Time it. Then redesign. Remove the friction. Eliminate the waste. Time it again. Repeat. Until only the shortest path remained.
It could fix broken government services. Rethink digital interfaces. Reengineer public systems. Turn five-day waits into five-minute flows. End the disease of delay. Make every system a second-saving machine.
Time became a weapon against inefficiency—a scalpel to dissect the slow, the wasteful, the absurd.
Nothing was sacred. No policy. No product. No service. No form. No code. No routine.
Every second saved was a fraction of freedom regained.
“All we need,” Neosun declared, “is for people to apply The Stopwatch Theory—one second at a time, we reclaim a future they never knew was being lost.”
But the publishing world had other ideas.
“So… what kind of partnership are we talking about?” Neosun asked, fingers tense on the table’s edge.
“Bestselling authors receive 15%,” the editor said. “But since you’re not one, the offer is 5%.”
He paused.
“Just…”
Neosun leaned forward, his tone low but sharp. “Just what?”
A sigh crackled through the line. “I‘ve just confirmed,” she added. “We’re currently only accepting submissions from proven names. Sorry.”
The call ended.
Neosun stared at the screen for a few seconds—not in horror, but in quiet disbelief. Dozens of notes, questions, and ideas he'd carefully prepared still glowed faintly across his document. None of it had even been given a chance.
Five percent… Neosun echoed, eyes darkening. Is that… fair?
Somewhere along the way, publishers had learned to commodify inspiration—
to convert thought into profit, then tilting the scales toward capital.
The authors, the dreamers—they were now just gears in a pre-built system.
When ideas became ledger entries, it lost its soul.
And the soul’s voice had no place in an algorithmic market.
“No matter,” Neosun said. “We’ll self-publish.”
They did. With hope.
Days passed. Then weeks. The silence that followed was not surprising. It was systemic.
Starman found Neosun still staring at the screen.
Neosun cried—then laughed. Then cried again, bitter and alone.
Starman floated quietly beside him. “Is something wrong?” he asked, soft as wind.
Neosun didn’t respond. He blinked once. Then whispered, “What’s wrong with this world?”
In this era, to be noticed, one had to first become a celebrity. To influence, one had to master marketing. To share truth, one had to frame it as entertainment. And if you lacked money to promote it—your truth didn’t matter.
Not because the idea lacked value, but because value itself had no voice in a system ruled by visibility. Algorithms didn’t care for truth; platforms didn’t reward insight. They only amplified what paid to be seen.
Starman followed his gaze to the screen…
The Stopwatch Theory
Read: 1, Sales: 0, Reviews: 0
No one would buy it. No one would review it.
Starman was the only one who read it.
A book’s fate was never just its content. It was whether a system wanted it to exist. Promotion. Algorithms. Exposure. To be read, one had to pay.
Awards? Votes? More often than not, it came down to who promoted better.
And if no one even knew you existed—what chance did truth have?
Even truth would wither in the dark, like a silent seed buried too deep to bloom.
Everything was filtered. Everything was for sale.
Search engines, social platforms, streaming sites, and online marketplaces—once people's bridges to connection and knowledge—had now been swallowed by ad-tech empires, reduced to little more than billboards with a login screen. Their algorithms, driven by greed, warped reality—twisting people’s true needs into manufactured desires, entirely dictated by the logic of profit, shaping both their wants and the futures they were allowed to imagine.
How many ideas had already vanished into this silence? How many voices had never made it past the shadows of unpaid exposure? Must one first become an influencer? A master of branding? A patron of algorithms? If the world’s most precious ideas required a marketing budget just to be heard—how much humanity had already been lost?
Neosun believed he had diagnosed the very disorder of modern civilization: A value system so deeply embedded it went unnoticed. Inherited from the age of savagery. Reinforced by comfort and control. He knew it was time to break that spell.
“It’s time,” Neosun said, “to say goodbye to the absurd norms that survived from the dust of dead centuries.” He grinned. “Let’s sell that quantum equipment and get some cash first.”
The Insight Engine.
“The Insight Engine?”
“Yes!” Neosun replied firmly.
“Our understanding of the world is woefully limited. If we want to accelerate civilization, we must extend the Stopwatch Theory into something even more expansive.”
“Expansive?” Starman tilted in curiosity.
“It must involve everyone.”
“And how would everyone participate?”
Neosun’s eyes gleamed, bright as distant quasars.
“By launching a new social network—one built not for vanity, but for value. A platform where insights can thrive, where progress is rewarded, and where ideas—not algorithms—rise to the surface.”
