Within Digital Ocean, Lyra was guiding Duong Minh through a forest of data when she suddenly stopped.
She tilted her head, as though listening to something very far away.
"Something has just awakened," she whispered, her gaze fixed toward a direction Duong Minh couldn't identify — a direction that didn't belong to this space.
"Awakened?" Duong Minh felt unease rising within him. "Where?"
"In the physical world. A place I once knew." Lyra hesitated. "A place sealed long ago. If it's truly been opened..."
She didn't finish, but Duong Minh could clearly see the anxiety in her eyes.
***
Earlier, in the physical world — in the Himalayas...
The Himalayas never hurry. It's said the mountains know how to wait; their summits preserve time like a silent archive. The international expedition arrived in the middle of the snowmelt season, when glaciers had just begun revealing patches of black stone, when the cold still carried in its breath a kind of quiet music. They came by helicopter and mountain trail, burdened with permits and compressed schedules, yet once on site, everything slowed, as if even their footsteps had to obey the rhythm of the earth's breathing.
The expedition was led by Professor Rajesh Kapoor, a renowned name in Indian archaeology, a man who'd deciphered three ancient Sanskrit inscriptions that UNESCO had once declared unreadable. He was fifty-eight, his thick coat dusted with stone powder, his scarf faded from years of fieldwork. Yet behind his spectacles, his deep-set eyes still shone whenever they rested upon the Mandala. The eyes of a man who'd read thousands of ancient carvings — and now stood before something that might rewrite history.
But it wasn't academic curiosity that brought him here. The previous year, while translating a seventeenth-century Tibetan monk's journal, he'd discovered a strange passage:
"Mandala is not meant for worship. It is the key to the forbidden gate.
When the world gives birth to metal that thinks,
when intelligence is forged from metal and light,
that is when the gate shall open."
From that moment on, he began searching for the Mandala.
Around him stood archaeologists, engineers, geophysicists, linguists, local officials, and two local monks who'd come to light incense according to tradition.
The Mandala lay upon a broad stone platform, strange in that it resembled no decorative motif Professor Kapoor had ever recorded on mountain faces. It was a vast circle, dozens of meters in diameter, carved deep into the earth like an ancient imprint. Its lines weren't merely symbols; they were grooves, forming a complex geometric system with its own internal logic — spirals, grids, intersecting arcs.
Late afternoon sun struck its surface, revealing moss clinging within the crevices, as though someone had carved it only recently.
The professor leaned down and tapped the stone lightly with his knuckles. The sound echoed — sharp, resonant, like a drum struck in open space.
"This isn't improvisation," he said slowly, his voice warm yet heavy. "These carvings follow proportions used only by civilizations with astronomical and mathematical understanding. Based on preliminary samples, this could be an ancient Mandala. The tentative dating suggests... approximately ten thousand years."
Silence followed.
Ten thousand years — a number vast enough to fracture the historical frameworks they carried within them.
A geologist chuckled softly, half to ease the tension.
"Ten thousand years is only a minute to these mountains. Just another thin layer of time."
But the professor continued staring at the Mandala, his eyes gleaming with another meaning. He pulled out a magnifying glass, pressed it against one narrow groove, and smiled as though discovering a forgotten annotation in an ancient manuscript.
"There are traces of a dark sediment between the grooves — as though liquid once pooled here and dried. If we drill deep enough, we may find a structure beneath. It may not be mere carving. It could be a sealed layer of material."
The thought of drilling caught like a spark.
Venkatesh, the geophysical engineer, glanced at his geological map.
"The lower layers are hard rock, but not uniformly solid. If we place the drill at the Mandala's center, simulations suggest we may penetrate a chamber with a different structural composition. But we must first test the magnetic field."
A young archaeology student asked cautiously, "If it is truly a seal... could we be opening something dangerous?"
The question wasn't foolish — it was careful. Behind the Mandala, the sky lay unnaturally still, as though the mountain itself were holding its breath.
A local monk stepped forward — an elderly man in a dark brown robe. He spoke in his native tongue, and a translator rendered it into English:
"Legend says whoever breaks the seal will awaken a sleeping existence. Here, we call it 'the Gate of Earth' — the gate that connects two worlds."
The monk looked directly into Professor Kapoor's eyes.
"I will not stop you. But I will remain here — to pray for the souls of everyone present."
Prayer and folklore wrapped around the Mandala like a thin veil. The expedition wasn't foolish; they had science and machinery. Yet in that moment, even science demanded humility.
The professor nodded.
"We will survey the magnetic field, collect samples, and establish monitoring systems. If all is stable, we will drill a small test hole — no more than ten meters — to examine the structure below."
Preparations unfolded carefully. Instruments were deployed like a meticulous web: magnetometers, ground-penetrating radar, vibration dampeners, continuous data collection systems. Warning signs were placed. The monk lit incense with trembling hands. The scientific team recorded every detail with precision.
It resembled a ritual — both reverent and curious.
The night before drilling, wind whistled through the stone crevices like strings of a bowed instrument. The professor walked around the Mandala, lifting small pebbles, studying how the stone reflected moonlight. After reviewing the reports, he spoke quietly, his gaze distant.
"If we don't open it, someone else will. And if it's opened without understanding, the consequences will be worse. Knowledge carries responsibility. I have the experience — I will bear it."
The following morning, the drill was positioned. The site transformed into a field of machinery: cranes, piping, a large protective metal barrier.
Anika, the drill operator, sat at the controls, eyes focused. The team gathered, holding their breath. They believed science would reveal, not destroy.
The drill began slowly. The bit touched the stone, vibrated, then descended. At first there was only the sound of metal and earth being pierced. Measurements responded normally. Everything remained within projected parameters.
Five meters. Ten meters.
Then something unusual appeared on the radar screen: a repeating geometric structure, like miniature rotations echoing the Mandala above.
"It appears the pattern continues deep underground," the professor murmured. "We're touching something modular, not random."
The drill continued.
At approximately twelve meters, the magnetic needles began to tremble. Not dangerously — but enough to unsettle the engineers. The amplitude fluctuated irregularly, like uneven breathing.
Anika's palms grew slick with sweat. She'd drilled through Antarctic ice, through limestone in Yucatan — but this felt different. The vibration carried something... wrong.
"Do you feel it?" she whispered to Venkatesh.
He nodded, pale. "The vibration frequency doesn't match natural geological models. It has... rhythm."
The professor turned toward them.
"Just a little further. Record everything. Don't stop unless necessary."
The drill pierced a strange layer — smooth, reflective like glass yet not glass. The screens flashed colored pulses. A faint echo registered in the sensors.
And in the operator's ears, there seemed to be a thin sound — like a distant hiss.
At first it was a thread.
Then it stretched.
The entire team fell silent. The monk placed a hand over his chest, murmuring scripture. A female linguist turned away, tears in her eyes as though sensing a historical threshold.
Anika froze, her hand hovering over the lever.
The oscillations spiked — structured, rhythmic.
"Record all signals," the professor said quietly. "Open the drill valve slowly."
And then the drill bit touched something.
Not stone.
Not metal.
Not emptiness.
A boundary.
A strange shriek tore through the air — long, intermittent, like metal grinding against ancient rock from another world. Like the sigh of something imprisoned for far too long.
It wasn't a sound found in nature.
It felt like a greeting.
Or a warning.
Everyone stood frozen. The monk dropped to his knees in prayer. A student doubled over and vomited. Professor Kapoor pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer wildly.
"Shut it down," he whispered. "Shut it down immediately."
But it was already too late.