Rayen stood in the heart of Pavilion Seven's temporary lab chamber, surrounded by concentric rings of glowing arrays, alchemical diagrams, and schematics drafted in layers of quantum notation and Etherweave.
"Q.E.D.," he murmured, eyes scanning the massive spiral on the table. "Can we do it?"
:: Probability of functional cultivation scalability using current Core framework: 41.2%. Probability rises to 83.5% with multivariate synchronization and distributed lattice routing. ::
"Which means," Lin Xue said, entering with a stack of newly bound jade slips, "we either revolutionize the spiritual education system… or accidentally create sentient pills that teach themselves."
Rayen grinned. "Why not both?"
Lin set the slips down and unrolled a large celestial map. "We need anchor points. Not everyone can interface with the Philosopher's Core directly. We build distributed sub-cores. Lightweight frameworks that stabilize based on personality resonance."
Rayen's eyes lit up. "A fractal system of cultivation. Small quantum 'starter cores' grown from the original. Students wouldn't just imitate—they'd evolve their own micro-Daos."
:: Warning: system-wide fragmentation risk. Cultivators may form radically incompatible philosophies. Cultural conflict probability: 17.8%. ::
"I'll take that risk," Rayen said. "Better chaos than stagnation."
They worked through the day and long into the night. Diagrams morphed into blueprints. Blueprints became three-dimensional models. Q.E.D. ran simulations of spiritual resonance in hundreds of hypothetical students—from sword-based cultivators to mental-path mystics.
Eventually, Lin stopped, brow furrowed. "This one," she said, pointing at a glyph cluster. "It shouldn't work. The core signature here opposes the spiritual harmonics. But in the simulation…"
Rayen leaned in. The model danced. The incompatible elements didn't cancel—they redirected.
"Self-correcting intent drift," he whispered. "That's… evolution. It's adapting in real time to the cultivator's fear."
They stared at each other.
"It's more than scalable," Lin said. "It's self-learning."
The next morning, Rayen presented the Core Fractal Framework to a group of neutral scholars at the Symposium's open research exchange.
He spoke not as a disruptor, but as a teacher.
"The Dao is not a line, nor a ladder. It is a recursive spiral. Each path reinforces the next. What I offer is not a single path—but a framework for finding your own."
He summoned one of the simulations—Han Bo's adapted micro-core projection. It hovered above the stage, pulsing gently.
"This wasn't made by me. It was made through me. By the system. By the student. What we cultivate… is potential itself."
The crowd didn't erupt.
They breathed.
As if something subtle had shifted.
That night, a black envelope slid under their door.
No name. No insignia. Just a message:
If you continue, they will try to kill you. Sooner than you think.
Rayen folded it once and fed it to the fire.
"If they're afraid," he said, "then we're getting close."