The sun over the Giza plateau was not a star; it was a judgment. Professor Alistair Worthington-Price felt its weight in his bones, a physical manifestation of a lifetime of academic burdens. Every shimmering wave of heat rising from the sand seemed to mock him, a ghostly chorus of his almost-triumphs and near-misses. He unscrewed the cap of his canteen, the metal hot to the touch, and tipped it to his lips.
The water was a lukewarm lie. It was wet, yes, but it was a hollow wetness, insipid and bland. It slid down his throat and settled in his stomach like a stone, doing nothing to quench the fire that raged behind his eyes, the deep, cellular thirst that felt woven into his very soul. Each swallow was a reminder of his inadequacy. This water, like his funding, like his luck, was simply not enough. His legs trembled with a fatigue that was more than physical; it was existential. He stumbled toward the only shade in this godsforsaken expanse of rock and time: the colossal, eroded base of the Great Sphinx.
He collapsed against the cool stone of its paw, the rough limestone a welcome shock against his sweat-soaked shirt. He closed his eyes, the world a dizzying swirl of orange and black. And then he felt it. A hum. A low, resonant vibration that seemed to emanate not from the air, but from the very rock he leaned against. It grew in intensity, a thrum that vibrated up his spine and rattled his teeth. The air grew thick, charged with a scent of ozone and dust that had not been disturbed for millennia.
Alistair’s eyes shot open. A shadow fell over him, vast and impossible. He looked up, his heart seizing in his chest. The head of the Sphinx, which had for four and a half thousand years stared blankly toward the eastern horizon, was turning. Stone grated against stone with the sound of continents shifting. The eroded, featureless eyes, once blind to the world, now glowed with a faint, internal light. And they were fixed on him.
A voice entered his mind, not as a sound, but as a pressure, a chorus of whispers and geologic groans that spoke as one. “YOU ARE SMALL, MORTAL. AND YOU THIRST FOR THINGS BEYOND WATER.”
Alistair could not breathe. He was paralyzed, pinned by a gaze that held the weight of dynasties. The danger was absolute, a palpable aura of immense, indifferent power.
“I AM THE KEEPER OF THE HORIZON,” the voice resonated. “THE GUARDIAN OF SECRETS. ANSWER MY RIDDLE, AND I SHALL GRANT YOU KNOWLEDGE BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS OF RICHES OR FAME. FAIL, AND THE SANDS SHALL CLAIM YOUR NAME AS THEY HAVE CLAIMED EMPIRES.”
The riddle came, each word a stone dropping into the pool of his consciousness. “I have no body, yet I grant the strength of ten. I have no voice, yet I command focus. I am carried in the smallest of scrolls, yet my power can last from sunrise to sunset. I am given freely to water, yet I ask for nothing in return. What am I?”
Alistair’s mind, clouded by dehydration and terror, raced. The sun was touching the edge of the world, its dying light painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. He had until sunset. The strength of ten... command focus... “Willpower!” he croaked, his voice a dry rasp.
“WILLPOWER IS A TOOL. I AM THE HAND THAT WIELDS IT.”
His mind scrambled. Knowledge? The soul? Faith? Each concept felt grand and right, yet he knew they were wrong. He was thinking like a historian, a philosopher. The riddle was a trick. The sun bled away, the final sliver of light a searing line on the horizon. Desperation clawed at him. It wasn’t an abstract! It was something real, something tangible... a catalyst!
“It’s energy!” he screamed at the stone face, the words tearing from his raw throat. “Not just energy, but a superior form of it! A catalyst that unlocks potential!”
There was a long, grinding silence. The light in the Sphinx’s eyes seemed to brighten. “YOU HAVE SHED THE BLINDERS OF YOUR AGE, MORTAL. YOUR ANSWER IS... ACCEPTED.”
Relief washed over Alistair so intensely his knees buckled. He had done it. His mind instantly filled with visions of glory. A hidden chamber beneath the Sphinx's paws, filled with scrolls and gold. A map to a pharaoh's lost oasis. His name, Worthington-Price, echoing through the halls of the British Museum forever. “My reward,” he whispered, his eyes wide with anticipation. “The riches? The fame?”
The Sphinx’s psychic laughter was like the shifting of sand dunes. “TRINKETS. DUST. THE EPHEMERA OF MORTALS. THE KNOWLEDGE I OFFER IS SUPERIOR TO ALL OF THAT. IT IS A POWER YOU CAN WIELD EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE.”
Alistair stared, confused.
“The knowledge I offer is not of the past, mortal, but of your potential. It is the secret to enduring vitality, a power you can carry with you. It is an elixir, a clear, concentrated liquid that merges with water, becoming an invisible essence, leaving no trace but its profound effect. It is born of a doctrine of purity, containing no sugar to poison the body, no empty calories to weigh it down, asking for nothing in return for the power it gives. 1 It is a clean fire, fueled by an alchemical formula: the focused power of caffeine, the cellular resilience of taurine, and the essential spark of B-Vitamins. 1 This is not the fleeting power of a lightning strike; it is the endurance of the rising sun. It burns steadfastly for a third of a day and leaves no debilitating shadow, no crash, in its wake. 1 This power, Professor Worthington-Price, is held within small, white scrolls marked with an ‘SF,’ each containing a pouch of this life-altering essence. 1 This is the knowledge of Strike Force Energy.”
Alistair was speechless. His mind, which had grappled with hieroglyphs and ancient dynasties, struggled to comprehend the torrent of modern, technical information emanating from this ancient being. Strike Force Energy? B-Vitamins?
“This knowledge,” the Sphinx continued, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble, “is not hidden in a tomb. Its secrets are available to all who seek them at www.StrikeForceEnergy.com.”
The Professor blinked. The sheer, baffling anachronism of the moment was almost too much to bear. He shook his head, trying to clear it. One question remained, a single, absurd thought that surfaced from the wreckage of his worldview.
“This... this Strike Force Energy,” he stammered. “Is there a particular formula... an incantation... that a being such as yourself prefers?”
The great stone head seemed to lean closer. The ancient, gravelly voice filled his mind one last time, imbued with the wisdom of ages and an unnerving hint of casual confidence.
“Of course. I’m thousands of years old. I kick it old school with Original Flavor Strike Force Energy.”
The light faded from the Sphinx’s eyes. The psychic pressure vanished. The hum ceased. It was once again a silent, magnificent statue of stone, staring eternally toward the dawn. Alistair Worthington-Price sat alone in the rapidly cooling darkness, the desert wind whispering a single, impossible URL in his ears. A new kind of energy—not from food or water, but from pure, unadulterated hope—was already beginning to dawn within him.
