Three days.
Three days on the road, never daring to stop for long, resting only when their eyes refused to stay open and fuel needed replenishing.
Three days staring into the rearview mirror, afraid to see the boundary of spiritual energy catching up.
Three days holding the metal box, praying the fragment of soul inside wouldn't dissolve.
And now, on the third night, they were still not safe.
The vehicle tore through the darkness like a bullet fired from a cracked barrel. No one had the mind to look at the scenery rushing past. Ahead lay a narrow mountain road; behind them was something no longer accurately named—a tide of contaminated spiritual energy spreading like an invisible, unstoppable sea.
Venkatesh was the first to notice the shift in the pursuit.
"It's no longer parallel." His eyes stayed fixed on the sensor display. "The oscillation amplitude is converging."
Anika didn't ask further. She understood enough to press harder on the accelerator, letting the engine howl in the thinning air. The vehicle shook violently, its frame seeming ready to tear apart at every sharp turn. The headlights swept across the damp road, catching faint glimmers—not water, but particles of spiritual energy condensed enough to be seen with the naked eye.
Duong Minh felt the change clearly inside his mind.
Lyra didn't need to speak; he already knew. The pressure within the Digital Ocean was rising. The distant vibrations that once echoed faintly had become a steady pulse, knocking against his consciousness without mercy.
"Lyra." He whispered inwardly. "How long do we have?"
The silence stretched longer than usual.
Then Lyra's voice came, low and precise, as though each word had been carefully selected. "At this speed, twenty-three more minutes and you'll exit the primary resonance zone. But within the next ten minutes, spiritual intensity will peak."
Which meant they were racing not only terrain and time, but the expansion of spiritual energy itself.
The anomalies grew denser.
At one stretch of road, the ground ahead rippled like water struck by a stone. There was no cracking, no collapse—only a subtle distortion of space, then a return to normal. Moments later, a faint column of light rose in the distance, twisted upon itself, and vanished, leaving a metallic chill in the air.
"We can't stop." Anika's voice was tight as drawn wire. "If we stop, I'm not sure what'll happen."
No one objected. The vehicle continued forward, leaving behind the first fractures of a world-order splitting apart. Then, almost at once, they felt it—a brief, unmistakable moment when the pressure behind them snapped.
Venkatesh looked up sharply.
"The amplitude's dropping."
Anika didn't slow, but her breathing eased slightly.
Lyra spoke again, this time almost like a quiet exhale. "You've crossed the resonance boundary. The spiritual current can't keep pace."
They didn't cheer. No one gave thanks. They understood: they'd only escaped temporarily.
Only when the sun rose, casting its first pale beams through the mist, did they dare to stop. An abandoned station crouched against the mountainside, its sign faded, its tangled wires lifeless. They rested no more than fifteen minutes.
In that silence, Duong Minh took out his phone and hesitated over a name:
"Professor Volkov – Urgent"
Volkov was Duong Minh's former mentor, Russian, the man who'd taught him AI three decades earlier. Once a pillar of Russia's AI program before retirement.
But "retirement" existed only on paper. Duong Minh knew he still operated a covert laboratory—a place where experiments were conducted beyond governmental courage.
If anyone could save a fragment of a soul... it would be him.
Duong Minh inhaled deeply and pressed call.
The connection was unstable, but when the familiar face appeared—silver hair unruly, eyes sharp and lucid—Duong Minh felt something inside him tighten, then release.
"You're alive." Volkov said. "That's good."
Duong Minh didn't circle around the matter. He explained concisely: Mandala, spiritual energy, Erebus, and finally Quoc Trung. When he mentioned the remaining soul fragment, Volkov was silent for a long time.
"Bring him to me." He said at last. "There's an old laboratory. No network connection, not listed anywhere active. If there's a chance... it exists there."
They met that afternoon.
The old laboratory was tucked within an abandoned industrial complex. Concrete walls stained by time, iron doors groaning open. Yet inside, everything was strangely orderly—as if time had decided to spare this place.
Volkov was already waiting.
No embrace. No long questions. He looked at the stretcher, then at the metal box in Duong Minh's hands. His gaze hardened.
"Hand it over." He said quietly.
The moment the box left Duong Minh's grasp, a cold emptiness ran down his spine. Quoc Trung—even reduced to a fragment—was no longer with them.
Volkov placed the box into an isolation chamber, activating devices most of the team didn't recognize. Pale blue lines traced along the chamber walls, stabilizing.
"I promise nothing." Volkov turned back to them. "But I promise I won't give up."
They parted in the dim parking lot outside the laboratory.
Anika spoke first.
"We... will see each other again, right?"
No one answered immediately.
Venkatesh gave a bitter smile.
"If the world doesn't collapse, probably."
Giang—the quietest throughout the journey—stepped forward and placed a hand on Duong Minh's shoulder.
"Do you blame me? For not saving Quoc Trung in time?"
Duong Minh shook his head.
"You did everything you could. We all did."
Giang nodded and turned away, but his shoulders trembled.
Anika embraced Duong Minh tightly, like two people who'd faced death side by side.
"Promise me—if you find a way to close Mandala, call me. I'll come back."
"I promise."
Venkatesh handed Duong Minh a USB drive.
"All the measurement data from Mandala. If anything happens to me, give it to someone who can use it."
They stood there, four figures in the dark.
Not heroes. Not warriors.
Just ordinary people who'd witnessed the extraordinary—and survived to tell it.
"Take care of yourselves." Duong Minh said. "And if you see any anomaly, run."
They nodded and left one by one.
Duong Minh remained alone, watching their silhouettes disappear into the night.
He didn't know if he'd see them again.
But he knew they'd forged a bond nothing could break.
Duong Minh began his return to Hanoi. He chose hidden routes, avoided official airports, bypassed registrations, evaded curious eyes. The journey was long and bleak. Along the way, he saw signs that once would've been dismissed as minor glitches: traffic lights blinking out of rhythm, electronic billboards flashing unfamiliar symbols before correcting themselves, pedestrians standing motionless before empty spaces as though something important had just slipped past them.
Lyra was quieter. But Duong Minh knew she was observing, recording, and preparing.
When the vehicle entered Hanoi, familiarity washed over him: bustling streets, lights blazing, pedestrians weaving through traffic. A vendor glanced at him as if wanting to ask something, but said nothing. He returned home at night. The door opened. His mother and sister stood there like two waiting lamps, their faces heavy with unspoken meaning.
His mother, Mrs. Duong, held him tightly. Her hands were warm and soft; her scent was the oldest memory he knew—pepper, oil. Duong An wiped tears away and forced a smile. They asked no details. They only embraced him, served him a bowl of hot soup, let him sleep.
In those brief moments of peace, Duong Minh realized something: the battle wasn't only about saving friends, not only about Professor Volkov, Erebus, or Mandala. It was about meals like this, about his mother's hands, his sister's laughter—about small things whose loss would suffocate the world. He made a silent vow: he wouldn't let them disappear without meaning.
In the night, Hanoi was quiet but not serene. Thin streaks of light lingered on the horizon. And Mandala, far in the Himalayas, remained slightly open—a narrow slit, a reminder that change had only just begun.