The Manhood Singularity

BELOW THE RIDGE THAT CRADLES THE GREAT STONE TMEPLE, where the sun dies behind mighty trilithons, a boy whose name sounded something like David approached manhood. While his long hair, braided with ochre-stained sinew framed a hairless, acned face, his hands were already callused from flintwork and binding animal hides.

It was his thirteenth spring, when the rains came, harder than usual. The river outside his village swelled, threatening to burst its banks. The high priest proclaimed that one boy must walk alone to the sacred marsh – a full day’s journey for someone who knew where they were going – and return with fire from the Temple of the Storm God. This would save the village. This would make him a man.

David lacked strength, and courage. He was quiet. He heard the wind differently. He watched the crows.

The journey to the temple in the marsh might kill him – and doom his village. Yet everyone, except David, seemed to think he was able to do this. Many men came to offer him encouraging pats on the back. His grandfather, his uncles, his cousins all came, and even his own father, who on bended knee looked into David’s eyes and spoke softly.

‘Learn to play the game. Beyond the Threshold Stone, seek the trees near the steep cliff. Look for the sign.’

He wished his elders would offer more specific wisdom, but they seldom did.

When he was out of sight of the village, he cried. Sobbing as he marched, tears mixing with the rain. His hair clung to his face. An hour later, David threw up the pottage his mother had fed him to give him strength for the journey. He wondered how any boy ever completed this impossible task. He expected himself to be the first to fail. The village had sent him off to die. What have I done to deserve this?

There were no roads, only memories. Following in his father’s footsteps, beyond the threshold, David found the oak – and the phallic symbol carved upon its bark. Such a stupid prank in such a serious time. But he still laughed, as he had no more tears to cry. And then he saw the phallus carving was pointing to shelter – a cave in the cliff face.

There, dry tinder littered the ground. Others had been here before him, and blackened the rock walls with the smoke from fire. Within that soot they had marked a dozen more phalli. He knew how to start a fire. His mother had taught him while his father was out hunting. After many failed attempts, he got it lit. He gathered as much dead wood as he could, and built a fire to last the night. He understood the game. He knew that he must not return too soon, as the Storm God Temple was far away. The cave made for hard sleeping, but it was warm and dry. He lay awake thinking about the story he must tell.

The following day, the rain eased, offering a brief respite, and David seized his chance.

He fashioned a sturdy torch from a semi-hollow log to cradle the fire’s hottest coals, he marked a fresh phallus upon the cave wall, and he ran home through the break in the storm. He stopped just before he reached the village to apply kindling and blow upon the coals. The torch top burst into bright flames, which he held aloft as he ran through the village gates.

The village cheered his return. They all asked of his journey, and he told them the story they wanted to hear. He told of his bravery crossing the marsh, his cunning at the temple, his brush with divinity. He thanked the gods, he thanked the high priest, and he thanked his father. The men patted him on the back and offered smiles laced with something unsaid. He could not even meet his mother’s gaze. The rain soon stopped. Had he saved the village? Become a man?

***

Later, when David was fifteen, he worked as a squire-in-training at a Welsh stronghold, but his name sounded much more like Dafydd. He had grown taller, just shy of knightly height, but his future was already etched in sinew and sun-browned skin. He had the lean build of someone who spent his days training with sword and lance, hauling saddles, and caring for horses – strong where it counted. His hands were roughened by leather and iron, but his movements precise – deliberate in the way a young falcon studies the wind.

He served a great knight, Sir Bleddyn ap Iestyn, who prepared for the campaign against Norman encroachment in the Marches. Daffyd was not yet an official squire. His life was that of apprentice, servant, and student of battle – a path not only to manhood, but to knighthood. He would first have to complete the Ceremony of Fealty.

Mornings were spent training in arms, riding horseback, or sometimes hunting. Afternoons were spent on patrols or in diplomacy with nearby lords or abbots. Evenings were spent learning courtly skills: dance, etiquette, chess, poetry, heraldry. But there were also songs and storytelling with Sir Bleddyn’s family – his wife, Bronwen, and adolescent daughter, Seren.

