Part I: Countless Happiness
Chapter 1: The Golden Life
1. Countless happiness
When you step out of a completely materialistic and physical life, you get a true shock. It's not that life wasn't good before, but now you see what it means to be "average." You can't really call yourself an average person when your normal activities include having hot milk tea with an ice cream, getting easy solution for difficult problems and experienced to be a person like a magnet for others when almost everyone wanted to connect you. At first, this little realization feels like a crushing disappointment. But soon enough, you begin to embrace the idea of being different from the rest in your world.
Ahh...
Where was i till now!
Is this me?
No no...
That typical and average person can't be as i was living like from last two years...
How is this possible for a human to live in a cycle?
Is it possible to live in a loop for a living hearted human?
Thousands of questions were scratching my heart to find their answers....
I got love and lost love within just few days...
Love...
No, Mr. Sword... Love is not that easy as you are thinking...
I asked myself...
Love? What is actual love?
Reply came from my heart...
When you get a person who can pull you out from the palace of illusion that is love from a person but when you get a person who can Taabeer (arabic word means construct) your palace of illusion in true and physical world then trust me in this case you have found an angel who loves you. That person makes you realize that it is not good to be in a fantastical world for so long.
Sword!! What kind of name is this...
I turned right at ninety degree and i saw her.. She is that same girl to whom i have talked on call regarding a child treatment. I saw her and found helself with crystal clear thought processes and she was absolutely beautiful. Her features were delicate and her eyes were bright brown. She had long, flowing black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk.
I gazed upon her beautiful face and found the peace I've been searching for. Her eyes were closed, and a faint smile was on her lips. It was as if she was in a state of bliss, and I could feel my own. It was like I have seen the sky at dusk. It was a beautiful and magical moment for me.
she was a big fan of "A good doctor".
I replied her with an smile.. My sword is something which binds the people who have been broken into pieces not to cut the people in pieces.
As I gazed at her, words formed in my mind, charged with an emotion I couldn't quite name. "The great alchemist," I whispered, almost to myself. "Or should I call you a great healer?" The title seemed to float between us, weighted with unspoken meaning.
She was majestic, yes, but not merely in appearance. Her very essence seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly grace, as if she carried starlight within her veins. How could one person embody such radiance?
You know, there are only a handful of souls on this vast planet who possess a truly unique aura — an energy that sets them apart from the multitude. In that moment, I knew without doubt: she was one of those rare, luminous beings.
As the world continued its ceaseless spin, I felt strangely still. Life, they say, goes on but not for me. Not anymore. In that instant, I was caught in the gravity of a connection I neither sought nor could resist. It wasn't a choice, but a recognition as if a part of my soul had encountered a long-lost harmony in the singular cadence of her being.
The sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden light across Mr. Sword's penthouse apartment. Morning in the city had never looked so magnificent. From thirty floors up, the world below appeared as a perfect miniature—orderly, harmonious, and entirely at his command.
Sword sipped his morning chai, savoring the spiced richness as he gazed at the cityscape. Life had a peculiar way of exceeding even his wildest expectations. At thirty-two, he possessed everything most men spent lifetimes chasing: intellectual acclaim, financial freedom, and a social calendar that never ceased to surprise him.
"Good morning, Mr. Sword," came the cheerful voice of his home assistant system. "Your schedule today includes a strategy meeting at eleven, followed by three client consultations and dinner at Lumière at eight."
"Thank you, Aria," he replied with a smile. Even his AI assistant seemed to operate on a different level than most—customized to anticipate his needs before he voiced them.
The marble floor felt cool beneath his bare feet as he padded to his walk-in closet. Rows of tailored suits, organized by color and season, awaited his selection. For today's meeting....a bespoke navy piece that had become something of a signature. The fabric felt like liquid silk between his fingers.
His phone chimed with a familiar succession of notifications; clients expressing gratitude, colleagues seeking advice, friends planning weekend excursions to coastal villas or mountain retreats. Each message reinforced what he already knew: in a world of seven billion souls, he had somehow been granted exceptional fortune.
In the bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror. At thirty-two, he remained youthful, his features sharp yet approachable, dark eyes alert with intelligence. His mother had always told him his eyes held a special light "the mark of someone destined to bind broken souls together," she'd say. He'd dismissed it as maternal bias, but lately, he wondered if she'd glimpsed something prophetic.
As he adjusted his tie, memories of his early career flooded back—the sleepless nights, the crippling doubt, the competitive pressure. How distant those struggles felt now. He had not only survived but thrived beyond measure. His innovative approach to solving complex problems had changed countless lives and earned him recognition in professional circles worldwide.
"Mr. Sword," his phone announced, "your car is waiting."
