Takumi hit upload on the video and watched the small window blink into the group feed: a 28-second clip of pale-blue lightning spiraling from his fingertips, arcing into a small holographic tree and leaving it singed but whole. The caption was blunt.
Takumi: Video.avi — Honkai energy is compatible with magic. Also: anyone want to immigrate?
Reactions poured in like rain on a metal roof.
Akeno:
Ara—this is stronger than I expected. If Honkai can be tamed, imagine the possibilities.
Zhongli:
Careful. Compatibility means risk if mishandled. Still—interesting.
Fujiwara Chika:
I can't. Parents. Friends. Also school. :( But wow!!
Sagiri:
I want to but I have ZERO points!! Also what if my Wi-Fi dies there?
Eu:
Observation: your field tests are thorough. I will monitor.
Takumi breathed. He'd already told them he'd helped Chika and Sagiri get points through missions; Chika had finished hers and pinged the system earlier: Immigration Pass Ready — 10 Points Confirmed. A little notification in his HUD read: Passenger: Fujiwara Chika — ETA: Immediate.
His chest tightened with a strange electric thrill. The theoretical had tipped into the actual. A real person — one of the chat's chaotic, joyful mess of stickers and hot takes — was coming to his world.
He routed a welcome program through the cross-world gate: Restraint nets layered with friendly UI, a soft gravity gradient so newcomers wouldn't get motion sick, civic holograms that popped up in the blink of arrival and explained the basics: sanitation, code of conduct, "No Domination," and where to get snacks.
Takumi flicked his fingers. The Herrscher of Reason hummed, the infinite storage yawed, and a small golden portal — a neat, polite ellipse of void geometry — opened above the plaza. It smelled faintly of ozone and citrus, because he liked citrus. He set the time-dilation buffer to ensure her external-world seconds would equate to months of taming here if needed, but the entry design would minimize disorientation: a slow promenade, not a drop.
Then he sat on the library-tree balcony and opened the chat, feeling like a host who'd prepared everything except the one thing that mattered most: not the infrastructure, but the awkward human presence.
Takumi: Chika's arriving. Be online? Maybe send stickers.
The feed filled with dancing stickers, a string of emojis like a tiny celebration.
— — —
Fujiwara Chika's entry in Takumi's world was staged to be gentle. The system performed a tidy translocation: a ripple in her dorming room, a blink, and an impression like stepping through a warm doorway. For Chika, who had been half-excited and half-panicked for hours, the landing felt like stepping into a storybook. She blinked, and the first thing she noticed was the sound—the soft rustle of an enormous tree, the hum of careful drones, the smell of honey and something baked.
She straightened, smoothing her skirt (it had hopped travel intact), clutching the little point-token the system handed her the moment she stepped through. A holo-guide materialized: a tiny, bubbly avatar that chirped, "Welcome to Mnemo-Tea! You have 48 hours local time (time-dilated). Please enjoy responsibly."
Chika squealed in a very public way and ran forward. Her feet hit the plaza in a staccato of surprised, delighted steps. Mame rolled up, its screen-face displaying an ecstatic fox icon.
"Welcome," Mame announced in an earnest beep-voice. "You are Guest #1. Please accept tea and a sticker."
Chika accepted both as if they might disappear. She laughed until she had to sit beneath the great leaf-shadow of the library-tree and, on impulse, touched the bark. The wood hummed, not alive like an animal but alive like a book that was aware of being read.
Takumi descended to greet her — no armor, just a jacket and that ridiculous tiredness that had been his constant. He wanted to do a formal speech, but all she gave him was a wide, unpracticed smile and a bouquet of stickers.
"You finally made it!" he said, and meant it.
Chika's eyes were enormous. "It's so pretty! And—are those robots? And—are you the guy from the group? Takumi-san?"
Takumi blinked. "That would be me. Founding elder in training." He gave a little half-bow that felt more ceremonial than necessary.
"Takumi! Thank you for the house! And the snacks!" she gushed, bouncing once on the balls of her feet like a child who'd been allowed into a candy shop.
He led her on an immediate tour: the snack stall (Chika already had plans), the communal aqueduct, the greenhouse domes fed by hydroponic loops, the SEEDs in their classrooms. Every stop elicited a squeal or a delighted gasp. The library-tree's inner chambers—the seed vault, a curated shelf of salvaged human art, a small archive of the universe's memetic oddities—made her wide-eyed and slightly speechless.
Takumi was pleased by the smallness of the moments. Building empires could wait; this was the part that stitched people to a place.
Then they reached the training yard. Takumi stopped and turned to Chika.
"I need to ask you something before everything else," he said. "We gave you an awakening serum. How are you feeling? Any odd symptoms?"
Chika's face brightened. "Oh! The serum! I have water powers now. It's like—like being able to water plants with a thought. I made a little sphere earlier. Look!" She reached out, and a bead of water rose from a puddle and spun, hovering above her palm like a tiny moon.
It was pretty. Takumi felt both relief and a slow, cold awareness coil inside him: resonance patterns, latent Honkai echoes. He'd noticed a faint signature earlier in manifestations elsewhere; now it presented in living light.