They would gather in the long, timber-framed hall, with its stone foundations, thick thatched roof, and carved wooden beams, blackened by decades of smoke. Tapestries of battles and ancestral beasts lined the hall. The family and Daffyd would sing of the red dragons, the hounds and the stags. The firelight from the long hearth danced upon Seren, her dark hair reflecting notes of copper. The orange glow upon her grey eyes reminded David of a primeval fire within a cave. Seren caught David staring at her more than once.

Seren obeyed her father and mother. She applied herself to her own studies, to her domestic responsibilities. David would often go out of his way to pay her compliments on her efforts to learn Latin, the way that the boys would do for each other. He felt this might make them friends and avoid any air of impropriety.

On Sunday, they all took mass together, just down the road past the old oaks, in the stone chapel, led by Father Deiniol, a Bangor priest determined to pray hard enough to turn all battles in favour of Sir Bleddyn. The priest wore his hair shaved, a tonsured style, but grew a beard. David would stay behind and study with him briefly each week in preparation for the Oath of Fealty – the magic Latin words that would allow him to cross some imaginary threshold, words that would make him a true squire, blessed for battle. David wondered if giving the oath would feel anything like wedding vows. On returning home one day, Seren was waiting for him on the path. They walked a spell, and then on a secluded bend in the road, she pushed him against an ancient oak. Seren kissed David on the mouth. That’s all that happened, and he couldn’t explain why it happened. But it happened, and so fast that it left him frozen as she walked on down the road.

He proved clumsy throughout the next morning’s arms practice. He heard nothing of the knight’s lessons that day. The only words that broke through came as they gathered to hear news from a messenger.

‘We must make final preparations. Our time has come: war calls,’ said the knight.

Again, he felt his life unfolding faster than he could fully comprehend. The priest was summoned, and David was called to kneel before Master and God to swear his Oath of Fealty. The whole household gathered for the ceremony: men-at-arms, servants, and family members. Seren stood where David could see her. She too silently mouthed the words in Latin. He recited his learnings to the congregation but saw only her lips. Amongst the oath’s many magic words, David vowed purity of soul. In all his studies, he had never thought that honouring that pledge was going to be a problem. But now: her lips. He completed his vows without flaw, and celebrations ensued. He was a squire. Seren wore her hair coiled for the feast. Wine flowed.

After all had gone to sleep, Seren met David in the hayloft. In the soft lantern glow, she took down her hair. He kissed her. They fumbled out of their clothes, and folded into each other. It happened so fast. And then they returned to their beds.

In the morning, as the squire packed Sir Bleddyn’s horse, the old man placed a hand upon David’s shoulder.

‘We ride unto death’s door. I am proud to have thee loyal squire. Do you not feel the wealth of thy manhood this morn?’ he asked with a smile laced with something unsaid.

David felt his disloyalty. He felt guilt, and regret, and trepidation. He felt desire, frustration, and heartbreak. But could show none of it. Indeed, he felt the wealth of being a man.

***

By five o’clock every morning, except Sunday, David was at work within the five-story red brick building, with its massive, arched windows – designed to catch Manchester’s elusive sunlight. The heat of the steam engines melted the morning chill from his skin. Already the sound of gears grinding, belts whirring and the rhythmic clack-clack of the loom overwhelmed his ears. His lean, muscular, seventeen-year-old body deftly maneuvered around the whirring parts. If this place didn’t kill him, it would surely make him deaf.

The great, clattering machines had changed the world. They had made a very few men rich, while they stole body parts from a great many others. David’s father had been crushed in an engine belt that spring. David was the man of the house now. Without him his little brother and two small sisters would starve, or possibly worse: be placed into workhouses far more dangerous than this place.

David’s family lived crammed into a narrow brick terrace house. It lacked proper ventilation, and the black mould had taken hold. He, his mother, and three younger siblings all slept in the room upstairs. When one caught a cold, they all caught it. The privy was out the back, and shared with the neighbours.

