To outsiders, the name Moreira was synonymous with power, glory, and the blue blood that had flowed since colonial times. The family built a business empire from coffee plantations and logistics across Brazil. But not every Moreira lived in luxury.
Hulio was born into the second branch—a line considered supplemental, not rightful heirs.
In their grand house in Fortaleza, his family always sat at the far end of the table. His father, Carlos Moreira, was a man who bowed too easily to his older brother, the head of the family. His mother, Teresa, worked tirelessly to keep up appearances with the main branch: counterfeit branded handbags, forced parties, and practiced smiles.
But behind it all, they pinned their hopes on Hulio.
"One day, you will raise our name," his mother had told him when he was ten.
"Not that nerdy cousin of yours. You, Hulio."
But Hulio had no interest in becoming the family hero.
All he ever wanted was freedom.
Freedom from pressure. From expectations. From the piercing eyes that always demanded more. So when he came of age and gained access to an unlimited credit card and a diplomatic passport, the world became his escape.
Mountains became his honest home.
Up there, there were no Moreiras. No heirs or second branches. There was only hard stone, thin oxygen, and peaks that didn't care who you were.
He climbed the Andes, tasted snow in the Himalayas, conquered rugged trails in Japan. But there was one place always whispered among exotic climbers: Mount Rinjani in Indonesia. Legend said the mountain wasn't just nature—it was alive, and it chose who could approach.
Hulio smiled when he heard that. He didn't believe in myths.
But he did believe in challenges.
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The first day of the climb felt like a dreamlike adventure.
Lombok's sky stretched wide and flawless. The clouds were like paintings, and sunlight reflected off the whispering grasslands. The Sembalun trail welcomed them with the warmth of tropical earth and the scent of scorched grass. Mount Rinjani loomed in the distance, majestic—like it was calling them to ascend.
Hulio recorded everything.
"Look at this!" he shouted to the GoPro strapped to his chest. "Heaven on Earth! This is Rinjani, bro!"
His hiking companions—two Germans, a French couple, and a Korean travel vlogger—laughed and waved at the camera. They took turns flying a small drone above them, capturing footage from angles only birds could see.
Every incline was filled with jokes. Every break turned into selfies against clouds that felt within reach. Hulio even livestreamed part of it.
His followers surged.
Comments flooded in:
"Damn! That view's insane!"
"Stay safe, bro!"
"You're living in another world!"
"Next trip, take us too!"
And Hulio soaked it all in. The spotlight, the attention, the awe. This was the perfect escape from the heavy family name. Here, amidst the sky and mist, he wasn't Hulio Moreira the second-branch heir—he was Hulio the adventurer, the man who lived a life most couldn't follow.
He shared every beautiful moment:
Morning dew over the fields.
Fiery twilight atop the ridge.
Birdsong that sounded like some exotic melody.
Their first night ended with a campfire, laughter, and songs. Hulio stared up at the star-filled sky—closer than anyone in his family had ever felt.
But he didn't know...
The beauty he admired was slowly becoming a trap.
And the mountain that smiled by day… began watching at night.
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By the third day, the air changed. Not just colder—but heavier.
The wind carried whispers. Tree roots seemed to grip the earth tighter. In the distance, the birds fell silent.
They camped on a flat clearing near the pelawangan. The fog rolled in faster than usual. Their guide looked uneasy. But they kept laughing, kept taking selfies.
Hulio went to sleep early. His eyes were heavy. His body exhausted.
He crawled into his tent. Jacket still on. Boots still laced. The world slowly dimmed.
And when he opened his eyes…
Silence.
No crackling campfire. No headlamp lights. The other tents were empty. A thick mist blanketed everything, like a white curtain swallowing the world. The air felt wrong—colder, quieter, more… alive.
He got up. His steps were heavy. His heart pounded.
"Mr. Rizal?" he called out softly. "Gustavo? Where are you?"
No answer.
He followed the trail, hoping to find a light, a fire—anything. But the ground was slippery. Roots jutted out, wet and unstable. The wind pushed against him. Then—
His foot slipped.
The ground beneath him crumbled.
Suddenly, the world flipped.
Hulio fell.
His body smashed against rock walls. Thorns slashed his face. Air burst from his lungs. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the roaring silence of the chasm.
He tumbled.
Dragged.
Swallowed by darkness.
Then—blackness.
Moments later, he woke up. Alone. Gasping. The world around him felt like a dead space: no light, no sound, only biting cold and waves of pain.
His phone was broken. The screen cracked.
His digital watch—dead.
GPS—offline.
No signal.
No stars.
No insects.
And above him… too high. Too far. Even if a drone were sent to find him, the place was shrouded in mist, overgrown with brush, hidden in stone shadows. No one knew where he was.
He tried to stand—he couldn't. Blood stained his knees. His shoulder might be dislocated. The cold pierced his jacket.
Hulio shivered. Not just from the temperature—but from fear.
For the first time in his life, he was truly alone.
No group.
No guide.
No way back.
And as his mind began to spiral, he saw it.
A light.
Through the mist and ancient roots, the light pulsed—dim and distant. Not a lamp. Not fire. It felt like breath… or eyes watching.
Strange. Warm. Terrifying.
Yet… inviting.
His steps staggered, but he dragged himself forward. Leaves parted. The earth felt soft, strange, deep. The mist seemed to open a path, as if nature itself was welcoming him.
And from within him, a voice whispered:
"You came early."
"But the mountain does not reject you."
"Enter, forsaken child."
Then—darkness.
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