Two Months After Restructuring
The spiritual workshop built deep in the mines—now called the Depths of Harmony without irony—was a strange blend of ancient blacksmithing and modern cultivation laboratory. Crystals carved with complex formations hung from the ceiling, while spiritual hammers struck metal heated not by fire, but by condensed soul energy.
Yan stood before a massive worktable, surrounded by diagrams floating in the air—three-dimensional projections of designs he had been perfecting for months. Beside him, three master artisans from the Jade Dragon Clan studied every detail with obsessive precision.
"The main challenge," Yan explained, his finger tracing energy lines in the diagram, "is creating a network complex enough to contain the primordial consciousness, but flexible enough not to crack under the existential pressure it carries."
I—all five of us—stood on the other side of the table. The experience of seeing through five pairs of eyes simultaneously had become normal, though it was still confusing when all focused on different objects.
"How much longer?" asked Hong, speaking through my body as he was overseeing defense training in another sector.
"Two months to build the basic framework," answered one of the artisans—an old man with an intricately braided long beard. "Another six months to carve the consciousness formations. Then the activation and calibration process... a year total, if everything goes perfectly."
"Which it never does," murmured Elder Qiu, who had joined the project as logistics coordinator. "I estimate eighteen months is more realistic."
Eighteen months. I—the original Wa Lang body—might have that much time. Might not. Yan's diagnostics showed slow soul regeneration, but the erosion hadn't completely stopped. There was a silent race between healing and destruction.
'Don't think about that,' Mei Ling sent a wave of calm through our connection. 'Focus on what we can control.'
She was right, of course. Anxiety didn't help.
"Can I take a closer look?" I asked Yan, pointing to the floating diagram.
He shifted the formation toward me. I studied the structure—not just with my eyes, but with our collective consciousness. Feng analyzed the spiritual geometry, looking for inefficiencies. Mei Ling felt the emotional flow in the design, ensuring there were no dead ends where consciousness could get trapped. Hong evaluated structural resilience against attacks. Jiao checked communication paths between nodes.
And I—I tried to imagine how it would feel for The Buried One to move from a living vessel to this crystal construct.
"Will this feel like a prison?" I asked the primordial entity residing within us.
The Buried One pondered the question. "No more than your bodies are prisons for your souls. A vessel is a vessel. What matters is... can I still feel you? Talk to you?"
"The communication formations need to be strengthened," I told Yan. "The Buried One needs to be able to interact with us, even after he moves to the new vessel."
Yan nodded, already making notes. "I've considered that. See this node—" he pointed to a cluster of crystals arranged in a spiral pattern, "—this is the communication interface. You can 'visit' him in spiritual projection, or he can send his consciousness out in a limited form."
"Like Kelam," Feng murmured.
"Exactly like Kelam," Yan agreed. "Who, by the way, will be the first beta-tester for this vessel. If a smaller primordial fragment can live comfortably in it, then The Buried One should be able to as well."
Kelam—who had been floating in the corner of the room in a semi-transparent form—suddenly looked nervous. "Me? A tester? What if it explodes?"
"Then we'll learn from that mistake," Yan answered with his typical brutal pragmatism. Then, seeing Kelam's hurt expression, he added more gently, "But we'll be very careful. You're too valuable to sacrifice carelessly."
Kelam looked slightly comforted.
---
That Night—Private Room
Privacy was a strange concept now. Physically, I could be alone in a room. But mentally, four other consciousnesses were always there—a constant background, like the sound of one's own breathing that usually goes unnoticed until you focus on it.
But tonight, they gave me space. Retreating to the deepest layer of the collective consciousness, present but not intrusive.
I sat by the small window overlooking the part of the mine that had become a garden—Mei Ling's project to bring green life to what was once only gray and red. The plants growing there were special species that could survive on crystal light, but they were green and alive, and that was enough.
"You're contemplating mortality again," Old Man's voice came from the door. He carried a tray with two cups of tea—our ritual that had developed over months.
"Is it still mortality if I'm spread across five bodies?" I asked with a bitter smile.
He laughed, setting down the tray and sitting in the chair opposite me. "A good philosophical question. But I think the answer is yes. Because Wa Lang's original body—the one sitting here now—can still die. And when that happens, something irreplicable will be lost."
"Core individuality," I murmured.
"Unique perspective," he corrected. "Wa Lang who experienced death on Earth, who transmigrated with memories of the modern world, who became the first bridge between humanity and primordial—that perspective cannot be reproduced. The other four have memories of that experience now, but they didn't live it directly."
I sipped my tea, letting the warmth spread. "Does that make me more valuable? Or just more fragile?"
"Both," he answered without hesitation. "Just as an ancient ceramic pot is more valuable because it's rare, but also more fragile because of its age."
A fitting analogy, though not very comforting.
"The Buried One will be fine," I said, more to myself than to Old Man. "He'll have a new vessel designed specifically for him. And the other four can continue the collective without me if necessary."
"But?" Old Man heard the unspoken doubt.
"But I'm afraid... of what will be lost. Not just for me, but for them. For the collective." I gazed at the garden below. "We all bring something unique. If one is lost, the harmony changes. Maybe becomes weaker. Maybe just different. But it definitely changes."
"Everything changes," said Old Man with the wisdom of a man who had seen too much change. "The question isn't how to avoid change, but how to navigate it gracefully."
"And how does one do that?"
He smiled, the wrinkles on his face deepening. "By remembering you're not alone. By trusting that what you leave behind—knowledge, values, traces—will continue to shape those who remain. And by accepting that there are some things you cannot control."
Acceptance. Always coming back to acceptance.
We sat in comfortable silence, drinking tea and watching the small lights of cultivators working through the night in various parts of the complex. The Depths of Harmony never truly slept—there was always someone meditating, training, building, studying.
'We heard your conversation,' Jiao's voice appeared gently in our awareness. 'Didn't mean to eavesdrop. Just... worries leaked through the connection.'
'And we want you to know,' Mei Ling added, 'that no matter what happens, you won't be forgotten. Impossible. You are the foundation of all this.'
"We will carry your memory," Hong joined in. "Your perspective. Your stubborn kindness."
"And we will teach it to those who come after," Feng concluded. "So even after the original body is gone, the essence remains alive."
Tears streamed down my face—not from sadness, but something more complex. Gratitude. Affection. And yes, a little sadness for the life I would never live.
But more than that: peace.
Because I had found something more valuable than individual immortality. I had found meaning that continues beyond myself.
And that, in the end, is the only kind of legacy that truly endures.