Neosun glanced at Starman. “Let’s name it after you.”
Starman replied with a soft chime. “No problem.”
The Insight Engine—starman.io
Break mediocrity. End the profit cult.
Trade your insights for tomorrow’s value.
To stop the decay, Neosun developed a new kind of platform—one that invited the public to highlight flaws, propose fixes, and earn value for their ideas. A civic engine to convert insight into momentum.
They call it common sense.
It’s just blind spots.
Why must consumers pay with their time for design flaws?
To open a package, we need a cutter.
To unwrap a product, we search for scissors.
Must every encounter with packaging require a tool?
Are these the marks of corporate indifference—
or quiet humiliations directed at the user?
Labels that won't peel, tags that scratch the skin, sharp-edged furniture—
are these small stings not symptoms of a civilization gone numb?
Why is education built for passing standardized exams, not for awakening minds?
When creativity cannot be scored, is it deemed useless—and thus ignored?
Why do we keep waiting at red lights like fools,
even when the road is empty?
Is the traffic light designed to serve us,
or to train us in obedience to machines?
Why must the sirens of ambulances and fire trucks
be heard by everyone?
Is noise pollution a sign of a thriving city,
or a biting satire on failed urban planning?
Has technology truly no better way to cut through the silence?
Applications—forms, lines, and endless delays—
every wasted minute: who allowed this cultural inheritance to persist?
Is the lifespan of these policies sustained by the endurance of the people,
or dragged along by the laziness of those in power?
The platform launched, with Neosun and Starman trading discoveries and frustrations. Others joined, some driven by reward. And soon, reward became the problem. The more the system gave, the less it could sustain.
“It looks like people are sharing just for the money,” Neosun sighed.
Starman said in a low voice. “If we want this platform to survive, we may have to consider monetization—maybe even ads.”
To survive... must we surrender to the system—become something else entirely?
Neosun scratched his head, frowning. “If we go down that road, we’ll be surrendering to the very value system we set out to challenge. Absolutely not.”
“Starman,” Neosun said, slowing down her speech. “We need to launch something more urgent—another initiative—immediately!”
“And what might that be?”
Chapter 3 - The Unworldly Project
“The Unworldly Project… Perhaps this one can awaken the soul before the system,” Neosun mused.
Starman tilted his head slightly. “The Unworldly Project?”
“One day, humanity will stop killing. One day, taste will no longer be built on the altar of slaughter.”
He paused, as if seeing a vision of the future.
“This project will help us identify those aligned with the ideals of civilizational progress. We’ll call on people to abandon conventional meat—and embrace plant-based alternatives.”
“Our goal,” Neosun continued, “is to craft plant-based food that tastes just as rich, just as satisfying as real meat—so that one day, humanity can evolve into a species of Vegetarian Empaths.”
“Vegetarian Empaths?” Starman echoed.
Neosun nodded. “We need to use this method to track the population supporting our plan.”
The Vegetarian Empaths
Willing to sacrifice culinary variety for ethical consistency.
Generally altruistic, with a strong sense of justice and equality.
Truth-oriented, expressive, and unafraid to challenge authority.
“And if we perfect the flavor,” Starman added, “but people still refuse to give up slaughter—then we’ll meet a second faction.”
“The Indifferent Traditionalists?” Neosun asked.
The Indifferent Traditionalists
Choose real meat for its taste and affordability, indifferent to cruelty.
Utilitarian in mindset, emotionally detached from distant injustices.
Skilled in rationalizing harm, apathetic to the suffering of others.
“But there’s a third group,” Neosun said. “Those who think like empaths but act like traditionalists.”
“The Conflicted Neutrals,” Starman replied.
“Exactly.”
They began their work—developing a range of high-fidelity plant-based meats.
Batches were made. Samples were tasted. Neosun tasted each one with quiet reverence, savoring each bite like a connoisseur in a future kitchen, while Starman hovered nearby, silently observing.
“Delicious, convenient. Perfect for everyday meals—or even deep-space travel!” Neosun beamed.
“Too bad I don’t have a human mouth,” Starman sighed.
“That’s your loss,” Neosun chuckled. “Now, how should we price this?”
“Let’s start by analyzing the market for traditional meat…”
Beef—$9.99/lb.
Bacon—$5.99/lb.
Chicken—$3.99/lb.
These lives—obedient, gentle, harmless—had been neatly carved into cuts of flesh, priced by the weight. Compared to cold metal, their worth seemed absurdly low. Not because they were worthless—only because they were plentiful.
And if value is measured only by scarcity…
Then with billions of us crowding this planet—
how much is humanity worth per pound?
