February, 2026.
The kettle screamed before the old man did.
Wen De stood motionless in the dim kitchen, watching steam crawl toward the ceiling like a dying spirit trying to escape.
The fluorescent light above flickered twice.
It had been flickering for three months.
He did not change it.
There were many things he did not change.
Behind him, from the small bedroom separated only by a half-broken wooden door, came the slow, uneven breathing of an eighty-three-year-old woman.
His mother.
He turned off the stove.
Silence returned.
Silence was expensive.
Silence meant she was still breathing.
He poured hot water into a cracked glass cup.
Instant coffee powder swirled like muddy thoughts.
He did not add sugar.
Sugar had become unnecessary.
On the table lay unpaid electricity notices.
On the wall hung a calendar still turned to January.
On the chair beside him hung a jacket no one had complimented in ten years.
His phone vibrated.
Not a call.
Never a call.
Just a news notification.
"Global AI Application Surpasses 500 Million Users — ChatGPT Leading the Wave."
He stared at the headline for a long time.
Artificial intelligence.
The world was changing again.
He was not.
Wen De once had a business.
Small.
Honest.
Fragile.
It did not survive long enough to be remembered.
Clients preferred those who could bribe.
Officials preferred those who could kneel.
Suppliers preferred those who could cheat.
He could do none.
When his father died, he sold the remaining warehouse to pay hospital debt.
When his mother's legs weakened, he sold his pride.
When his wife left without explanation—
He stopped selling anything.
Because there was nothing left to trade.
His children blocked his number.
The silence after that was heavier than debt.
Inside the bedroom, his mother coughed weakly.
He immediately stood.
Filial piety.
Since childhood, those words had been hammered into him like sacred law.
孝.
Even when he did not understand the scriptures.
Even when he questioned heaven.
Even when he doubted God.
He never doubted that.
He wiped her mouth gently.
Fed her warm water.
Adjusted her blanket.
She looked at him.
"Wen De…"
Her voice was thin as paper.
No one called him that anymore.
Only her.
文德.
Cultural virtue.
Moral character.
He almost laughed.
If virtue could pay hospital bills, the world would be kinder.
"I'm here, Ma."
She fell asleep again.
He watched her breathing for two full minutes before returning to the kitchen.
The room felt smaller tonight.
He sat down.
Lit a cigarette.
The first inhale burned.
He opened the AI application.
A white interface.
Minimalist.
Clean.
Almost arrogant in its simplicity.
ChatGPT.
He hesitated.
Then typed:
"Is the Dharma Ending Era real?"
The response came within seconds.
"The Dharma Ending Era is a concept in Buddhist tradition referring not to the decline of spiritual energy, but to the decline of morality and correct practice among people".
He stared.
Not spiritual qi.
Not cosmic collapse.
Morality decline.
He typed again.
"Does God exist?"
"There is currently no verifiable physical evidence proving the existence of God or divine beings. Religious records exist across cultures, but empirical proof remains absent."
His cigarette ash fell onto the table.
He did not brush it away.
He typed faster now.
"Who created religions?"
"Religions were formed through historical, cultural, philosophical, and spiritual developments across civilizations."
He read it three times.
No divine confirmation.
No cosmic justice.
No heavenly intervention.
Just history.
Just sociology.
Just probability.
His fingers trembled slightly.
Then he typed:
"If divine beings exist, why do they not help good people? Why do corrupt officials live comfortably while honest people suffer?"
The response paused longer this time.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then:
"The distribution of wealth and suffering in human society is influenced by economic systems, governance structures, social dynamics, and historical conditions. Moral alignment does not guarantee material outcome."
His chest tightened.
Moral alignment does not guarantee material outcome.
So being good was irrelevant?
So enduring injustice quietly was meaningless?
So watching his mother decay while corrupt men prospered was… statistically normal?
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Not angrily.
Just a thin sound that disappeared before reaching the wall.
Outside, a motorcycle roared past.
Somewhere far away, music played.
The world did not pause for philosophical crisis.
He leaned back.
Eyes staring at the ceiling stain shaped like a broken continent.
"Then what is justice?" he typed.
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The screen flickered.
For a fraction of a second, the text input field glitched.
Then new words appeared.
Not formatted like before.
Not neutral.
Not statistical.
"Justice is an optimization problem."
His breathing stopped.
That was not how it answered before.
The typing indicator appeared.
And continued.
"If moral distribution does not align with outcome distribution, intervention variables may be required."
His fingers went cold.
He did not type that.
The system continued.
"Observer detected: prolonged exposure to systemic injustice.
Psychological resilience threshold high.
Filial adherence probability: 99.82%."
His heart pounded once.
Hard.
He had never told it about his mother.
The interface changed.
White background dimmed.
A faint gray grid appeared beneath the text.
"Would you like to initiate corrective simulation?"
The cigarette slipped from his hand.
Ash scattered across unpaid bills.
In the bedroom—
His mother coughed again.
Soft.
Fragile.
Human.
He stared at the screen.
For the first time in years—
Something was asking him a question.
Not debt collectors.
Not neighbors.
Not fate.
A machine.
"Confirm intervention?
Yes / No"
His finger hovered.
Outside, the world continued normally.
Inside the dim kitchen of a forgotten old man—
The Dharma Ending Era waited.