The chat log still glowed on his vision when Takumi sank back into the sofa. Messages scrolled like a chorus—gleeful, frantic, naïve, cunning. For a moment it felt like the entire multiverse crowded into his living room.
Zhongli handing over the Gnosis had shifted the axis of everything. The Archon's casual confidence, the Qixing's appetite for industrial advancement, the Cryo Archon's bargaining position—all of it rearranged like tectonic plates in a new map.
And in the middle of it, Takumi felt something else: a responsibility that could not be outsourced to algorithms, to AI, to polite diplomacy. If this world was going to survive—if a million cursed children were to become citizens, teachers, workers, engineers, leaders—he needed systems that were fair, durable, and humane.
He typed.
Takumi:[Analysis complete. I can't duplicate the Gnosis itself. It's a vessel attuned to your world's root. But I can craft a pseudo-core: a lendable authority module. Temporary. Reclaimable. Weaker than a true Gnosis, but functional.]
The replies arrived in a waterfall.
Chika:[OHOHOHOHO I WANT ONE— PICK MEEE PICK MEEEEE!!]
Bronya:[The Bronya desires one as well.]
Kaguya:[Can your pseudo-core grant me more leisure time?]
Himeko:[Leader, are you sure about the ethics of handing out power?]
Takumi exhaled and leaned his head back. He had already run the numbers in his mind. He'd simulated the dangers, the emergent behaviors, the dependency loops. The Herrscher of Reason gave him an advantage no one else had: he could model consequences in near-perfect abstraction, iterate, and then implement.
But models weren't people. They didn't cry in the night. They didn't laugh when they remembered how to run.
He opened his private diagnostic panel — a translucent overlay only he could see. The Gnosis Zhongli had sent sat there as a shimmering relic: a vessel infused not merely with power but with geographic resonance, a tether to the ley that made Zhongli's powers sing most strongly within Liyue.
Takumi's Herrscher interface hummed. He probed the Gnosis like a sculptor feeling the grain of a stone. Patterns unfolded—modules, stabilizers, containment lattices, and a small, core-frequency signature that acted like a lock.
He could not break that lock. He traced its logic with reverence; it was elegant, hostile, honest.
Then he conceived another design: a pseudo-core scaffolded on his Authority. Instead of siphoning the Gnosis' essence, it would instantiate a mediated field—an invitation to borrow form and function from his Herrscher. The user would gain amplified cognition, a scaffolding to engineer at a higher tier. But it would be anchored to him: if they misused it, he could retract the permissions. If they grew dependent, they would never have the full sovereignty of a true Herrscher. And because it interfaced with cognition and creativity rather than raw elemental root, the effect would be uneven across users—some would blossom, some would panic, some would break.
Ethically... it was a gray zone. Practically... it was brilliant.
He crafted it carefully.
Blueprint: pseudo-Herrscher Core (Wind-Type) — lending cognition-augmentation matrix; temporal attenuation safeguards; reclamation failsafe; emotional dampeners to limit megalomania drift.
He felt the Herrscher of Reason reach a little, consenting, not giving, merely letting a pattern echo outwards. The core solidified in his hands as a compact lattice of light and alloy—beautiful, dangerous, measured.
He named it in the system UI and uploaded it to the chat group mall.
[New Listing — Wind-Type Pseudo-Herrscher Core]
Price: 200,000 Points
Description:Lends temporary cognition-engineering privileges. Does not split Leader's Authority. Use responsibly. Reclaimable by Leader at any time. Not a replacement for a Gnosis.
The chat combusted.
Chika:[200K?! WHERE DO I GET THAT MANY POINTS???]
Bronya:[The Bronya must gather missions.]
Kaguya:[Fascinating. Such commerce. The Hourai might value such artifacts.]
Himeko:[Leader, do you intend to sell more?]
Takumi allowed himself a crooked smile. Of course he would list it—but the price was deliberate. It was a gate, a test, a filter. He could have handed out cores to anyone who begged, but the distribution of power had consequences that rippled outward like a contagion. The point economy, once a game mechanic, had matured into a governance tool.
He scrolled his internal ledger. Point income streams: mission completions, trading royalties from shop items, community-driven microservices. He could redirect revenue to public goods: education halls, rehabilitation centers, mass-production of the superpower serum. In theory, the chat group's economy could fund the entire renaissance.
He tapped another command.
[Upload — Education Module Templates]
[Upload — Automated Serum Production Plans]
His list filled. Kaguya, feeling playful and entrepreneurial, had already begun uploading—dozens of Eastern spellbooks, rabbit Daoist trinkets, and an entire compendium of Hourai recipes. Each item had price tags that ranged from laughable to astronomical.
Kaguya:[First drop! Seven volumes of Hourai domestic alchemy — 10,000 points each.]
Takumi blinked. Ten thousand was still beyond most of the group, but it established value: not everything was meant for impulse. Market mechanics, he decided, could be a teacher. If Chika wanted to raid a Valhalla of points, she'd have to think strategically.
He also considered Zhongli's offer—the handshake for the Gnosis. If Zhongli truly meant to trade the Gnosis for Khaenri'ah tech and alchemical archives, Liyue would leap ahead. But the price was not only materials. Passing the Gnosis meant reshuffling mortal-faith economies, Archon politics, and the entire theological architecture of Teyvat. Takumi admired Zhongli's pragmatism: he had always been a god who remembered markets and contracts.
