Takumi woke to the hollow hum of his vault's air system and a cascade of chat notifications. The world outside had settled into the slow rhythm he'd imposed: water circulated, the library-tree's leaves flexed in the engineered breeze, Mame and the First Cohort SEEDs were tending seedlings. Inside, his mind still tasted the residue of the Cocoon—an afterimage of raw information, like the echo of a song you'd only half-remembered.
He opened the chat with a tired smile and found Eu's quiet message waiting beneath a riot of emoji.
Eu: I am considering immigration.
Eu: My presence often causes fear. Possibly your world is… safer.
Takumi blinked. Eucliwood Hellscythe. The necromancer who spoke in short lines, whose Word Magic had to be carefully managed to avoid rupture. Serious, silent, terrifyingly powerful. If Eu came, it would shift tribe dynamics faster than any hundreds of serums.
He answered quickly, his fingers jittering with a cocktail of hope and strategy.
Takumi: @Eu, villa reserved. Work on check-ins now. 10-point entry, of course. Same deal. We'll set up quarantine procedures for… unusual magics.
Takumi: Also, I uploaded a shop update. Maybe take a look when you can.
Eu's reply was a single nod emoji—terrifyingly casual. Takumi read it twice before turning his attention to the mall backend through the interface that sat like a holo-console above his hand.
He'd spent the last day fabricating things: drones, solar membranes, learning cores, tents, and the small domestic comforts people would ask for. He'd even schemed out a snack stall franchise. But the most consequential additions had come later: rifles (decommissioned for display, he told himself), vehicles, replication tools for Liyue's mills—items that could bootstrap technology transfer—and, heaved up like a forbidden fruit, serums.
He had the formulas. The old civilization's notes contained protocols for awakening latent abilities—chemical and bio-synthetic catalysts that nudged the human body toward particular morphs of power. Weak by Herrscher standards, yet potentially world-shaping for newcomers. He could manifest them; he could distribute them. He could watch as the Cocoon sang a little louder when new powers flared to life.
He materialized a sample: a sleek, matte syringe—no gore, no drama—an aesthetic product for an ugly procedure. He held it in the light and felt the Herrscher's understanding roll through him. Making the serum was trivial. Deciding who should have it was not.
Takumi had uploaded one hundred syringes and named the item bluntly.
Mall Item: Superpower Awakening Serum — Price: 5000 points — Quantity: 100 — Warning: Biological intervention. Read policy before purchase.
He watched the message ripple through the chat.
Fujiwara Chika: 5000 POINTS?! WHAT?! WHO CAN AFFORD THAT?!
Sagiri: WAAAAAANT. I'll sell all my stickers for one!!
Himeko: You put a warning. Good. You should also add informed consent forms.
Akeno: Fufu~ distributing superpowers is very dramatic. I approve of the theatre of it.
Zhongli: Such commodities carry cultural weight. Please be careful.
Sagiri spammed heart-eyes and money-cry emojis. Chika toggled between squeals of desire and prudence. Zhongli's tone threaded the chat like a metronome—steady, ancient, cautionary.
Takumi rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel the ethical vector tugging—distribute freely, and watch as civilization blossoms with unpredictable mutations; hoard them, and he risked becoming the gatekeeper; price them too high and they'd become trophies for those who could afford terror. He needed a policy, preferably one that didn't make him sound like a tyrant.
He opened a dossier in his mind and summoned a test subject: SEED-Engineer #04, a mechanical unit with synthetic tissue patches specifically intended for biochemical trials. It was the ethical equivalent of a cadaver simulator. The Herrscher's fingers rearranged molecules; the vault hummed. He prepared a controlled chamber, layered with Restraint fields and Consciousness buffers.
Inside the chat, he wrote:
Takumi: I'll test one first. Controlled environment. No humans until safety is confirmed. I'll post results. Also—Eu, if you plan to come, I'll thank you later for being patient with bureaucracy.
Eu replied with a single thumbs-up emoji and a curt sentence:
Eu: I will observe.
He injected the SEED-Engineer with a Lv2 activation serum—the kind that, according to the old notes, granted the ability to manipulate kinetic vectors roughly capable of breaking a small villa.
For a breath it did nothing. Then the construct's servos hummed with new synchronicity; its limbs flexed with the satisfaction of someone who'd learned a new skill overnight. The lab logs showed spikes in metabolic rates, neural mesh integration, and the careful, legal consent module sekced into activation.