The elevator whisked him down to the lobby, where his driver stood ready beside a gleaming black sedan. Doormen nodded respectfully, and the concierge hurried over with an envelope.
"A delivery for you, sir. Marked urgent."
Sword accepted it with thanks, sliding into the car's leather interior before examining the cream-colored envelope. Inside was an invitation printed on heavy stock paper:
The International Innovation Summit cordially invites Mr. Sword to deliver the keynote address at this year's conference in Vienna.
He smiled. Another accolade, another opportunity to share his insights. The car pulled smoothly into traffic as Sword gazed out at the city his city, in many ways. He had conquered its most prestigious institutions, charmed its social elite, and established himself as a fixture in its highest circles.
His phone buzzed with a text from Phoenix: Morning, genius. Don't forget we're meeting for that project discussion after your appointments today. I've got some interesting perspectives to share.
As the car glided through sun-dappled streets, Sword closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by a sensation of perfect contentment. Hot milk tea with ice cream after successful negotiations, solutions materializing in his mind when others saw only problems, the magnetic pull he exerted on everyone from clients to socialites—these were the luxuries of his existence.
Life was not just good; it was extraordinary. A melody of countless happinesses, playing in perfect harmony.
Little did he know that the universe was about to introduce a new note—one that would transform the entire composition.
Chapter 2: Magnetic Charm
The conference room hummed with anticipation as Sword entered. Conversations paused, heads turned, and smiles bloomed across faces. This was the effect he had grown accustomed to—the Sword effect, as one of his colleagues had jokingly dubbed it.
"There he is," announced Sehrish, rising from her seat at the long glass table. Her crimson dress stood out against the neutral tones of the room, a deliberate choice that matched her bold personality. As the firm's marketing director, she understood the power of visual impact. "We were just debating whether your brilliance extends to mind reading. Care to weigh in?"
Laughter rippled through the room as Sword set down his leather portfolio. "If I could read minds, Sehrish, I'd be out of a job. The art is in understanding what people aren't saying."
He took his place at the head of the table, nodding acknowledgments to the twelve executives present. Each represented a different division of the consulting firm, and each looked to him with that familiar mixture of respect and expectation. Even among the most accomplished professionals in the city, Sword stood apart.
"The Morrison proposal," he began without preamble, "needs reworking. The approach is too conventional, too safe." He tapped the screen embedded in the table, bringing up the document everyone had reviewed. "They aren't coming to us for safe. They're coming to us for transformation."
A slight tension filled the air—the proposal had been championed by Farhan, one of the senior partners. But instead of defensiveness, Farhan leaned forward with interest. This was Sword's gift criticism from him never felt like an attack but an invitation to excellence.
"What do you suggest?" Farhan asked.
Sword stood, pacing slowly as he spoke. Ideas flowed from him like water from a spring effortless, clear, and life-giving. As he outlined his vision, he watched understanding dawn on his colleagues' faces. This was the high he lived for—the moment when minds aligned around a perfect solution.
Phoenix, seated at the far end, caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod. His oldest friend and the firm's chief innovation officer, Phoenix had a talent for seeing the broader implications of Sword's ideas.
"If we take this approach," Phoenix added, "we're not just solving Morrison's current problem. We're positioning them to avoid the next three problems on the horizon."
"Exactly," Sword agreed. "Prevention, not just cure."
The meeting progressed with the efficiency of a well-conducted orchestra. Sword directed, others contributed, and by the hour's end, what had been merely good had been transformed into exceptional.
As the room emptied, Sehrish lingered, perching on the edge of the table near him. "That was impressive, even by your standards," she said, her voice carrying a warmth reserved for him alone. They had dated briefly years ago, before recognizing they worked better as allies than lovers.
"The idea was already there," he replied, gathering his notes. "It just needed refinement."
"Always so modest," she laughed. "Are you joining us tonight? Rooftop at The Pinnacle. Half the city's elite will be there, and the other half wishes they were invited."
Sword hesitated. These gatherings—glamorous, exclusive affairs where influence flowed as freely as champagne had once been the highlight of his social calendar. Lately, though, a strange restlessness had taken hold of him. The conversations seemed predictable, the connections superficial.
"I have plans with Phoenix," he said, offering the truth without elaboration.
Sehrish raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Turning down The Pinnacle for whatever philosophical debate Phoenix has planned? You're evolving, Sword."
"Or regressing," he countered with a smile. "Depends on your perspective."
She studied him for a moment. "Something's different about you lately. Can't quite put my finger on it."
"When you figure it out, let me know," he said, gathering his portfolio. "I'm curious myself."
As he walked the corridor to his office, employees greeted him with that familiar mixture of awe and affection. His assistant, Maya, fell into step beside him, digital tablet in hand.
