The next morning, Hanoi wore a thin veil of mist—not the gentle fog of nature, but the dense humidity of a city just entering winter. Distant car horns echoed faintly, street vendors called out in familiar tones, sounds Duong Minh once believed he'd never hear again.
News about the incident in the Himalayas remained scattered; online articles offered only sparse details, television broadcasts cloaked everything in careful phrasing. But for Duong Minh's family, the entire world had narrowed into a single small corner: a dim kitchen, a wooden table, and the ordinary objects of home.
Duong Minh woke late. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, yet his face no longer bore bandages. The marks of rebirth had faded, leaving only faint lattice-like lines at his temples, and a strange sensation—as if a thin mesh lay beneath his skin whenever he touched it. He washed his face slowly. The cold water startled him. In the mirror, his reflection stared back: the same old eyes, yet within them flickered fine streaks of light, like lines of data running in silence. He blinked. The light remained. A secret only he and Lyra understood—one that could never be explained.
His mother, Mrs. Duong, had already prepared breakfast. She moved through her tasks like a ritual: setting chopsticks, boiling water, lighting the stove. Her hands trembled slightly—not from age, but from worry. Duong An, his sister, turned her face away now and then when she looked at him. There are things human beings can't name with words, yet their eyes can't conceal.
"Eat." Mrs. Duong said softly, placing a bowl of porridge before him, trying to steady her voice. "I made pork rib porridge... it was your favorite when you were little."
Duong Minh looked at the bowl. His mother remembered. After death, after everything—she still remembered.
"Yes, thank you, Mom." He replied, forcing a warm smile. His voice was slightly hoarse, like that of someone who'd just survived immense pain.
The meal unfolded in silence, broken only by the faint clink of spoons and chopsticks. At last, Duong An clasped her hands and spoke what they'd all been holding back:
"You... look different. Mom noticed those small marks at your temples. Are you well? Are you... really okay?"
The question was gentle, yet sharp as a blade. Duong Minh touched his temple, feeling the thin skin beneath his fingers. He knew the answer wasn't simple.
"I'm fine." He said slowly. "I'm still Duong Minh."
"When you came home yesterday, Mom and I thought we were dreaming. You... you... you died. Mom cried so much at your funeral."
Mrs. Duong grasped his hands, tears spilling freely. "I don't need to know why you came back. I only know you're my son. Duong Minh, if you can tell us anything, then tell us. And if there are things too hard to say, we'll still believe you."
Duong Minh fell silent for a long while, choosing his words carefully. He spoke of the accident, of friends who'd found a way to save him, of new technology, of a biological framework. He left out Phap Vien, left out Erebus, left out the blood-soaked battles. He told only what his mother and sister could bear without collapsing.
Mrs. Duong listened, eyes reddened. Duong An held his hand tightly, as if afraid he might vanish again.
Just then, the doorbell rang. By instinct, Duong Minh rose to answer it.
Outside stood Mrs. Tu from next door, holding a still-warm steamed bun. She studied him—carefully, from eyes to hands—then unconsciously stepped back.
"Minh... you're back? Good... that's good." Her voice was stiff. She set the bun down on the doorstep, unwilling to step inside. "I... I have to go."
She turned away quickly. Duong Minh stood watching her retreat, the bun still faintly steaming in his hand.
Lyra whispered, "She's afraid of you."
After breakfast, Professor Volkov called via video. On the screen, his face appeared solemn, calculating yet kind.
"The situation in Geneva is stable for now." He said. "The biological framework has entered the cultivation chamber. The data's secured under encryption coordinated with Lyra. But this is only the first step. We require a complete cellular sample—and time."
"Professor, thank you. And Quoc Trung..." Duong Minh's voice faltered; he didn't wish to call it a "fragment" in front of his family.
"Quoc Trung's soul fragment remains safely anchored to the biological framework." Professor Volkov replied bluntly. "Lyra's assessed that roughly ten percent of his memory remains intact. We'll do everything possible. But the risk persists. Erebus and the compromised nodes are still searching. I advise you and your family to remain discreet."
He paused, staring directly into the camera. "And Duong Minh, there's something you should know. Yesterday, an abnormal query accessed the hospital system in Hanoi. Someone's searching your records. I erased the trace—but they'll return."
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Mrs. Duong tightened her grip on her son's hand, as if preserving his warmth. Duong An stared at the screen and asked quietly:
"Professor, is it safe? Is Duong Minh in danger?"
"There's risk." Volkov answered. "But if we do nothing, Quoc Trung will be lost entirely. We must accept the trade."
After the call, Duong Minh held a brief video meeting with the others. Anika and Venkatesh sent messages wishing stability. Lyra spoke within his mind, her voice gentle yet weighted:
"I'm scanning the perimeter. Erebus is probing auxiliary nodes. No direct trace in Geneva yet. Professor Volkov's managing well. You need time to stabilize."
"Time?" Duong Minh replied inwardly. He knew time was something neither hidden forces nor Erebus would grant freely.
In the following days, strange occurrences seeped quietly into daily life. Neighbors whispered. Once or twice, the drink vendor at the alley entrance avoided his gaze and hurried across the street. A child stared at him for too long, then suddenly asked, "Uncle, have you ever seen ghosts?" before running away. The rumors were like rising winds—not yet a storm, but warning of one.
Duong Minh walked through his old alley, sometimes pausing beside the pho stall, watching the vendor carve chicken with skilled hands. The scent of broth stirred a strange hunger within him—almost as if ordinary life itself could heal.
"Duong Minh, isn't it?" The stall owner looked up and smiled. "Haven't seen you in a while. Come eat."
He stepped inside, sitting on the familiar plastic chair. Yet when he touched his own hand, he felt the thin lattice beneath his skin. He was no longer entirely an ordinary man sitting down to eat pho.
One afternoon, a local reporter called, proposing an interview about a "scientific miracle." Duong An responded coldly and firmly:
"We don't want media attention. Please don't disturb us."
Public attention would be dangerous. Duong Minh understood: if Erebus or others with hidden intentions heard, they'd come. He realized that returning home was a rare moment—a chance to see clearly what had made him human: his mother, his sister, the simple habits of life before he'd have to depart again.
At night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Duong Minh stepped onto the balcony. Hanoi after dark remained vibrant—the yellow glow of apartment windows, scattered motorbike sounds, laughter drifting from the alley's food stall. A living city. A city he once thought he'd never see again.
He placed his hand on the railing, feeling the cold metal beneath his palm. In his mind, he called to Lyra:
"I'll have to leave soon. The longer I stay, the greater the danger."
Lyra answered slowly, "I know. But you need this time—to remember why you're fighting."
This chapter closes not with a grand event, but with a quiet image: Mrs. Duong rising in the middle of the night, standing at the doorway, eyes wide open. A mother of a man who's stood between death and life, sensing something immense beginning to stir in the world.
Far away, within the Digital Ocean, Lyra scanned across the nodes, her light gliding like a fish beneath dark waters.
In the cultivation chamber in Geneva, a small line of numbers blinked steadily, signaling that Quoc Trung's soul fragment remained intact, waiting for rebirth.
And within Duong Minh, a silent decision took form: he wouldn't allow the small things to be swept away. He'd act so that small things—like family meals—wouldn't be lost.