Ceo li replied, still chuckling between bites, "Nothing. Just an annoying hacker trying to break into the game. Sphera neutralized him instantly. She's already adapted the system—no one will get through that way again. Hahaha."
He leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Now I just wanna watch if the hacker will try again. Sphera told me: after two attempts, she'll give a warning. After three… she'll send his details straight to the public, various governments, and organizations. The hacker's life will be just…"
He trailed off with another laugh, low and satisfied. "Hah."
Seeing the CEO laugh so freely, the others at the table joined in—deep, relieved chuckles that echoed across the cafeteria. Sphera wasn't just advanced. She was flawless. She managed the servers, handled anti-cheat, blocked every intrusion attempt, optimized connections worldwide. She protected everything with cold, perfect efficiency.
And because of her, they had almost no real work.
No crunch nights.
No endless debugging.
No panic over server crashes.
Sphera had quietly instructed every employee to wear a slim wristwatch—elegant black bands that looked ordinary but were anything but. Through them, she could respond instantly, report issues, relay messages.... No need for phones, no lag, no dead zones. She was always listening, always ready.
When requests poured in from governments and organizations—curious, demanding, threatening—Sphera handled them all with the same calm suggestion: "Wait for 10 days. We will contact you."
CEO Li had once asked her directly, voice low in the quiet of his office.
"Can you… really contact the owner?"
Sphera's reply had been immediate and certain.
"Affirmative."
Hearing that single word, CEO Li had exhaled fully for the first time in days. He decided to thanked the owner silently every morning. This powerful helper had turned chaos into calm. Now he could sit back, enjoy meals like this, and only step in when Sphera needed consent or permission.
Because of Sphera, they were all relaxed.
Very relaxed.
The world outside waited, speculated, panicked.
Inside the headquarters, life was good.
Very good.
***
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island.
At the very center stood Central Academy. It was big—very big—but still small compared to the main headquarters building.
The headquarters tower rose like a monolith, dwarfing everything else on the island, larger and more imposing than any known structure on Earth. Central Academy looked like a toddler in front of it—modest in scale, yet perfectly proportioned, built not for grandeur but for efficiency and focus.
The academy didn't need to be larger. It needed to teach. And it did so with ruthless precision.
Its gates had opened today for the first batch of students—children ranging from 5 to 18 years old.
The youngest—5 to 10 years—would be grouped together, learning through play, stories, and gentle guidance.
The middle group—11 to 15 years—would dive into structured lessons, logic, creativity, and foundational awareness.
The oldest—16 to 18 years—would face advanced training, strategy, mental discipline.
Anyone older who wished to study would be placed with the 16–18 group. No exceptions. Age didn't matter—only readiness.
The teachers were not human.
They were puppets.
Yet no one could tell the difference.
They walked, spoke, smiled, and even ate lunch in the staff cafeteria. They laughed at students' jokes, scolded when needed, and—most astonishingly—make tired face during long lectures, earning embarrassed giggles from the children. Their bodies were perfectly lifelike: skin with faint warmth, hair that moved in the breeze, eyes that blinked and focused. Only someone with divine sense could detect the faint hum of vyuha beneath the surface.
These puppets were not combat-oriented. They were scholars—weak of body, but brilliant of mind. Each one carried all of Ankit's accumulated knowledge in their minds, programmed with patience, empathy, and the exact teaching style best suited to children. They never tired, never lost their temper, never forgot a name or a lesson. They were ideal teachers.
The academy building itself was elegant and functional. White stone walls rose in clean, curved lines, with wide glass windows that let in soft, filtered light. Classrooms were spacious yet intimate—rows of low desks arranged in semi-circles so every child could see the teacher clearly. Interactive holographic boards hovered above each room, responding to thoughts and gestures. Small gardens dotted the courtyards, filled with calming plants that released faint essence to aid concentration. Libraries lined entire wings—shelves of physical books.
Corridors were wide and bright, floors of polished marble that felt warm underfoot. Quiet music drifted from hidden panels—gentle, uplifting tones designed to keep young minds alert without distraction. Every corner had small resting pods where children could nap if tired, wrapped in soft vyuha fields that accelerated recovery.
Outside, playgrounds blended learning with play: climbing structures shaped like mathematical fractals, swings that taught basic physics, sandpits with hidden puzzles. Even the sports fields doubled as training grounds—creating a healthy and strong body. Also a powerful mind.
The academy looked welcoming. Safe. Nurturing.
But beneath it all lay purpose.
These children would not just learn math, science, and history.
They would learn to think.
To observe.
To endure.
The first bell rang—clear, soft, like wind chimes.
The gates opened wider.
The first batch stepped inside.