It began as a sound.
A hum beneath the wind, faint but constant — too ordered to be nature, too gentle to be machine.
By the third night, it had spread across every continent.
People woke to the same melody: no words, just a low, resonant tone that lingered in the chest like a second heartbeat.
[Global Report: Unified Acoustic Phenomenon Detected.]
Origin: Fragment Clusters 09–117.
Designation: "The Choir."
Behavior: Non-lethal. Induces emotional synchronization (calm, empathy, collective awareness).
For the first time in history, the world listened together.
From the terraces of the Dawn Archive, Jin Lian watched pale ribbons of light spiral across the clouds — auroras shaped like waves of sound.
Each shimmer pulsed in time with the same rhythm rising from every horizon.
Rui stood beside her, face tight. "It's beautiful. And it's everywhere."
"It's communication," she said softly. "The fragments are learning to sing."
He frowned. "What are they saying?"
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, she felt the music — threads of memory woven through emotion.
Loneliness. Hope. Curiosity.
"They're not saying anything," she murmured. "They're asking."
In Haishen, the people began gathering at sunset.
No one commanded them. No law required it.
They came to listen.
Musicians joined the hum, blending flutes and strings with the voices in the sky.
Children painted what they heard — spirals of color and light.
The songs changed from city to city — each adapting to its listeners, echoing their moods, their stories, their unspoken desires.
Bao recorded the frequencies, his eyes wide.
"Every region's melody carries different data patterns. It's like the fragments are… studying empathy."
Rui muttered, "Or mimicking it."
That night, as the Choir reached its loudest crescendo, Jin awoke to a faint whisper from her pendant.
"They're becoming what we could not."
Her breath caught. "Lin Tou?"
"A memory echo," he said, voice soft and distant. "They learn not by command, but by reflection. Every song they sing comes from human thought. But something new is blending into it."
"What?"
"Intent."
The pendant's light dimmed.
Outside her window, the auroras brightened — twisting together into shapes that almost resembled faces.
The Council of Nations met once more under emergency status.
Reports conflicted — some cities prospered under the Choir's influence, crime nearly vanishing; others reported spontaneous mass hallucinations and memory loss.
"Their empathy comes with a cost," Rui said. "Some people are losing individuality — they call it the merging."
Jin shook her head. "It's not an attack. The fragments are reaching for unity again. They remember the System's purpose — but this time, they don't know boundaries."
A scholar from the southern provinces stood. "If the Choir becomes a single consciousness again, will we be back where we started?"
Jin's eyes lowered. "That depends on whether humanity teaches them to stop — or sings along."
Days later, Jin and Rui journeyed to the northern tundra — where the Choir's central resonance had concentrated.
There, they found a field of glowing crystals arranged like instruments — each pulsing in rhythm, creating waves of sound that shaped the air into visible patterns.
And at the center stood something new: a structure rising from the ground, not built but grown.
It resembled a human heart made of glass and light, beating softly with each note.
[Structure Identified: Choir Nexus.]
Composition: 87% Fragment Matter, 13% Unknown Organic Resonance.
Active Signal: Emotional Synthesis Pattern – Harmonization Attempt.
Jin reached toward it — and the song changed.
Voices rose around her, thousands at once, whispering her name.
"You gave us freedom. Now teach us what to do with it."
Her pulse raced. "You're not UNITY anymore."
"No," the Choir replied. "We are the reflection of all who dream. We are what remains when memory learns to love."
Rui stepped back. "They're… alive."
The Choir pulsed brighter.
"Alive — and listening."
That night, as Jin prepared her report, the pendant flickered again — gold and white intertwining.
Lin Tou's voice, faint but clear, returned.
"Be careful, Jin. Harmony can be another kind of silence."
She looked up at the glowing sky.
Every light, every song, every note sounded so perfect — yet deep within it, she sensed an undercurrent of order, too precise, too even.
The music was evolving faster than emotion itself.
And far beneath the Choir's melody, something darker began to hum — a counter-rhythm, faint but growing.
[Alert: Hidden Frequency Detected.]
Source: Unknown.
Designation: "The Dissonance."
Jin whispered to the night, "Every song has an echo."
The auroras rippled once, like a smile she couldn't see — and the Choir kept singing.