"Your afternoon is clear except for the call with Singapore at four," she informed him. "And Dr. Amara Khan called. Said it wasn't urgent but wanted to remind you about dinner next week."
He nodded, grateful for Maya's efficiency. "Any messages from the children's foundation?"
"Yes, actually. They've sent the profiles of three new candidates for the mentorship program. And there's a situation with one of your current mentees—Tariq. The school called. Nothing serious, but they'd appreciate your guidance."
Sword felt a genuine smile spread across his face. Of all his commitments, the children's foundation—providing opportunities to brilliant but disadvantaged youth was perhaps the only one that still stirred true passion in him. "I'll call them right away."
In his office, a corner suite with views of both the river and the city skyline, Sword sank into his chair and picked up the phone. The conversation with Tariq's school principal was brief but meaningful. The boy had completed an advanced mathematics assignment in his own unique way—correct but unconventional—and the teacher had marked it wrong.
"I'll speak with him," Sword promised. "But I'd also ask that his approach be reconsidered. Innovation often looks like error to conventional eyes."
After arranging for Tariq to receive proper credit, Sword swiveled in his chair to face the window. The city sprawled before him, a concrete and glass maze he had mastered. Hot milk tea with ice cream, easy solutions to difficult problems, magnetic attraction—these were the constants of his charmed existence.
And yet.
A vague dissatisfaction had begun to creep in at the edges of his consciousness. Not unhappiness, exactly, but a sense that something essential was missing. Like a perfectly composed symphony with one note slightly off—not enough to ruin the piece, but enough to create a subtle dissonance.
His phone buzzed with a text from Phoenix: Meeting place changed. The old café by the river at 7. Something to show you.
Sword texted back a simple Will be there, curious about what had prompted the change. Phoenix rarely altered plans without good reason.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of productivity. The call with Singapore yielded a new international client. Three challenging situations were resolved with his characteristic insight. By six, as the office began to empty, Sword found himself alone with his thoughts.
He loosened his tie and gazed out at the city as twilight descended. Lights blinked on in countless windows, each representing lives he would never know. For a man who prided himself on understanding people, he suddenly felt strangely disconnected from humanity at large.
"Counting stars again?" came Dr. Amara Khan's voice from his doorway.
He turned to find his mentor leaning against the frame, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in its usual elegant knot. Though well into her sixties, Amara possessed a vitality that made her seem ageless.
"Just thinking," he replied, gesturing for her to enter.
"Dangerous pastime," she said with a smile, settling into the chair across from him. "Especially for minds like yours that never quite power down."
Their relationship had evolved from professor and student to colleagues and friends, but she remained one of the few people who could see beyond his carefully constructed facade.
"Something's troubling you," she observed, not a question but a statement.
Sword considered deflecting but knew it would be futile. "Not troubling, exactly. Just... questioning."
"Ah," she nodded, understanding immediately. "The 'is this all there is' phase. Right on schedule."
He raised an eyebrow. "Schedule?"
"For exceptional people who achieve everything they thought they wanted before forty," she explained. "The emptiness creeps in, usually around your age. All the external markers of success wealth, recognition, influence—suddenly feel hollow."
He was silent for a moment, absorbing her words. "Is there a cure?"
Amara's laugh was warm and genuine. "It's not a disease, Sword. It's growth. The question isn't how to cure it, but where it's leading you."
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed with a notification. A call from an unknown number, but something compelled him to answer it.
"Mr. Sword?" came a child's voice, tentative and small.
"Yes, this is Sword," he replied, exchanging a curious glance with Amara.
"My name is Laila. My brother Tariq said I should call you. He says you help people who are different."
Something in the girl's voice—a mixture of fear and hope—caught at his heart. "Is your brother the mathematical genius who's part of my mentorship program?"
"Yes!" The child's voice brightened. "He says you're the only grown-up who understands how his brain works."
Sword smiled despite himself. "High praise. How can I help you, Laila?"
"It's not for me," she explained quickly. "It's my friend. She's sick, and the doctors don't know what's wrong. Tariq says you know all the best doctors. He says you can find the right person to help her."
Amara watched him with knowing eyes as he asked the child for details. The conversation lasted only minutes, but by the end, Sword had promised to make some calls.
"Another lost cause?" Amara asked as he hung up.
"A sick child whose case has stumped the local hospital," he corrected. "I know someone at the Children's Research Center who specializes in rare disorders."
"And the great Sword adds another rescue to his collection," she said, but her tone was approving rather than critical.
He shrugged. "It's a phone call, not a crusade."
"For now," she replied, rising to leave. "But these small moments, Sword—these unexpected interruptions to your perfect life—pay attention to them. They're often the universe's way of answering questions you haven't fully formed yet."
