The nights in the Technological Kingdom never truly slept.
Even past midnight, the city remained alive. Countless threads of light flowed between towers like veins, sustaining the life of this "eternal city."
Helya stood quietly on the edge platform of the Central Core Building, gazing down at the mind-linking lightrails below.
Today's visit had been even tighter in schedule than the last.
In the morning, she followed the delegation to observe the "Virtual Emotion Regulation Pods," even undergoing a brief simulation herself — in a matter of minutes, her emotional state was artificially triggered into a heightened sense of anxiety, then forcibly calmed within seconds by the system.
She handled it well. She always did.
But in that moment, Helya came to a realization:
If a nation could regulate the soul through a system, then the distance between humans and magic might be far greater than she had imagined.
And in that sterile, chrome-lined room, she saw Cael again.
This time, he didn't approach her.
He stood behind the technicians, simply observing. Yet the moment her eyes met his, something unspoken passed between them.
A glance lasting only seconds.
But in that instant, Helya could see it in his gaze—doubt, and something almost like regret.
She turned away quickly, but a strange unease had already begun to spread through her chest.
By evening, the delegation was brought to the city's central plaza for a short break.
"Fifteen minutes of free observation," their escort repeated in a mechanical tone.
Others broke off into small groups, drawn toward various virtual exhibitions. Helya remained on the outskirts of the plaza, letting the cool wind brush through her hair.
In the plaza's center stood a massive sculpture: butterfly wings made entirely of woven circuitry. It symbolized the Technological Kingdom's ideal—a programmable soul.
She stared at it, feeling a sudden and inexplicable chill.
That's when a voice spoke gently from nearby.
"Why are you always alone?"
She turned to find a boy of around thirteen or fourteen, wearing a junior researcher's uniform, his features still carrying the softness of youth.
"You're not from here," he said plainly. "You have a different kind of rhythm."
"Rhythm?" It was the first time she'd heard herself described that way.
The boy pointed to her chest. "Like… you're not in sync with the city's heartbeat."
Helya let out a faint smile, but didn't deny it.
"You're from the Magic Federation, right?" the boy asked again. "My father says people from your side sense the world through will and magic. We just use data."
"And which one do you think is more real?" she asked quietly.
He tilted his head, seriously considering it for a few seconds. "I don't know. But I don't think people should become machines."
His answer caught her off guard.
He smiled again. "Hope you have a good visit." Then turned and dashed off toward the lightrail hub, light on his feet, as if nothing meaningful had just happened.
Helya watched him disappear into the glass corridor, frowning slightly.
She wasn't sure whether he was just an ordinary child or a deliberately arranged contact.
In this city, it was hard to tell who was observing you and who was merely passing through.
Back in her room, she had barely sat down when an official notification pinged onto her terminal.
[Notice]
"Due to core network maintenance, a partial system update test will take place at 3:00 a.m. Please keep your communication devices in silent mode. There is no need for concern—this update will not affect the delegation's rest."
She skimmed the message and shut it down calmly.
No anomalies. No traceable leads.
But she knew that parts of this city had yet to reveal their true face.
Outside her window, the lights along the neuro-network spire flickered briefly, then went dark.
She made no further movements. Instead, she gently pulled her cloak closer and leaned back into the sofa, gazing out of the vast floor-to-ceiling window.
This time, there was no mysterious note.
No warning.
Only that growing, subtle pressure—the kind that settles before a storm, too quiet to name.
She slowly closed her eyes, fingertips resting lightly against her chest.
And once more, Cael's words echoed in her mind:
"You're not the kind of person who only lives for the mission."
She gave no reply.
But deep down, she knew—
The real mission hadn't begun yet.
And she was already standing at the edge of the line.