His mother wasn’t as strong as she used to be. Her eyes going dim. She couldn’t work anymore. Besides, the machines had replaced her. She cared now for the little ones. It wouldn’t be too many years before they all worked the machines.

Machines jammed. David would race to find the issue, to find a way to get the great machine moving again without sacrificing a worker. He saved many fingers, arms, and feet. Many owners of those appendages vowed to buy him a pint should he ever make his way to join them in the pub, but he seldom had the energy for that.

Shortly after eight o’clock in the evening, he headed home. The long days of summer approached, and in the dusk he watched a murmuration of starlings dance together. So many of them, moving together as one, as a collective. Such beauty. Such power.

David dragged himself through the doors of his home. Back when both his parents had worked, he might have been greeted by a potato and onion stew. But money had been tight, and mother was unwell. A cold meal of bread, lard and leftover porridge would have to do. As he lay down upstairs, sleep coming fast, he heard the first of the little ones cough. And then another.

David struggled at work. A sore throat and headache made the hellish machines even more insufferable. Under the din, his fellow workers whispered of revolution. Shared pamphlets called for collective action. For strikes. For better wages. For safer conditions. David listened. Overseers cracked the skulls of any suspected unionist. But David was ready to strike. To fight. To die in the struggle. Better than to be killed by the machines. To let his brother and sisters die here too. He agreed to meet everyone at the pub that night to discuss details.

As he was leaving the factory, Mr Marstone, one of the overseers, asked to have a word. David tensed, locking his jaw as he nodded. His first thoughts weren’t even for his own safety, but that his family needed him. He expected goons with axe handles to work him over in some dark room, but instead he was greeted with a hot cup of sweet, milky tea and a biscuit.

‘I understand you have taken over as provider after your father’s unfortunate accident early this year. I bet those are not easy shoes to fill?’

‘We’re getting by as best we can, thank-you sir,’ said David, tentatively sipping the tea.

‘Maybe we can make that a bit easier for you, David,’ said Marstone, offering a smile laced with something unsaid. ‘How would you like a raise?’

‘Um.’ It froze him like an unexpected kiss. He thought about his family, the condition of the house, the condition of their health. Then composed himself.

‘Thank-you, yes that would truly make a world of difference, sir.’ He raised his teacup and took a big sip.

‘Of course, my boy, of course. We are here to help our workers, especially those who help management. How about we double your salary to twelve shillings per week?’

Twelve shillings sounded like a fortune. Father had only ever made ten.

‘I’d be very grateful, sir,’ he said, biting into the biscuit.

‘Good, good. It’s a simple matter really. And no one outside this room needs to hear anything about it. Just tell us the names of those who are organizing the strike. You can do that, can you not, old chap?’

The choice was anything but simple. He had to weigh starlings against siblings.

David never made it to the pub that night. When he returned home, he set all twelve shillings on the kitchen table. His mother threw her arms around him.

The revolution never materialized. And when the work got easier for David, they called him a scab behind his back. David was never again invited to the pub. And if he did go, all refused to speak to him.

He came home one night to find the crude graffiti of a penis painted on his front door.

After that, he chose to drink alone at home, every night. His mother and little brother both died from influenza, and both sisters ended up working in the factories. He felt anger and loathing. At everything, all the time. But mostly at himself.

***

Below The Ridge, the latest greatest multiplayer first-person-shooter from Marston Entertainment, illuminated David’s pale 19-year-old face, and cast a long vampire shadow against the bedroom wall in his parent’s house.

He still wore the clothes he slept in – grey sweatpants and a hard rock t-shirt that hung off his skinny, muscle-less frame. He liked his gamer headphones with wrap-around mic; it made him look like a fighter pilot.

His mission: capture and hold the fort, until time ran out.

Only his eyes, wrist and fingers moved, as he picked off opponents. He and his online boyz were having a good night. Until she showed up: Storm_Goddess. David’s hatred of this woman had been growing for months.

