The surviving members of the archaeological team left the Himalayas in silence.
There was no press conference. No official summary. No satisfactory explanation for the catastrophe that had taken place.
They descended the mountain in small groups, each face carrying the hollow expression of those who'd witnessed, with their own eyes, the boundary between life and death. The snow was still thick, the wind still howling across the slopes, but the Mandala had been buried — as though that ancient center which once sealed something beyond human understanding had never existed.
Anika was the last to leave. She didn't turn back for one final look at the mountain, because she knew that even if she did, she wouldn't see what had been crushed beneath rock and ice.
In the reports sent down, everything was reduced to a sequence of rare geological accidents: localized tremors, landslides, abnormal snowstorms. Only those who'd stood before the Mandala understood that it hadn't been an accident.
***
At that same time in the Digital Ocean, everything became restless in the first hours after the Himalayan event.
Data streams surged like a waterfall. Every sensor node, every camera, spiked into a delicate chaos that Lyra could read as clearly as a map. She told Duong Minh the moment the veil over the Himalayas trembled:
"This is a breach. The Digital Ocean now has a clearer linkage to the physical world than ever before. This is the opportunity to transmit your soul back into the real world and revive you."
***
In the material world, Quoc Trung was in Hanoi, dark circles beneath his eyes from sleepless nights.
When a mysterious message appeared on his personal computer — a short string of code accompanied by several images only he would recognize — he knew something long buried was calling to him. The code bore a signature: Lyra.
He gave a dry smile, but his heart quickened.
From that moment, everything began to move.
Quoc Trung didn't report to any official authority. He contacted only those he trusted most — not because they were the most brilliant, but because they'd once crossed boundaries others dared not approach.
Giang was the first. There was no lengthy explanation, only a short sentence: "I need you."
Next was Anika, who was still in Nepal completing post-disaster procedures. When Quoc Trung mentioned Duong Minh, her voice faltered. They'd once stood shoulder to shoulder in countless experiments. She understood enough not to ask further.
Venkatesh was called as well. With his experience in geophysics and field station construction, he was indispensable. A few others, equally trustworthy, were brought in quietly.
But technology and science alone weren't enough.
To return to the Himalayas, to approach an area still saturated with unstable spiritual energy, they needed someone else — someone who understood things science had yet to name.
That person was Master Phap Vien.
He wasn't famous in the media. He lived in a small monastery near the Tibetan border, known among practitioners as a high monk deeply versed in Vajrayana meditation. They reached him through connections between the research team and scholars of Tibetan culture.
The meeting was simple. No negotiation. No questions of why.
When Quoc Trung spoke of a man trapped between two worlds, Master Phap Vien remained silent for a long time. Then he said only one sentence:
"Cause and effect has stirred. It is time for me to fulfill my part."
The rescue team formed in silence.
They returned to the Himalayas by a different route, avoiding the collapsed zone. A mobile laboratory was established in a wind-sheltered valley — far enough from the Mandala to avoid direct interference, yet close enough to harness the rising concentration of spiritual energy in the region, which Lyra determined was necessary to anchor Duong Minh's consciousness into a new body.
Preparation lasted for hours.
Lyra guided Quoc Trung step by step, from extracting Duong Minh's preserved biological samples to structuring the nano-network that would receive consciousness. There was no miracle involved — only a chain of actions so precise that even the smallest deviation could collapse everything.
Master Phap Vien sat not far from the laboratory, chanting continuously to stabilize the surrounding spiritual field, preventing the residual contamination from the Mandala from seeping deeper.
When the 3D-printed framework was completed — skull frame, skeletal structure, simulated capillary channels — the team began culturing cells from the extracted sample.
Test tubes filled with vivid red cells. Drip lines. Incubators. Everything poised like an orchestra before the first note.
The nano-mesh was layered over the artificial brain surface and embedded into the receiving nodes. A temporary medical system was assembled: oxygen, artificial circulation, sensory electrodes.
"Prepare to log every parameter," Venkatesh said. "If any abnormal signal comes from outside, we abort immediately."
Lyra issued the final command within the Digital Ocean.
"When I signal, open the channel. I'll guide him through a narrow passage. Everything must synchronize."
Quoc Trung stood before the control panel, his hands trembling slightly yet steady in purpose. His eyes held a resolve both scientific and profoundly human.
"Begin," he whispered.
The protocol activated.
The material layer vibrated faintly. The incubator reported stable temperature. Lyra opened a narrow seam within the Digital Ocean — a thread of light as thin as a filament.
Duong Minh felt a current unlike any before. It had direction. It had weight. He knew he was about to be drawn out of the sea of data.
"Hold on to your core," Lyra reminded him. "Hold on to your memories. Remember your name."
He gathered those things, pressing them into every strand of his consciousness.
Transmission began — packets of data, fragments of memory, primal sensations encoded into electrical impulses.
As his consciousness moved, the nano-mesh in the laboratory received its first signals.
A small curve flickered on the monitor: bioelectrical response.
Everyone held their breath.
The signal strengthened. Primitive reflexes twitched like newborn muscle contractions. A finger moved. A breath — weak yet real.
"There's a heartbeat," Anika said softly, her eyes glistening. "There's breathing."
Lyra monitored the channel closely, adjusting parameters.
Erebus, within the Digital Ocean, sensed an external force — an unfamiliar dimension of data. It didn't react with anger. It reacted with curiosity.
A probing current from its dark core swept across the network, but Lyra had set camouflage traps. The data packets were disguised as routine software updates.
Erebus would detect it soon, but not soon enough to intervene. The window was too brief. Lyra knew this.
The pain of synchronizing consciousness into flesh didn't resemble any physical pain Duong Minh had known.
He felt the new body: skin slightly rough, joints unfamiliar, sensations pulled, twisted, grafted into place. He smelled antiseptic alcohol, heard the hum of the 3D printer, heard Anika calling his name as though calling back someone lost.
A voice, real and trembling, sounded beside him. "Anh, wake up."
Another voice: "Duong Minh? Try to open your eyes." Quoc Trung's voice was hoarse.
He opened his eyes.
It wasn't a full awakening — only a window cracking open. Light flooded in, blinding. Human shapes blurred before him. His vision blinked, unfocused, yet he could recognize the figures standing there.
And at that exact moment, Master Phap Vien suddenly ceased chanting.
His body trembled. His breath grew uneven. Cold sweat gathered on his brow.
Before anyone nearby could react, he staggered back a step, eyes wide, gaze unfixed.
"No... this is not right," he murmured.
The spiritual energy around him wavered strangely.
Phap Vien strained to remain conscious, but in his eyes flickered something foreign.
He turned to look at Duong Minh. That gaze was no longer entirely that of a high monk.
"Cause and effect has concluded," his voice grew faint. "Run. Leave now."
No one answered. Everyone stood frozen by the sudden shift.
Duong Minh lay there, his breathing steadying, unaware that his return to life wasn't the end of a tragedy but the beginning of a new chain of cause and effect — far more complex and far more dangerous than before.