"Good," he said. "We'll run a short safety drill. Nothing scary." He engaged an Authority of Restraint buffer that hummed softly around them — a layered field designed not to suppress but to steady. He wanted Chika to be free to play without her magic spiraling into local weather control.
He guided her through simple exercises: shape a bowl of water; move it two meters; freeze the edges just enough to make a song with crystal clicks. Chika's grin widened into that kind of sincere grin that made Takumi forget the Cocoon's hunger for a moment. She laughed, tested the water's surface, found she could coax micro-plant growth with tiny irrigation surges, and then, with innocent curiosity, sent a thin stream upward which formed a looping ribbon.
Something in Takumi's chest tightened — the Herrscher had to step in, not to stop but to stabilize. He used Reason Authority in a small, precise operation: he built a lattice of microcurrent conductors in the air, invisible, that acted as training rails for Chika's flow. They didn't limit creativity; they gave it edges so her power would learn to be architectural.
"Think of the lattice like a riverbank," he said, watching as Chika used it to make water petals fall like confetti. "Rivers shape land. You shape the river."
Her eyes shone. "I want to help the orchard." She looked at the saplings, imagination already spinning—festival waterworks, irrigation dances. "Can I be a founding gardener? I want to water everything!"
"Yes," Takumi said quietly. "You'll have a plot. You'll teach children about water. You'll design the festival display."
Her joy felt sacred. Takumi smiled and then, in a whisper he didn't intend others to hear, added another program to the town's systems: small fail-safes to prevent accidental regional weather anomalies—checks and training modules for anyone whose power could impact ecology. He felt the psychological tug again: You can make it perfect, the Cocoon whispered; You can keep it safe by doing it all yourself. He tightened his jaw and forced the thought down. Not everything needed his hand.
— — —
While Chika explored, the chat became a live theater.
Sagiri:
I drew a welcome banner!! It flies! It has snacks on it!!
Zhongli:
Observe and document. If you intend to migrate on a national scale someday, logistics will matter.
Akeno:
Takumi-kun, your demonstration was tempting. I may visit for research. Lightning and Honkai conversion could be… novel.
Takumi:
If you come, we'll do controlled absorption tests. Not reckless, but curated.
Eu:
I will come when I can confirm containment. I value quiet.
Chika:
I watered a sapling!! IT SPROUTED!!!
Chika snapped a dozen holo-photos and uploaded them. The feed filled with heart-reactions and pride emojis. Takumi felt warmth. He also felt the weight of all the eyes that had now seen his experiment succeed. This mattered.
At dusk, they lit the snack stall's first ceremonial lantern — Chika's idea — which Mame arranged with clinical charm. The glow spread like a soft promise. The SEEDs performed a clumsy but earnest dance, and Takumi, standing a little outside the ring, watched the light warm the face of a world he'd thought dead.
He tapped a note into the chat, intentionally mundane and foolish to keep his voice human.
Takumi: Guest one has arrived. She's staying for a while. Chika will be our orchard lead and snack czar. Please send festival ideas.
The responses were instantaneous and ridiculous and perfect: menus, mascot sketches, fireworks that Zhongli insisted be safety-certified, a proposed holiday called "First Tea Day." Sagiri sent a small animation of a sandwich winking; Akeno sent a flirtatious flourish of lightning emojis; Eu sent a single calm thumbs-up.
That night, after the plaza had quieted and Chika's snores — tiny and contented in the guest villa — filtered through the library-tree, Takumi sat alone near the Great Library-Tree and let the Herrscher of Reason dim into a background hum. The Cocoon thrummed with an appetite that had grown perceptibly louder as civilization stitched itself into being.
He placed his hand on the tree bark, feeling the complicated cathedrals of knowledge immobile and patient beneath his fingers. He'd done something that mattered. He had not decreed a god; he'd made a home and invited people in.
A thought, small and human, rose: One step at a time.
He typed one last message into the group before sleep.
Takumi: Chika is home. She's happy. Thank you all for the stickers and the ridiculous banner. Sagiri—your banner animation is being printed on recycled paper and installed in the plaza tomorrow. Akeno—when you visit, we'll work slowly on Honkai conversion. Zhongli—your lectures next week will help with civic design. Eu—your arrival whenever you're ready will be welcome and quarantined.
He closed the feed and let the town breathe. A new civilization was not an edict; it was a thousand small choices, sticky with emotion and ridiculous hopes. He'd built walls and laws, but those were scaffolding. The actual work — making a place people wanted to stay — was messy and small and utterly his responsibility now.
He sipped his tea and looked up at the leaves of the Great Library-Tree, which rustled like pages. For the first time since coming to this dead planet, he felt genuinely awake and terrifically, deliciously terrified.
Tomorrow, more passengers would come. Tomorrow, Sagiri would tinker with talismans and possibly accidentally summon a polite sandwich. Tomorrow, Akeno might drop in with lightning in her pockets, and Zhongli would begin teaching memory-anchoring. For tonight, the world hummed with one satisfied guest and one park's worth of glittering lanterns.
Takumi curled his hands around the cup and, quietly, told himself a rule that was both prayer and promise: Build slowly. Teach better. Never let power be the only language.