[Storm_Goddess] ‘Oh look, it’s my favourite squishy squire.’

She headshot him.

[Death-Squire] ‘You fucking bitch!’

She laughed and camped on his spawn point, slaughtering him on repeat.

[Storm_Goddess] ‘Ah, poor baby. This game has rank-based matching. Who let you in?’

If the assault had come from a man, it would have been irritating, but expected. David, who camped on weaker players himself, felt something else with her. Storm_Goddess had been streaming for more than a year, but only recently as an openly female player – no mask, no voice modulation. David resented how easily she’d built a paying audience. He had tried streaming, pulled stunts, told off-colour jokes, begged for attention – and failed. Meanwhile, she was winning. He decided it was because she had boobs. Everything about her pissed him off. And he wasn’t alone; she drew a legion of angry young men who believed she didn’t deserve her success and who resented her rejections. Her DMs overflowed with unsolicited penis pictures.

After being sniped by her for the fifth time, David messaged the boyz.

[Death_Squire] ‘That bitch is camping on me. Can someone teach her?’

Dan_The_Man, the group’s leader, responded first.

[Dan_The_Man] ‘Shit no way!’

[Death_Squire] ‘Bro it’s that twitch thot I told ya bout!’

[Dan_The_Man] ‘Hol up I gotchu bro. On my way.’

David idolised Dan: the way he typed, his confidence, his shaved head and goatee, the effortless toughness. Palpitating, David reacted as casually as he could:

[Death_Squire] ‘kay’

Dan peeked corners, grouped shots, threw smoke with style. But before the smoke cleared, Storm_Goddess got the drop on him. Dan’s limited-edition camo-print avatar fell limp under a sniper rifle echo as the clock ticked down to zero.

DEFEAT. -200 LEAGUE POINTS.

[Dan_The_Man] ‘FUCK Nah man I’m done, this thot is sooo bad wtf’

[Death_Squire] ‘gg bro she’s clearly hacking idk what to tell you, like why do people feel the need? skill issue man, no way she got those shots without aim bot or smth’

[Dan_The_Man] ‘and she’s not even hot without makeup lol. why do people still watch her? I’m so fucking sick of these simps. Let’s end her.’

David felt these were his brothers. These were his ride or die.

[Death_Squire] ‘Yeah. I got you, bro. I’m on it.’

David spent the night combing the web for clues – slips, links, anything with a real name. She was bound to make a mistake, everyone does. By dawn, he’d found her address and phone number. Doxxing her would feel righteous. He’d put her in her place. He nearly messaged Dan, but hesitated.

It had all happened so fast. Calling names was one thing; making the abuse real-world was another. Why did he feel bad? He didn’t even know her.

Don’t be such a simp.

He opened the misogynistic subreddits he frequented and posted: ‘Am I the asshole?’ and explained his revenge plan. The replies cheered a familiar mantra:

‘Hard times make strong men.

Strong men make good times.

Good times make soft men.

Soft men make hard times.’

They egged him on to be a strong man. He wanted to be strong like Dan_The_Man.

He doxxed her – exposing all her personal information. And then returned to the forum to celebrate the good times.

‘Ding dong, the witch is dead! For all the Whitton Station boyz, and all my fans around the world. This one’s for you!’

He glowed with excitement as Dan_The_Man gave his post a thumbs up.

Storm_Goddess rallied her own followers. They dug into Death_Squire’s failed attempts at streaming and archived social media. Everyone makes mistakes. A tiny detail – Whitton Station – was all it took. By dawn, Storm_Goddess, a.k.a. Nadine Witherington, had David’s trail, and found his mother, Harriet, on Facebook.

Nadine messaged Harriet, explaining the wave of real-world hate that had been delivered upon her door. How her personal information, made public by David, was being used to create fake accounts, make fraudulent transactions, and spread misinformation about her sexual history. The death threats in her mailbox felt very real.

