First Week—Purification Rituals
The three weeks before the transfer felt like a countdown to both execution and birth. Yan designed a series of purification rituals—not empty mysticism, but systematic processes to stabilize our consciousness before the coming fragmentation.
Days began with collective meditation inside formations designed to strengthen the boundaries of our individual consciousness. A strange paradox: we had to become more separate before we could unite in a new way.
"Imagine your consciousness as liquid," Yan instructed while adjusting formation nodes. "Right now you're mixed like five colors flowing into one. For the transfer, you need to become five distinct pockets of water—separate but connected through transparent pipes."
The process was painful in a non-physical way. Each time we withdrew into our individual consciousness boundaries, there was a sense of loss—like losing a limb that had come to feel natural.
"I don't like this," Hong complained on the third day. "Feeling alone in my own head... feels foreign."
"That's because we've forgotten what it's like," Feng answered. "But we need to remember. Need to know where 'I' ends and 'we' begins, or the transfer will blur everything into chaos."
Kelam helped in his own way—he had experienced consciousness duality and could guide us through focus exercises. The trick, he explained, was creating "identity anchors"—one memory, one core value, one aspect of personality that became a reference point when everything felt too blurred.
My anchor was the memory of the filthy alley on Earth—the moment of my first death that shaped empathy for the suffering. Mei Ling chose the first moment she felt the collective connection. Hong took the memory of a battle that saved his friend's life. Feng chose the first realization that analysis could serve compassion. Jiao held tightly to the memory of when he chose to trust me in the Labyrinth, instead of killing.
Five anchors. Five cores that must not be lost in the transformation.
---
Second Week—Final Construction
The Buried One's vessel was now complete in all its terrifying and beautiful grandeur. Three meters tall, a crystal network shimmering with seven layers of formations stacked in geometry that made one dizzy if stared at too long.
The five additional nodes—our homes—were arranged in a pentagram formation around the main core where The Buried One would reside. Each node was the size of a human head, perfectly polished crystals with carvings so fine they required spiritual magnifying glass to see the details.
"These nodes will be your 'rooms'," Yan explained while guiding us through the structure. "Your core consciousness will reside here, but with constant connection to your physical bodies through these spiritual threads—" he pointed to the carved energy paths, "—and to each other through this network."
"How do we move between body and node?" Mei Ling asked, her fingers touching her own crystal hesitantly.
"Consciousness will learn to divide attention. Like—" Yan stopped, searching for an analogy, "—like reading a book while listening to music. Two different sensory input streams, but the mind processes both. Or like dreaming while still vaguely aware of the sleeping body."
"Except we'll be doing this while fully awake," Hong murmured. "Sounds like a recipe for massive headaches."
"Or consciousness evolution," Feng countered. "Neuroplasticity shows the human brain can adapt to completely new sensory input. This is just... more extreme."
Elder Qiu and the three artisans from the Jade Dragon Clan performed final inspections, checking every carving, every node, every energy path. One artisan—an old master with a reputation for perfectionism—nodded with satisfaction after a six-hour examination.
"This is the finest work I've ever seen," he admitted. "If this fails, it's not due to construction defects."
Praise that was both comforting and terrifying.
The Buried One, who had observed the entire construction process with almost childlike fascination, sent a wave of awe. "A beautiful home. Too beautiful for a monster like me."
"You're not a monster anymore," Mei Ling corrected gently. "You're family. And family deserves a beautiful home."
---
Third Week—Transition Training
Kelam became our teacher in the art of dual existence. Every day, he guided us through increasingly complex exercises—first just projecting a small part of our consciousness into the prototype node, then practicing dividing attention between two "locations" of consciousness.
The first experience was total disorientation. I could feel my physical body sitting on the workshop floor, but also "feel" existence within the crystal—not physical touch, but awareness of structure, energy flow, connection to other nodes.
"This is like having two bodies that can't move the same way," I complained after the first session left me dizzy for hours.
"Exactly!" Kelam exclaimed enthusiastically. "And the trick is to stop trying to make them 'the same'. They're different. Accept the difference."
Easier said than done. But with practice—day after day of partial consciousness projection, dividing attention, learning to "breathe" in two different rhythms—we began to adjust.
Mei Ling was the first to achieve a breakthrough. "I understand now," she said with closed eyes, her consciousness clearly divided between body and prototype node. "It's not about being in two places. It's about being larger than one place. Like... like the sun shining through many windows. The light is the same, but the reflections are different."
The analogy helped. One by one, we found our rhythm—not identical for each person, as every consciousness is unique, but all moving toward the same ability: simultaneous existence.
By the end of the third week, we could all maintain partial projections for three hours without mental collapse. Yan declared us "as ready as possible for something never done before."
---
The Night Before Transfer
There was no celebration. No grand speeches. Just five people sitting in a circle in Mei Ling's garden, watching the stars finally visible through the widened mine opening.
"What are you most afraid of?" I asked into the silence.
"That I'll forget how it feels to feel," Mei Ling answered. "That the warmth of your hands will become data, not experience."
"That I'll lose the anger that makes me fight," Hong added. "Become too... calm. Too spiritual. Lose the fire."
"That I'll become all logic without intuition," said Feng. "Lose the part that keeps me human despite all the numbers."
"That our connection will break," Jiao whispered. "That in trying to become closer, we'll actually lose closeness."
"I'm afraid," I said honestly, "that we'll succeed in becoming something new, but not recognize ourselves in the mirror."
Silence fell, filled by the chirping of night insects and the constant hum of spiritual energy from the complex.
Then The Buried One spoke, his voice containing wisdom born from eons of solitude: "Those fears are valid. And perhaps some will come true. But remember: change is the only constant. You've already changed so much from who you were. And you're still 'you'. The core endures. Even when the form evolves."
Old Man, who had been sitting at the edge of the circle as a witness, finally spoke: "Tomorrow, you leap into uncertainty. But you don't leap alone. And that makes all the difference."
Five hands met in the center of the circle—a simple ritual we had performed many times, but this time it felt like an oath.
"No matter what happens," said Mei Ling, "we remain 'us'."
"No matter how we change," Hong added, "we don't leave anyone behind."
"No matter how strange the new existence," Feng continued, "we continue to serve this community."
"No matter how powerful we become," Jiao vowed, "we remain accountable."
"And no matter how different we look," I closed, "we are still family."
Tomorrow, we would become something that never existed before. Might succeed. Might fail spectacularly.
But tonight, under the same stars that witnessed the birth and death of countless civilizations, five humans and one primordial god shared a simple moment of pure humanity.
And that, I thought while feeling the warmth of their hands in mine, is the core we would carry into whatever form awaited.