Chapter 859: Hello, World
After finishing his explanation, Gawain fell silent, leaving time for Narithiel and Duvalet to ponder.
As he had said himself, he didn’t want to force these former gods—now stripped of their divine status—to become mere “components” within the Narrator Neural Network. Though he could have seized control by force, even dismantling their personalities with his unique power and resetting them as the “Narrator Core,” that would go against his principles.
He hadn’t defeated a god just to become the next one.
Of course, he still deeply hoped Narithiel and Duvalet would accept his terms—not only because he needed them to further study the secrets of divinity, but also because his plan required a kind of “upper-level narrator” super-core to exist within the network if it was to achieve higher-level “objectives.”
Narithiel and Duvalet fell silent together, seemingly communicating in a way no outsider could perceive. The two points Gawain raised clearly struck a chord with these once-unified gods; their silence was a sign of hesitation.
True despair would not waver like this.
At last, the massive white spider gently moved its long front legs with a hint of hesitation. Its upper body slowly lowered, and amid a shimmering glow, a girl appeared—dressed in a white gown, with long white hair trailing to the ground. She descended along the spider’s front leg and stood before Gawain.
“I want to see… the materials you mentioned.”
Gawain smiled faintly. “Of course.”
…
Within the mental landscape formed by thousands of network nodes, the sun—born less than ten days ago—shone over a vast prairie that had come into being seven days prior. Fresh grass, four days old, and wildflowers, just a day old, swayed gently in the sunlight and breeze. Twenty-six minutes ago, the upper-level narrator had been reborn, quietly resting beside a small hill. A radiant light curtain surrounded the enormous spider’s body as knowledge and information slowly flowed.
Gawain stood on a nearby ridge, accompanied by Hetty, Kamiel, Veronica, Yuri, and others.
“Your Majesty,” Semler broke the silence in a low voice, “are you sure this is safe?”
“The upper-level narrator is no longer a god,” Gawain replied patiently, understanding the concerns of anyone who had encountered such a being. “Narithiel and Duvalet are now powerful network intelligences, monitored by the entire Narrator Network. I know what you’re worried about, but this is necessary—and safe.”
Yuri frowned. “Could they one day regain their divine status and power?”
“That’s exactly what we’re studying,” Gawain said, glancing at Veronica and Kamiel. “Many here witnessed the event that gave birth to the upper-level narrator—”
Magnan answered immediately, “It was the devout faith of millions of virtual minds in Sandbox One that led to the narrator’s awakening…”
“Exactly. The upper-level narrator is a spiritual projection of millions of virtual minds. But those minds no longer exist. If our model is correct, without their influence, the narrator can no longer be a god. If Narithiel and Duvalet act as ‘network administrators’—open, un-mystified, and un-worshipped individuals within the network—then no new faith can form around them. Even if small followings arise, they won’t reach the scale or purity needed to become gods. We must monitor and verify this process.”
Gawain spoke calmly, then paused before continuing: “We also suspect that the madness of gods stems from the chaotic collective thoughts of mortals. So we need to test whether a god placed in a ‘quiet environment’—free from any ideological infection—still experiences mental instability.
“We must determine if gods are driven insane by mortal thought.
“Testing with true or contaminated divine samples is too dangerous. Narithiel and Duvalet are the safest ‘test subjects’ at this stage.
“Though they’ve lost many divine traits, one thing remains unchanged—they are aggregates of countless thoughts, a fusion of mortal minds and spirits. This ‘aggregate’ nature is our primary research focus.
“As for the data on the differences between fallen gods and complete gods, that’s beyond our current reach and must be set aside for now.”
“To challenge great power with limited manpower, to explore the unknown with finite knowledge, to approach absolute truth through relative truths,” Veronica suddenly broke the silence, her gaze deep as she looked at Gawain. “That is indeed the mindset of a true researcher.”
“But this plan carries risks,” Kamiel buzzed in. “Though safeguards exist at every level, the upper-level narrator is a god who once went out of control. Placing it as a key node in our new network—if, and I emphasize if, it loses control or becomes corrupted—what then?”
“First safeguard: Narithiel and Duvalet’s minds cannot freely transfer throughout the network. Only parts of their perception and interfaces can move. The Imperial Computing Center houses their ‘core,’ and it can be physically disconnected at any time.
“Second safeguard: All immersion pods have a physical fuse installed at manufacture. Unlike the unrestricted brain links of the Sleeper era, these pods have limits on mental fluctuations. Exceeding those limits triggers a shutdown. Divine-level mental contamination far exceeds this threshold.
“Third safeguard: The Empire’s comprehensive resident management system, security protocols at computing centers, and widespread magical monitoring devices. Unauthorized magic or abnormal individuals are detected immediately. The archbishops here know well how cultists in Cecil were swiftly eradicated.
“Fourth safeguard: Myself.”
Gawain tapped his temple.
“I haven’t fully ‘released’ Narithiel and Duvalet. This is the ultimate safeguard. Of course, it’s time-limited—if I’m no longer here, this fails. So the main defenses remain the first three.”
“I think that’s enough,” Kamiel said gravely. “Risk can’t be eliminated, only reduced. Your measures minimize it as much as current technology allows.”