With those cryptic words, she left him to make his call. The specialist at the Children's Research Center agreed to review the case, and Sword felt that familiar satisfaction of setting a solution in motion.
As he prepared to meet Phoenix, he reflected on Amara's words. Was this restlessness merely a predictable phase? Or was it something more significant—a turning point he couldn't yet recognize?
The evening air was cool as he stepped out of his building. His driver waited at the curb, but Sword waved him off. "I'll walk tonight, Hasan. Enjoy the evening with your family."
The man's surprise was evident—Mr. Sword, walking? But the grateful smile that followed was worth the breach in routine.
The café by the river was a remnant of the city's older, more authentic self. Before gentrification had transformed the district into a haven for luxury boutiques and overpriced eateries, this unassuming establishment had served simple food and excellent coffee to a loyal clientele.
Phoenix was already there, seated at a corner table, expression unreadable as Sword approached.
"This is unexpected," Sword commented, taking the seat opposite his friend. "We haven't been here since—"
"Since we were hungry students with more ambition than money," Phoenix finished. "I thought it might be good to remember those days."
A waitress brought them coffee without being asked, and Phoenix smiled up at her. "Thank you, Noor. Still remember how we take it after all these years?"
The older woman patted his shoulder affectionately. "Some things don't change, Mr. Phoenix. Though you boys certainly have. Look at you now—so important!"
After she moved away, Phoenix leaned forward. "I had a call today that reminded me of where we started. Before the success, before the recognition.....when we were just two ambitious friends with a vision to change things."
Sword sipped his coffee—perfectly made, with just a hint of cardamom. "You're feeling nostalgic tonight."
"I'm feeling alive," Phoenix corrected. "The call was from a community center in the old neighborhood. They're facing closure. The building's been purchased by developers."
"And they want money," Sword guessed, already reaching for his wallet.
Phoenix shook his head. "I already offered. They don't want a donation—they want advocacy. Someone to help them navigate the system, find a legal way to stay open. They need what we used to be, not what we've become."
Sword frowned slightly. "We've become exactly what we intended to be."
"Have we?" Phoenix challenged gently. "We talked about changing the world, not just profiting from it. About using our minds to solve real problems, not just corporate ones."
Before Sword could respond, his phone rang. The specialist from the Children's Research Center.
"I've reviewed the case," the doctor said without preamble. "It's unusual, but I have a theory. There's a psychologist who works with children experiencing trauma-induced physiological symptoms. Her name is Zaihra. She's not at our center, but her approach might be exactly what this child needs."
Sword felt a strange ripple of anticipation at the name. "Can you connect me?"
"Better. She's giving a talk at the university tomorrow. I'll send you the details. Attend, then speak with her afterward. She responds better to personal appeals than phone calls."
After ending the call, Sword found Phoenix watching him with curious eyes.
"Business?" his friend asked.
"No," Sword replied, realizing the truth of it. "Not business at all. A child needs help. I'm trying to find the right person to provide it."
A slow smile spread across Phoenix's face. "There he is. The Sword I remember."
"I haven't gone anywhere," Sword protested.
"Haven't you?" Phoenix asked quietly. "Sometimes I look at you in those meetings, in those social gatherings, and I wonder where the man went who once stayed up three nights straight to solve a problem that everyone said was unsolvable—not because it would make him rich or famous, but because solving it would help people who needed help."
The words struck with uncomfortable precision. Had he changed so much? Had success smoothed away his essential purpose?
"Come with me to the community center tomorrow," Phoenix said. "After you meet this doctor. See the place, meet the people. Then decide if it's worth your time."
As they spoke, Sword's phone chimed with the information about Zaihra's lecture: "Healing the Whole Child: When Physical Symptoms Have Emotional Roots."
Something about the title resonated with him, echoing the conversation with Phoenix. Healing the whole person, not just the presenting problem.
"I'll come," he agreed, feeling a spark of the old enthusiasm. "After the lecture."
Phoenix nodded, satisfied. "One more thing," he said, sliding a folded newspaper across the table. "Page six. Thought you might find it interesting."
Sword opened the paper to find a profile of a young psychologist who had developed a revolutionary approach to treating children with complex medical and emotional needs. The accompanying photograph showed a woman with intelligent eyes and a gentle smile.
The caption read: "Dr. Zaihra Ali: The Healer Transforming Pediatric Care."
Sword studied the image, feeling an inexplicable certainty that something significant was about to change. In a life of countless happinesses, orchestrated largely by his own design, the universe seemed poised to introduce an element beyond his control.
And for the first time in years, the prospect filled him not with resistance but with curiosity.