He typed back.
Takumi:[Zhongli: once you secure Khaenri'ah, let me help you analyze integration pathways. We can design pseudo-anchors that translate alchemical matrices into manufacturable blueprints here.]
Zhongli: *[Excellent. I shall send materials as agreed. Your assistance will be most helpful.] *
Takumi paused then, eyes softening. He thought of the million cursed children—he'd already healed countless pockets, but a million was a different scale entirely. Two days of personal restorations were a miracle; mass restoration required logistics, manufacturing, distributed healing nodes, trained personnel, and local trust. The point economy could underwrite it, but he needed to be sure.
He opened the city AI's operations dashboard. Production status scrolled:
Serum production: 12 gigaliters/day — ramping to 50 GL/day in 48 hours
Restoration node manufacturing: 3,400 units/day — scale target 20,000/day
Rehabilitation instructors trained: 1,200 — curriculum deployment pending
Emotional therapy modules: queued (Kaguya's Hourai chants flagged for cultural sensitivity review)
A projection overlay displayed a calming graph: with current scale-up, full coverage of the million cohort in 30 to 45 days. That was optimistic. It assumed smooth supply lines, political stability, and no major external interference. Given the dimensional interference he'd seen, caution was prudent.
He scheduled a town-hall forum in the AI's calendar. Education, mental health, civic duties—these topics required voices other than his.
Then the chat demanded attention.
Chika:[Leader! I have a plan!!]
Her plan, as it unfolded, had three parts:
Raid a honkai mission for a core. (impractical)
Host a bake sale to buy points. (adorable but underfunding)
Organize a "do-good" mission sprint to earn points. (feasible)
Takumi clicked the last with approval. Missions were the existing currency engine—perform tasks that helped the city, and the town's AI rewarded points. He could tune rewards to direct effort to infrastructure. It was governance by gamification, but it felt right.
Takumi:[I'll multiply mission reward coefficients for essential tasks: serum production, node manufacturing, childcare instruction, and civic maintenance.]
The reaction was immediate and festive. Chika, with glittering energy, declared a point-drive festival. Bronya calculated optimized routes for volunteer squads. Himeko began drafting festival speeches. Kaguya offered ceremonial Hourai baking techniques that required zero divine intervention but guaranteed crowdpleasing treats.
The chat was a living organism, and sometimes that organism did the right thing.
A Quiet Moment — The Weight of Borrowed Power
Alone in the balcony's twilight, Takumi allowed himself a pause. He placed the pseudo-core on the table, just to look at it. It shimmered, inert and patient.
He considered the psychological cost. Lending cognition-enhancing tools to people without their training could be corrosive. He had seen his own subconscious remodel a floor tile when he was distracted. Imagining others with temporary access to cognitive tools—what would their selves look like after? Would some awaken a taste for omnipotence? Would others shatter under the pressure of understanding too much?
His Herrscher core whispered in geometry and light: stability requires boundaries. That was its lesson and his.
He opened a private log and wrote for himself:
If you grant power, also teach restraint. If you design tools, design the caretaking institutions. Power without pedagogy becomes entitlement or terror. — T.
He scheduled a curriculum: Ethical Authority Use; Cognitive Limits; Demystifying the Herrscher; Civic Responsibility. He would recruit instructors from among the chat — Himeko for rhetoric and leadership, Bronya for systems logic, Kaguya for cultural hermeneutics (though she would insist on being paid handsomely in rabbit cakes), Zhongli for legal contracts, and Takumi himself for technical stewardship.
He closed the log and opened the chat.
Takumi:[Listing updated. Pseudo-cores are available as system items for institutional purchase only—education groups, governments, or vetted teams. Individual listings will be impossible until proven readiness.]
Chika:[NOOOOOOO but I want one NOWWWW]
Kaguya:[This is a responsible move. Good.]
Bronya:[The Bronya approves of structural safeguards.]
Himeko:[So, leader, when do we get to test the educational module?]
Takumi smiled. There were storms ahead—political ripples from Zhongli's negotiation, ancient interference signatures still unread, the possibility of uninvited entities testing the world's barriers—but for now he had a plan, an economy, a curriculum, and a million reasons to keep working.
He rose and went to the AI's operations console.
"Start the festival," he told it. "But more importantly—begin Phase: Civic Education. Enroll the first cohort. Assign instructors. And keep me updated on the barrier's integrity."
[Acknowledged. Mission rollouts initiated. Barrier monitoring: green/amber—no breach.]
Takumi exhaled and, for the first time in days, allowed himself to eat a proper meal. He ate slowly, eyes flicking to the pseudo-core on the table. It was a small, shining thing—an experiment in governance, a test of humanity, and a promise he had to keep.
Around the world and across the chat, people prepared: some for commerce, some for craft, some for spectacle. Children, somewhere nearby, practiced walking. Somewhere else, a Qixing clerk traced an alchemical diagram with trembling curiosity.
The sky outside glittered with projection threads and a dozen small drones, quietly learning flight patterns. Below that, in the ruins that had become the seed of a new civilization, Takumi's systems hummed with purpose.
He whispered to himself, not to the Herrscher, not to the chat, but to the living city:
"Let's be worthy of what we build."
And in the chat, Chika typed, fully serious for once:
Chika:[Leader, don't forget snacks for morale.]
He smiled and typed back, as if answering both a child and a plan.
Takumi:[Never.]