The city of Orizu was a far cry from the Sun-Drenched Pillar. Here, the air hummed with the overlapping signals of millions of Cyber Jacks, and the skyline was a jagged teeth-line of egyptofuturistic pillar skyscrapers. Ahia felt small in her simple scholar robes, her yellow aura drawn tight around her like a protective shawl as she navigated the crowded streets.
She found what she was looking for in a narrow alleyway: The Ether-Glow Cafe.
Inside, the air smelled of ozone and roasted coffee. Rows of Cyber Jacks—sleek, reclining VR chairs with neural-link headpieces—lined the walls. Most were occupied by teenagers or data-miners, their bodies limp while their minds drifted in the digital simulacrum.
Ahia made her vow and climbed into a vacant chair. As the technicians lowered the visor, she felt a momentary pang of anxiety. As a Masani, she was used to the Psychorealm—a place of raw thought and psionic flow. The Cyberrealm was different; it was structured, coded, and loud.
"Initiating link," a synthesized voice chirped.
Whir.
Ahia's consciousness snapped. The cafe vanished, replaced by a boundless grid of golden light and floating data-monoliths. This was the Cyberrealm—the digital nexus of reality.
Immediately, she was bombarded by the Ministry of Media's latest broadcast.
A massive, three-dimensional projection of Libaax Akoma materialized in the center of the digital plaza. He was breathtaking. His albino features were softened by a curated glow; his white hair looked like spun silk, and his eyes—usually a piercing, icy blue—were rendered with a "benevolent" warmth. He was smiling—a practiced, aloof tilt of the lips that had half the Cyberrealm swooning.
"Our Prince, Our Protector," the scrolling text read. "Preparing for the Investiture with the grace of a thousand years."
Ahia stared at the image. Her fingers moved to her lips in her characteristic quirk. This isn't him, she thought.
The man in the broadcast was a statue of perfection. The person she had felt in her Dapabie was a storm. The man she felt was drowning in a grief so heavy it would have crushed this "Prince Charming" projection into fine dust.
"Search: Prismatic White Frequency," she commanded, her psionic intent lacing through the digital code. "Filter by: Recent Psychorealm Leakage."
The Cyberrealm's search engine whirred. A series of graphs and Huenergy maps flickered before her eyes.
[RESULT: NO DATA FOUND]
Ahia frowned. "Check the rebellion zones. The border skirmishes. Search for high-density emotional discharges."
[RESULT: RECORDS SEALED BY MINISTRY OF DEFENSE]
Her Dynamic Heroism flared. She wasn't just curious anymore; she was indignant. The world was being fed a fairy tale while the real person behind the crown was suffering—or causing suffering—in a way that was affecting the convergent realms of reality.
She began to pace within the digital space, her yellow avatar leaving streaks of honey-colored light. If the digital records are erased, the only place the truth exists is in the Psychorealm itself, she realized. But the static is too loud. I need a focal point.
She looked back at the projection of Libaax. Even if the image was fake, his Akin constitution was the anchor.
"I can't find the footprint," she whispered to herself. "But I can find the man."
She decided then. She wouldn't just shield herself. She would use the next "Leakage" as a tether. The next time he felt something, she would follow the Huenergy back to the source. She was going to find the King of Kings, not in his palace, but in the realm of minds.