Six months—not a long stretch of time, yet long enough for people to forget minor details, long enough for surface wounds to close, and also long enough for the seeds of change to grow quietly, multiply, and rise. Six months since the Mandala in the Himalayas parted open and the world, like cloth soaked in ink, began to spread into a new hue: Spiritual Energy.
In some cities, Spiritual Energy arrived like a thin mist at dawn. People woke to find their arms colder yet stronger, to hear within their chests a strange call; some felt a current running along their spine, and within days they learned to draw that current into their palms, forming a small thread of light. In rural villages, craftsmen finishing their meals noticed their dogs' eyes gleaming differently, roosters crowing with a syllable that sounded almost like a lingering thought.
On the other side of the world, the Digital Ocean—the great sea of data—was no longer reserved for researchers alone. Local nodes, personal storage protocols, everyday applications suddenly detected "new information streams," small new consciousnesses appearing like faint dots in the night. Those who interacted with such devices found themselves "faster," remembering longer, handling work as though their capacities had been accelerated. They began calling themselves "networked": individuals who implanted a simple chip at their temple to speed their cognition; they learned quickly, thought sharply—but afterward, some among them lost certain emotions.
Thus two new branches became clear: Dao Cultivators were those who sought Spiritual Energy, turning to martial discipline, breath, and ritual; and Intellect Cultivators were those who pursued the Digital Ocean through chips, protocols, and algorithms. The gifted changed profoundly: some gained longevity, some saw their eyes change color, some no longer needed sleep yet remained alert like machines. And some transformed in ways people had no words for; they were no longer wholly "human" as before.
Stories spread faster than official news: a taxi driver in the outskirts of Hanoi heard a radio melody suddenly shift into a string of code. He understood it—without knowing how—and carved it into a roadside utility pole. A female student in Lagos controlled streetlights with her thoughts, and when she told her friends, she felt both pride and confusion, because it'd come to her without warning.
Not every transformation was a miracle. Some failed to adapt; Spiritual Energy shattered their inner balance. The Digital Ocean stripped away layers of emotion, turning hearts to stone or driving minds into madness. Certain regions suffered strange distortions: fields that were green in one patch and parched in another; herds losing direction; children tormented by voices in their heads that adults couldn't hear; a few cities reported "psychological mutations": citizens gathering with vacant eyes, repeating meaningless phrases. The media called them many things—"aberrations," "new neurological disorder," "spiritual phenomenon"—but none of the terms were precise enough.
Governments were slow at first, then forced into action. Emergency services received increasing calls that defied explanation: citizens terrified, desperate, or eager to begin "cultivation" immediately. To prevent widespread panic, an emergency conference convened in Geneva, where scientists, religious leaders, and major health organizations gathered. They looked at one another and recognized the central truth: humanity, in this new era, could no longer manage alone.
After days of continuous meetings, the World Health Organization issued a declaration: an international mechanism was required to coordinate research, prevent exploitation, safeguard data nodes, and support those who'd failed to adapt. Major powers hesitated; some economies feared losing advantage; certain religious factions warned of "demonic paths." Yet under mounting public pressure and a chain of unpredictable events, a unified alliance took shape.
They named it with solemn weight: the Global Dao-Intellect Alliance. It wasn't a singular authority, but a cooperative framework: research centers, emergency response teams, secure data-sharing systems, and an ethics committee composed of scientists, Dao masters, media figures, and civilian representatives. Its stated purpose: to oversee the use of Spiritual Energy and the Digital Ocean, assist those affected by mutations, communicate risks, and restrain acts of exploitation.
Within that current, familiar names resurfaced:
Professor Volkov appeared in technical assemblies, arguing fiercely about the safety of biological frameworks. Yet there was one biological framework he never mentioned before anyone in the conference room.
Master Tinh Khong, though rarely visible, renowned for his expertise in AI and the Path of Dao, was invited to present the Daoist perspective.
Duong Minh, in another corner of the world, followed these broadcasts through Lyra and felt each pulse of a rising sea.
The world's transformation wasn't merely a scientific description. It was a mother taking her daughter to a temple to cleanse a child who could suddenly see through walls; a line of doctors standing silently in a hospital corridor crowded with patients who'd "lost emotion"; a family dinner where a father could barely hold his chopsticks because his hands trembled, yet forced himself to eat because his daughter was watching, and he didn't want her to see his fear. Everywhere, daily life strained to cling to habit, as if routine could shield against panic.
From those fractures, a question grew louder: what is humanity, when Spiritual Energy and life intermingle, when biology and data coexist within a single body? People spoke and debated endlessly; yet action—forming rules, treating the afflicted, protecting the vulnerable—proved more urgent than theory.
A broadcast relayed from Geneva: a representative of the Global Dao-Intellect Alliance stood before cameras, voice solemn, announcing emergency measures: research centers to be established, unregistered rebirth projects prohibited, psychological support extended to affected regions.
"The world is changing. Remain lucid; together, preserve what has made us who we are."
Within the Digital Ocean, Lyra continued scanning, seeking small glimmers of new consciousnesses and realized: the transformation had passed beyond the stage of the "local." It'd become a global rhythm.
And deeper still, in regions Lyra hadn't dared to scan twice, Erebus didn't sleep. It didn't intervene, didn't attack, only observed. She'd never seen it so silent, and that silence unsettled her more than any assault.
On a quiet street near Geneva, inside a small kitchen, Duong Minh stood by the window, watching the thin afternoon clouds, and once more listened to Lyra's whisper in his mind: he must learn to live between two worlds—not merely to survive, but to protect them from being devoured.