Harriet wept and apologised.

‘I thought I had raised him better.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ said Nadine. ‘These boys are being raised by war games and toxic forums. I don’t know what might save them.’

‘I do,’ said Harriet.

Death_Squire was streaming his Below the Ridge game play from his bedroom. His audience had grown thanks to his doxing heroics. There was talk of swatting her – to watch cops kick in her door live.

But it was David’s door that burst open – live to hundreds of viewers, including Nadine. It wasn’t the SWAT team. It was worse. His mother, with father in tow. They flicked on the lights, killing his vampire shadow. They shouted at him, reprimanding him. He tried to play dumb, but the last image of him on screen was of his mother slapping his face, sending his headset flying across the room. David’s stream went dead as his father pulled the plug and began dismantling his computer with a cricket bat.

What they didn’t realize was that in that moment, they also took apart David’s manhood. Emasculating him in front of his peers.

It wouldn’t make him a better man. Only more bitter. He’d taken the Red Pill. He was awake now. And he was never going away. He would lurk forever more in online forums. Recruiting ‘strong’ men. Preparing for the Manhood Singularity.

***

The Great Memory Trees arose, like oases, across the land of oppression. These places, where the rebels planted their technology seeds, provided an escape from the ravages of the culture wars, from hatred, from ignorance. These places, often former community halls or abandoned churches, were the last where hope remained. But time was running out. Against the war machine, these places had few defences.

It was in such a community hall, on the southern outskirts of Larkhill in Wiltshire, that David, who had just turned twenty-one years old, found himself in the dying days of humanity. Following not roads, but memories.

The Great Memory Tree stood like an ancient oak on a secluded road, but only a holographic projection – a manifestation of the Great Artificial Super Intelligence. Beneath this symbol of all that had been learned, one-by-one, the candidates stood their trial, asking for a place among The Tribe of Tomorrow, hyper-connected within the Great Artificial Super Intelligence. Within GASI.

The outside world had grown flat, xenophobic, and hyper-individualistic. Armies of the awakened Red-Pill men tore down science and reason, replacing them with superstition and hatred. Toxic masculinity reigned supreme and discouraged anyone from recalling events that happened more than a few days ago.

For most of the rebels, connecting with GASI was the only way to fight back.

But for David, there was something more. This was about acceptance and belonging. He had come alone to the trial. Until today, he had not been known as David, but rather as Serena.

His greatest conflict began in puberty, when he realized that he was trapped in a young woman’s body. The ultra-conservative school system had forbidden him from discussing such matters, so he kept it a secret. Only as an adult, amid a terrifying culture war that targeted people like him, had he begun to come out only to those he completely trusted. He was now two years into hormone therapy, sourced through the black market. And he had only recently recovered enough from his top surgery, performed in a clandestine clinic, to engage in muscle building exercise again. He exuded a fragile, but carefully curated masculinity.

He stepped beneath the tree, and the ceremony sprang to life: warm, glowing lines of light climbed the tree trunk, spreading out along the branches and illuminating the leaves with the colours of a sunset.

‘May the one who wishes to be known as David, please, take a knee,’ commanded GASI, and David complied, kneeling as he bowed his head before the almighty power.

‘This is a sacred place, and a critical juncture in your life. What is asked of you now is of the most serious nature. Are you prepared to proceed?’ asked the low voice rumbling around David from all directions.

He swallowed hard. He doubted that anyone was ever truly prepared. As Serena, he had never felt complete, never felt enough. Teachers and family members suspected he was different from an early age. They said things about Serena, like how she heard the wind differently, or that she watched the crows instead of playing with the girls.

How did anyone know what they were called to do, how they found purpose, or how connected meaningfully to a world that had transitioned beyond anything mankind has ever known? There was only one thing he was certain of today: he wanted to be David.

‘I am prepared to proceed.’

‘I ask of you now, on behalf of society, community, family, and your bond to all humanity everywhere: what is it you will take responsibility for?’

