The "Eternal City" exhibition hall of the Techno Kingdom was the most mysterious segment of the entire diplomatic tour.
It was not open to the public, and only guests of specific ranks were permitted to enter. This time, the Magian delegation was granted special access.
The moment Helya stepped into the hall, a mixture of disinfectant and thermal conduction fluid hit her nose. The chamber was silent—eerily so—like sound had been swallowed by the walls.
These walls were not made of transparent glass like the rest of the city, but a deep, matte gray metal, across which data streams occasionally rippled like insects crawling under skin.
Her gaze swept over the exhibits until one in particular caught her attention—
A semi-transparent neural headgear, bristling with countless fine data threads, floated above a platform labeled "Cognitive Cache."
The guide's voice broke the silence:
"This technology is part of the Mind Backup Project. It can read a subject's cerebral patterns and construct a short-term 'personality replica.' Of course, the system is still under development—these replicas exist only in internal data cores and cannot interact independently."
"Personality replica?" Cael echoed quietly. He, too, stood before the exhibit.
"You mean… someone's memories, behavior, even judgment patterns could be simulated?"
"In theory, yes," the guide said with a practiced smile. "But it's still in simulation. After all, a human being isn't just made of data—at least, not yet."
Helya said nothing, but something inside her stirred.
A tension pulled taut.
A replica of the self?
Could that mean the true self might one day be simulated, read—or even replaced?
She subtly turned her head toward Cael, just as he looked at her.
Their eyes met.
They said nothing. And yet, both looked away at the same moment.
After leaving the hall, the delegation was given time to rest. But Helya did not return to her room.
Instead, she walked toward an obscure, almost-forgotten building on the city's edge—a data archive she had spotted yesterday on an outdated city map.
The archive was housed in a six-sided glass structure, one of the city's earliest buildings. The technology inside had long been obsolete, but the site had been preserved as a "historic monument."
She pushed open the door. The interior lights blinked on.
Rows of gray data drawers lined the walls, with a few worn manual readers still operational.
Empty.
She walked to the central terminal and activated a layer marked "Restricted — Temporary Storage."
Hundreds of confidential project files lit up on the screen. Each one was chilling in its simplicity:
•Codename: MX-0 | Status: Terminated
•Codename: FRACTURE | Status: Sealed
•Codename: MindPatch-BETA | Status: In Testing
…
She tapped on "FRACTURE."
The file loaded.
It was an old and damaged video recording—barely coherent—but the footage showed someone hooked up to a consciousness sync device, experiencing severe cognitive collapse.
Within the distorted audio, one sentence stood out with disturbing clarity:
"Memory is not truth—it's just a dream you keep convincing yourself to believe."
Helya stared at the line.
Her fingers clenched on the interface.
She suddenly realized: the Techno Kingdom's true control over the human mind didn't come from machines alone—it came from redefining what memory even is.
All her life, she had believed her memories—her mother's voice, her mentor's guidance, the first time she summoned magic—were sacred, untouchable.
But now, even that belief wavered.
When she stepped out of the archive, night had fallen. The air carried a faint metallic tang.
In the distance, citylight pulses blinked rhythmically—like a synthetic heartbeat mimicking a dream.
She stood on the outer platform and took a deep breath, but her chest felt heavy.
And then—a flicker behind her.
She turned sharply, eyes cold and alert.
But there was no one there.
She didn't speak. Instead, she rested her right hand on her waist. A shimmer of magic gathered at her fingertips.
She understood.
The moment she accessed that file, she had entered someone's field of observation.
She wasn't afraid. But she knew—there would be no turning back.
That same night, Cael remained on duty at the top of the city's control tower. He wasn't scheduled to be there—but he chose to stay.
As the city's light-pulses resumed their rhythm, he stared toward the far side of the metropolis.
"You… didn't come here just for the Magian Federation, did you?"
He murmured.
There was no answer.
Only the silent language of never-sleeping data streams, whispering truths no one dared to say aloud.