—Where Ancient Stones Meet Future Shadows
Shawn Mercer had been admitted—just as he hoped—into the Department of Philosophy at Sunzen University.
He stood motionless before the ancient, solemn university gates.
The morning breeze ruffled his hair and tugged at the backpack slung over his shoulder, yet it could not dispel the lingering tremors within his heart.
It had been more than ten days since his grandfather's funeral, but the images from that day remained vivid— the lone gravestone, the sorrow-stricken faces of his relatives, and Don's fleeting figure among the forest trees, like a dream—no, like a whisper from an unfinished mystery.
Now, he finally understood: his choice of philosophy was not simply born from an admiration of "soulenergy cultivation." It was, more importantly, a pursuit of the truth his grandfather had guarded for eighteen years—the truth of the Riftborn.
Was he truly the one destined to break the Loop?
He stepped across the threshold and began ascending the Trial Path—a mountain road paved with ninety-five moss-covered stone steps, ancient and silent, as if it had waited since time immemorial for those who dared to question fate.
Legend held that the stony stairway truly yearned to see could pass through the illusions and trials woven into this stony stairway.
At the summit, a grand building emerged from drifting clouds: the Huize Building, the symbolic heart of the philosophy department—a structure steeped in soulenergy mystery, marking his formal initiation into the ranks of the spiritual seekers.
He pushed open the doors to the first-floor hall. The opening ceremony was just beginning to stir, the space held aloft by a barely perceptible, unseen force. A soft resonance hummed through the air.
In the center of the hall, a rotating virtual planet hovered in midair, as if plucked from a distant galaxy. Words formed from shimmering light flowed across its surface like a galactic tide, flickering with the phrase:
"The Question of a New Era."
The hall was already filled with over a hundred students and faculty, solemn and silent. It felt like more than a ceremony—it was an omen, a ritual that would mark the threshold of a new age.
"Shawn, over here. Sit with us."
Judy Ellison's voice called gently from the front row. She waved. Dan Parker sat beside her, expression calm—but their presence sent a chill through Shawn's body.
He hadn't expected to see them here. Since his grandfather's death, he had cut off all contact. He had always believed that that incident—the attempted theft of the journal—had Dan's fingerprints all over it.
Their sudden reappearance felt like an old wound torn open. Shawn's mind swirled with emotions, but his response was cold: a glance, and then a turn toward an empty row on the opposite side.
***
The ceremony began.
The holographic projection of President Will Caelum appeared on the dais, his figure composed of countless motes of light, descending with solemn grace. His opening words sliced through the silence like lightning:
"In an age of technological leaps, philosophy is needed more than ever. Not to dwell on the past—but to redefine human value and our future. The Department of Philosophy at Sunzen University does not merely inherit thought—it seeks answers for tomorrow."
The declaration resonated in Shawn's chest with physical force. Between measured breaths, he tracked each syllable—not with his ears, but with the newly awakened sense behind his sternum,as though a higher voice were rising to meet the questions in his soul:
— Who am I? Why am I here?
"This is why I study soulenergy culture," he whispered inwardly.
In this world interwoven with illusion and reality, he would chase the truth hidden behind the Loop. He yearned for an answer—and for an end.
He glanced toward the front. Don was smirking, lips curled with subtle disdain. Judy looked somber, as if already bracing for a choice not yet made.
As the president's image dissolved into motes, the light in the hall dimmed sharply. A weight, invisible but heavy, seemed to press into the air. The room trembled faintly. A voice, deep and oracular, echoed like prophecy:
"Welcome to the Initiation Rite. The Freshman Test begins now."
No sooner had the voice faded than the hall began to shift. The ancient bronze columns melted away like memories devoured by time. In their place bloomed a fantastical holographic landscape—
The City of the Future.
Steel forests rose like titans. Intelligent railways cut across the sky. Metal lights streamed like rivers through the horizon.
At the city's heart, a towering AI Spire loomed like an omniscient sentinel. A steady, glacial-blue glow poured from its crown—calm, unyielding, inviolable.
Yet at the city's edge stood an old, decrepit theater—an anachronism, like a dream relic from another epoch.
Floating letters of gold shimmered in the air, like divine decree:
"Is the rapid rise of technology destined to erode the foundations of culture?"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Many had yet to recover from the visual shock, yet the test had already begun.
Beneath them, the floor transformed into an invisible philosophical map, glowing with faint light. It divided into three regions, each embodying a distinct ideological stance:
Beneath the AI Spire: Technological Determinism
Before the Theater: Cultural Preservation
Between the two: Fusion and Co-evolution
The emotionless voice spoke again:
"This is the Soulenergy-Cognitive Divergence System. The system will extract each student's Thought Seed based on their background, knowledge structure, and mental trajectory, and guide them to take a stance."
From the illusion's depths, Don stepped forward first. With casual ease, he walked beneath the AI Spire. That space shimmered cold and blue, formulae and code suspended midair as though the universe itself were calculating.
He stood tall, voice clear and confident:
"Don Parker, Class 31-3. My stance: Traditional culture is outdated code—we're building the next-gen patch through AI."
Without hesitation, Shawn strode to the fusion zone. It was a strange convergence—ancient theater and AI spire mirrored in dreamlike symmetry, symbolizing the symbiosis of past and future.
He paused, listening to something deep within, then spoke:
"Shawn Mercer, Class 31-1. Technology is powerful, but it creates no meaning. What gives value and direction is the human soul—our compassion, reverence, hope, and memory. These form the soul of culture."
He lifted his eyes toward the Spire, gaze steady and clear:
"Without soul, technology is but an empty shell without direction."
Judy remained where she was, hesitating, nerves visible in her expression. She murmured, "I... I think technology will change culture—but not necessarily destroy it."
The host's voice called again:
"Miss, please choose your stance."
She looked toward the theater. Dreamlike mist swirled there—its red curtains tattered, old scripts fluttering in the air. The whole space whispered of memory, ritual, symbol, and dream.
And then, slowly, she turned and walked toward the AI Spire.
"Judy Ellison, Class 31-4. I believe technology empowers culture... but whether that culture still is what it was—I'm not sure."
One by one, students moved to their chosen positions. The system recorded their choices, modeling them. The cityscape twisted, its structure reshaping around their stances—forming a fragmented yet delicately balanced model of society.
The test concluded.
Shawn stared at Don and Judy, silent—but inside, a storm churned. Don's contempt for tradition was no impulsive flare; it was deeply rooted.
And Judy—she once pored over Laozi and Plato with him. How had she come to align herself with the pragmatic, unfeeling tech camp?
Suddenly, Don sneered, lifting his hand. From his fingertips surged a blazing data stream, cutting through the air, forming dazzling geometric symbols.
"Culture? Soul? Mere incantations of a bygone age. You people cloak weakness in poetry."
Shawn's chest tightened. He now understood: this wasn't just a clash of ideas.
This was a war for the future.
Just as he turned to leave, a stranger approached quietly and whispered:
"Look at the theater dome."
Startled, Shawn glanced up. Upon the battered dome of the theater, a shadowy pattern unfurled—an ancient sigil barely visible.
A V embedded within a circle.
His body went still. Inside, something stirred—The Meta Origin mark.
As he stared, the stranger slipped something into his hand—a folded paper...