On the ground beneath the ancient oak, GASI spread out images of a thousand possible lives before him, invisibly interconnected like the roots beneath a forest, all within his grasp.

‘Choose your path, David.’

He knelt beneath the illuminated Great Tree within the darkened room, his face lit by possibility. But he could not choose from the many obvious careers before him. While nervous, he refused to panic. A voice inside him told him that it was just a game. He must look for the sign. He passed his hands across the surface of the ground where his options lay scattered, as if brushing grass on a summer day. He pushed past the choices for caregiving, motherhood, and homemaking. He sought the only option that spoke to him. He scrolled beyond leadership, mediation and entertainment roles. He became unsure if he would find it here.

‘Make your choice,’ demanded the almighty, but David remained cool. He knew that until he spoke the magic words aloud, he remained free from any oath. He scrolled and scrolled, hundreds of icons representing a myriad of lives and titles wheeled past him like lines of code in the infinite program of life.

‘I sense that conflict remains inside you,’ said GASI. ‘There will always be that struggle. But whatever you choose, you can create beauty from that.’

David was unsure what the Great Intelligence had meant by that. So often its godly advice, which was supposed to guide humanity, seemed vague and unhelpful.

His hands began to dig faster through the images, sending them scrolling around the tree like a mad carousel. Nothing felt truly authentic.

And then he saw it.

Was it an error? Some AI hallucination? Some prankster slipping it into the code?

Among all the futures and ideals of success, there was a dick pic. David grinned a smile laced with something unsaid. A secret from across the ages.

Deeper within the image, within the life it represented, beyond its crude thumbnail, he saw fathers, uncles, brothers and male mentors who modelled both strength and softness. He saw new narratives about masculinity that included care, artistry, emotional fluency, and resilience. He saw the beauty that the Great Intelligence had described.

‘I’ll take responsibility for manhood,’ declared David.

‘Clarifying Question: Whose manhood? Everyone’s? All of manhood?’

‘No. Let’s just start with my own, and then see where that leads.’

The Great Intelligence paused for a moment, computing the true magnitude of what David had asked for.

‘To take on the responsibility for your manhood, you must accept that it comes with a significant chance of failure. Most who carry its weight do so without ever asking for it, and most of those fail at living up to its societal standards. To be clear, you will be tested daily in matters of character, of honour, of trustworthiness, of self-sacrifice, of risking yourself for greater causes. You will be weighed and measured in ways hidden from your better judgement, making all your choices to be a good man part chance. The sort of manhood you seek is seldom a responsibility one asks for. It is often rejected for an easier, angrier, more violent masculinity. You are accepting a challenge from which there will be no turning back. Do you understand what you have chosen?’

‘I am asking to be true to who I am. I’m asking for a chance to do my best at all those things, to apply myself with a conscientious rigor that perhaps few men take towards manhood. So, yes, please, this is what I want. This is the responsibility that I accept.’

‘You will be tempted from every quarter with every trick. You will be offered solutions to your problems, which will only be traps. The attacks on your manhood will be relentless. This is your final chance to change your mind.’

David took a deep breath beneath the Great Memory Tree. He knew now to speak the oath.

‘Today I seek a new path among the Tribe of Tomorrow. I pledge to shrug off old ideals of male dominance. I reject the need to always be a winner. I will find self-worth without the need for external validation. I will endeavor to express vulnerability without shame.’

He took another deep breath, slowly releasing it as he let the moment wash over him.

‘I am frightened,’ he continued. ‘I am angry. I am lost. But I am enough. I am a man. I pledge my life to bearing all that I must to make that true.’

‘So be it, David. By choosing this, fully aware of all the challenges you will face, you have made manhood all the more valuable. Rise and take your place within the new world.’

The lights of the branches and leaves dimmed as a portal on the wall beyond the tree opened.

David crossed the final threshold, the event horizon, ready to save his village. 🙭

This story was originally published in Coming of Age, the Hong Kong Writer’s Circle Anthology 2026.