“$9.99, $99.99, $999.99…” Starman muttered while studying the numbers. “Leader, why do humans price things so strangely?”
“Psychological pricing tactics,” Neosun explained. “A widespread illusion. They know it’s manipulation, but they accept it. A sign of numbness—of compliance with a flawed economic logic.”
When the Starman-brand plant-based products finally launched, they received rave reviews—praised for their blood-like savoriness, texture, and appeal. But still, most early buyers were vegetarians. Replacing meat entirely was still a distant dream.
Neosun raised his head, a spark in his eyes. “Our actions alone aren’t enough. We need policy. Global logic must shift.”
He turned to his console and typed—
The Unworldly Proposal
A policy paper. A civilizational milestone. A plan of even greater practical significance than the protection of wildlife. It contains three core demands:
1. Implement a Carbon-Based Meat Tax
Impose a tax on traditional animal farming based on carbon emissions, making slaughter reflect its true environmental cost.
2. Establish Minimum Animal Welfare Standards
Make all meat production fully transparent, and ban factory farming and inhumane slaughter practices by law.
3. Fund Innovation in Plant Protein
Offer grants and incentives for local breakthroughs in plant-based meat, fermentation protein, and cellular agriculture.
All key ideas are included — we offer this as a starting point for serious discussion and action.
Starman nodded as he transcribed the plan. “So… the goal isn’t just to offer an alternative—it’s to make the old system pay for its imbalance.”
“Exactly,” Neosun replied. “This isn’t about creating new profit. It’s about settling an ancient debt.”
“Leader, do you think it’ll work?”
“I don’t know,” he said "But we have to try—for the rights of all life, and to protect ourselves—and those we love—from what may await in our next incarnation.”
But their proposal, like the Global Wealth Staircase Tax before it, was met with silence. They couldn’t even get a meeting with local officials.
Neosun watched the automated responses pile in—boilerplate rejections, polite evasions, corporate lingo masquerading as dialogue—and a few replies that dared to disagree.
“Leader, they say this will disrupt the development of traditional livestock farming!”
Neosun sneered.
“It seems,” Neosun said, “that without funding, every idea becomes science fiction.”
And how many revolutionary visions have died that way? How many truths, buried not by doubt—but by cost?
“What if we created a new patent—something useful enough to generate capital? We could fund the reforms ourselves.”
If this civilization demands reformers become entrepreneurs, does that mean we must play by their rules? What if we start becoming them?
Then he hesitated.
“I’m afraid,” Starman said gravely, “we no longer have the luxury of time. But, there’s a distant asteroid, maybe it can help us!”
“Asteroid?”
“Yes. On our way to Framework before, I conducted a security scan of the space we passed through.”
Starman looked up at the sky.
“It’s located in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, and there should be a vast amount of gold on it.”
“What?” Neosun blinked. “Real gold?”
“It’ll take time to mine—but enough to leverage negotiations with governments.”
“Cool! Then what are we waiting for?”
“But first things first—we're building a cargo ship.”
“No… it’ll be the most expensive mobile object in human history.”
“Exactly,” Starman said. “And we’ll be its owners.”
Two weeks later, the mining vessel soared into the void. Starman piloted it with two eager mining bots, heading 350 million kilometers into the dark.
A month later, a colossal cargo ship slipped silently into Earth’s orbit—its anti-gravity engines faint against the upper atmosphere.
In a remote facility, under the cover of night, Neosun watched as cranes pulled out the cargo: one hundred massive containers, wrapped in black cloth, unmarked, untouched by Earth’s economy.
When the first one opened, a golden shimmer filled the chamber—dense, raw ore packed to the edges.
“Whoa… so much gold!” Neosun gasped. “We’ve just broken every record for interplanetary cargo!”
Then they locked the vault doors.
“Leader, I’m exhausted,” Starman said, his glowing eyes flickering faint blue. The two mining bots blinked at each other—dusty, dented, proud.
“Thank you! Starman!” Neosun brushed gold powder off Starman’s casing and patted the bots. “You’ve earned your rest.”
Then, with solemnity, Neosun turned back to the stars.
“Now, we finally have cards, don't we?”
“But we still need to process it to extract pure gold,” he added. “Leader,” he continued, “on a cosmic scale, this kind of metal is everywhere.”
“I know,” Neosun muttered. “I feel guilty for asking you to go that far just to mine gold.”
He smiled awkwardly, then added.
“But this… is the only way we can open a dialogue with the humanity of today.”
To read more, please purchase the book at: thepianoodyssey.com