The group nodded slowly, seemingly convinced. Then Veronica broke the silence again.
“I have one more question.”
Gawain looked at the former princess—twice over. “Go ahead.”
“Setting aside safeguards, do Narithiel and Duvalet know the details of our experiment?”
“They do,” Gawain answered without hesitation. “The experiment is included in the materials we gave them. This is an open, transparent contract. Everything is on the table.”
Yuri and the others were momentarily stunned, then showed surprise and disbelief. They hadn’t expected Gawain to reveal such potentially provocative “experiment details” directly to the upper-level narrators. Yet Veronica, holding her platinum staff and maintaining a calm expression, quietly studied Gawain for a few seconds before breaking into a faint smile.
“That puts my mind at ease.”
“Many catastrophic experiments begin with a single hidden clause in the contract,” Gawain smiled as well. “The more you hide, the worse the backlash when it’s exposed. History shows that anything you fear being revealed will eventually come out—especially in long-term, high-risk experiments.
“So it’s better to lay everything out—either don’t sign, or sign with peace of mind.”
Just as Gawain finished speaking, the wind shifted slightly across the plain.
Everyone instinctively stopped talking, their gazes turning toward a nearby spot.
The radiant light curtain finally folded away.
The enormous white spider, carrying Narithiel and Duvalet, slowly approached Gawain on the ridge.
The Sleepers watched with a mix of tension and hope. Even Hetty quietly inhaled. Only Gawain and Veronica maintained their usual calm, faint smiles gracing their faces as they awaited the reply.
“We agree,” Duvalet said calmly. “We accept all terms of the contract—provided you fulfill all your promises.”
“What moved us wasn’t just your conditions,” Narithiel said softly, “but your honesty in the contract. Fortunately, we can accept it.”
Gawain exhaled slightly, a smile slowly spreading across his lips.
“Then, are you ready to properly greet the real world?”
…
Inside the vast Imperial Computing Center, the advanced mental hub operated smoothly. Maintenance staff busied themselves throughout the facility.
On the upper floors, rows of immersion pods stood closed. Over a thousand Sleepers, technicians, and volunteers lay quietly, deeply connected. One of the greatest creations of this era was gradually taking shape and maturing within the collective mindspace formed by their brains.
Rebecca, casually draped in a white robe over her usual dress, stood in the enormous Thought Hall before the humming mental hub, her eyes shining as she gazed at this magnificent technological marvel.
Jenny stood beside her, while Nicholas “Egghead” floated nearby.
“I’ve been busy researching flight projects lately,” Rebecca said suddenly to Jenny. “I didn’t expect your institute and the mechanical workshop to quietly pull this off…”
“The technology from the Sleepers was already near maturity,” Jenny replied with a shy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Our job was to optimize and reorganize their original runes and connect them with the runic systems under magecraft. That’s the Rune Research Institute’s specialty. But the real credit goes to the Master Artificer—the components inside the mental hub pushed current manufacturing limits. Without his hands-on work, who knows how many defective parts the factory would have produced before assembling this.”
“Anyway… we finally have the Origin Lab back,” Rebecca said excitedly. “With it, I can start testing the ancestor’s proposals for high-altitude and high-speed aircraft projects. Otherwise, I keep crashing prototypes in the real world—my aunt’s eyes practically shoot blood every time she sees me…”
“High-altitude and high-speed aircraft?” Nicholas asked with curiosity. “The Dragon Riders just started mass production recently, and now they’re already developing the next generation of flying machines?”
He was clearly interested—because to him, a new project usually meant new orders, and new orders were his greatest source of joy.
“Development never really stops,” Rebecca replied casually. “But the high-altitude, high-speed aircraft that the Ancestor requested aren’t meant for practical mass production at this stage. It’s mainly to test a few things.” She went on, “We want to study the magical environment at higher altitudes, see how the aircraft respond when flying at extreme heights, and push the limits of the existing Dragon Language runes that power them…”
Whenever the conversation turned technical, Rebecca would talk at length. Jenny and Nicholas were already used to it.
But Rebecca’s steady stream of words was suddenly cut off by an unexpected sound—
In the bright, spacious Thought Hall, a series of tones rang out, rising from low to high.
Then the tones shifted into a deep, pleasant hum that blended with the steady buzzing of the Mind Hub itself. At the same time, a flood of rune projections appeared around the Mind Hub, as if a massive data stream was connecting to the network, adjusting the Mind Hub’s operational efficiency.
The three of them—Rebecca, Jenny, and Nicholas—watched this unfold with growing curiosity. They observed the sudden emergence of countless holographic images around the Mind Hub and listened to the increasingly distinct hum. Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over Rebecca, as if something was cautiously, carefully observing this world. She blinked, her gaze settling on the middle section of the Mind Hub.
Amid the intricate, constantly refreshing runes and lines, two words suddenly appeared.
Across the entire Imperial Computing Center, above every magical network terminal, those two words were projected.
“Hello, world.”
Year 2 of Cecil, Month of Revival, Day 45.
On this day, the Narrator Neural Network was officially born within the Cecil Empire—and greeted the world for the very first time.
(End of chapter)