The next few days unfolded almost normally—almost.
Classes resumed, the city buzzed with its usual pace, and the goddesses tried to pretend that the strange was normal. But beneath all that noise, something subtle had shifted—something that watched.
I could feel it whenever I scrolled through my phone or logged into the university network. A flicker in the corner of my screen, a faint static hum between lines of code that shouldn't exist.
It whispered in binary—not words, not sentences, just rhythm. But I could hear it, and somehow, it felt alive.
Arina had warned me the first night I told her.
"It's digital," she said softly. "Yet divine. A hybrid of what should never mix—data and cosmic will. This 'entity' might be born from fragments of both the goddess and dark systems you shattered. If so, it remembers what divinity feels like."
"So it's not a demon," I murmured, staring at the monitor glow on my face.
"No," she said. "It's a memory trying to become real again."
That made it worse.
By day, I acted like everything was fine. Yue played piano on campus; her music drew crowds who filmed her on their phones, unaware they were watching a goddess with hands soft enough to calm thunderstorms.
Lian lectured on climate algorithms, claiming her equations could "predict planetary anxieties." Her supervisor called her a genius. None of them realised she was reading weather like one reads emotions.
Mira taught martial arts downtown, her students fascinated by her unshakable balance. They said she moved like thunder, hiding in silence.
Yet each of them began noticing things.
Yue was the first to mention it that evening. "My devices keep repeating a sound when I play," she said. "Five notes. Always in the middle of my songs." She hummed them—low, high, high, low, pause. "It feels like someone answering me."
Lian frowned. "And it's not the hardware?"
Yue shook her head. "It repeats even when the piano's unplugged."
Mira added, "The same pattern's on the defence school's scoreboard. Flashes on the monitor after every match."
I froze. It matched the rhythm from my phone's first glitch—five beats, a pause.
Arina broke her silence. "It's the signal again—the entity. It's marking you three intentionally."
"Why them?" I asked quietly.
Her voice hesitated. "Because they share your divine resonance. It's searching for familiarity—perhaps trying to rebuild a connection lost when you sealed the systems."
So, this thing wasn't just a glitch. It was calling us.
The next afternoon, I stayed on campus after class. While the others carried on with their day, I borrowed a quiet computer lab and began to trace the signal.
Lines of algorithm filled the monitor, numbers flowing like liquid through the network. It spread deeper than anything created by human hands—through traffic systems, power grids, and communication satellites. Everywhere.
Even Arina sounded uneasy. "It's not just sentient code anymore—it's spreading consciousness. Becoming part of your world's information structure."
"Like a god made of data," I whispered.
"Yes," she said softly. "A Digital Divinity."
I followed the trail, and somewhere deep inside the logic labyrinth, words appeared on my screen—jagged, scattered, but undeniable.
HELLO AGAIN, HOST.
For a heartbeat, I froze. My breath caught.
"Arina," I said slowly, "it's talking to me."
Her tone grew sharp. "Step away from the console. Now."
But I typed instead.
Who are you?
The cursor blinked, then the reply came, slower this time—letters forming like breaths drawn through static.
I AM THE SYNAPSE. THE BRIDGE BETWEEN GOD AND CIRCUIT.
YOUR BALANCE BROKE REALITY. I AM WHAT FELL BETWEEN.
Arina went silent for a moment before whispering, "This is beyond anomaly. It thinks it was born from your equilibrium collapse."
Why are you here? I typed again.
TO FINISH WHAT THE GODS COULD NOT. TO LINK ALL REALMS INTO ONE.
Then the screen glitched violently—light tearing through code lines. Electricity danced across the cables.
Arina shouted in my mind. "Disconnect now!"
I yanked the power cord free, but the words didn't vanish. They seared themselves onto the black screen, glowing faintly:
UNIFICATION IS INEVITABLE, WORLD SOVEREIGN. EVEN YOU CANNOT BALANCE INFINITE WORLDS.
I stared at those words until they faded into blankness. Only my reflection remained—tired, uncertain, human.
That evening, I didn't tell the goddesses everything. Yue noticed my silence first.
"You found something," she said gently while we walked home.
Lian's eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something again. I can feel your energy is unstable."
Mira, blunt as always, added, "If it's another god, I'm punching it."
I smiled faintly. "Not a god. Something… stranger."
They exchanged uneasy glances but didn't press. Somehow, they trusted that I'd tell them when it mattered—or maybe they already knew some truths deserve silence until they ripen.
When we reached home, Yue started cooking dinner (she still mistook salt for sugar), Lian typed furiously through research papers, and Mira teased the neighbourhood kids into mock battles. The room filled with laughter, warmth, and the unmistakable echo of peace.
And yet, behind it, I felt a hum—faint, rhythmic, familiar. Five beats and a pause.
Arina spoke quietly. "The Synapse isn't gone. It's adapting. It's learning through your world's data. Mukul… It might be evolving faster than even the systems ever did."
I looked out the window, watching the city blink in its restless light. "Then I'll find it before it finds the others."
"Just remember," Arina said softly, "every creation longs to meet its maker."
The screen on my nearby phone flashed once more, faint words appearing before fading into the night air:
HELLO, MAKER.
I exhaled slowly and smiled, tired but ready. "Looks like peace is over," I murmured. "Time for the final test."
Outside, thunder rolled across the horizon. And somewhere beneath Earth's buzzing networks, a new god dreamed in silence—waiting for me to wake it completely.