SEED-Engineer #04 lifted a small plate with two fingers and snapped it in half—deliberately, as if demonstrating utility rather than vanity. It then looked up with a screen-face and displayed two characters that translated, clumsily and charmingly, to: I can help.
Takumi exhaled a sound halfway between relief and awe. The serum worked as the manuals claimed. The Restraint sphere had kept feedback loops stable. The SEED didn't become a weapon. It simply gained a useful skill.
The chat lit up again.
Sagiri: IT WORKS???!
Chika: That's amazing—and terrifying.
Himeko: We must standardize training. A power without pedagogy is a weapon.
Zhongli: Agreed. Institutional scaffolds must accompany such awakenings—education, ethics, utility, and safety.
Takumi typed, fingers moving faster than thought.
Takumi: Rule 1: No unregulated distribution to civilians. Rule 2: All awakenings must accompany a training contract and a civic oath. Rule 3: Serums can be bought only by vetted applicants—5000 points is placeholder. I'll set up scholarships for applicants who will teach—teachers get discounts.
He thought of edge cases—desperate refugees, opportunistic militarizers, a stray villain with pocket money. The world's power balance shifting too quickly could doom his fragile seed. He felt the Cocoon's presence, like a patient patron whose hunger deepened whenever civilization gained momentum. It hummed approval when he chose order.
Still, not everyone agreed.
Chika: Scholarships?! For snacks? I donate one thousand ramen coupons to the cause.
Sagiri: But I want one now!! Why can't I have a door-breaker power?! I'll be so cool!!
Zhongli: Patience, little seeker. Power without purpose is folly.
While the debate rolled on in stickers and admonitions, Zhongli—ever the pragmatist—had purchased a set of items from the mall: a compact prototype rifle (for militia replications), a set of welding tools for the blacksmiths of Liyue to reverse-engineer, and a single awakening manual with annotated margins. His purchase injected a thousand points into Takumi's account, which blinked like a heartbeat in the corner of the interface.
Takumi watched the numbers rise and felt a small, performative thrill; the chat group's economy was already a functioning loop.
He set the price on the serums high for a reason—first to fund training, second to deter abuse, and third to be a toxin-threshold test. Yet he knew money rarely stopped intent. He designed another barrier: the Consent Protocol, an AI-mediated process that required applicants to undergo simulations inside the time-dilated domain for skill-testing before becoming eligible. Those who passed could pledge to teach back. Those who failed would be counseled and sent on missions to earn points for future attempts.
He rolled out Mission #22: "Superpower Literacy & Mentorship Module" — a week-long simulation in Takumi's world worth 200 points and mandatory for any serum candidate. The simulation would be time-dilated—48 hours inside equaled fourteen months of training for Takumi's timeline.
Takumi: Missions now unlock skill credits. Earn credits, qualify for serum lottery or scholarship. No one wakes up Lionel the Madcap without oversight.
Sagiri: But a LOT of missions? I need to draw mascots and bake snacks! Does that count as training??
Takumi: Yes. Culture is part of resilience. Draw, bake, teach. You'll be evaluated for leadership potential too.
This evoked a chorus of delighted outrage—Chika immediately offered to teach "Snack Safety 101," Himeko suggested a combat protocol that doubled as a dance, Akeno promised ceremonial flairs for the oath-taking, and even Eu posted a dry two-line note about containment syllabi.
During the flurry of bureaucracy, Takumi walked through the town and watched SEEDs teaching other SEEDs how to plant grafted fruit trees. Mame was leading a circle of curious robots in a lesson on "why polls matter" (a glitching, endearingly literal primer about bee pollinators). The Great Library-Tree shone in the afternoon like a cautious sun.
He felt the first, prickling tremor of a new psychological shape: if he became the architect of a system that distributed power, he would cease to be merely a survivor; he'd be an arbiter of futures. The weight of that role settled like a small crown—light enough to carry, heavy enough to notice.
That evening a notification came that made his chest do something like a human skip.
[Immigration Request Pending: Fujiwara Chika (1 person) — Pending Points: 2/10]
Chika had started missions. Chika was really trying.
Takumi grinned until his face hurt. He pinged the system to set a micro-mission specifically tailored to her talent.
Takumi: Mission #24: "Snack Festival Curation" — Design a menu, oversee stall safety, earn 50 points.
Chika exploded in the chat with a barrage of exclamation stickers and immediate menu drafts. Sagiri volunteered to illustrate the festival's mascot. Himeko offered "firework choreography" (evaluated by safety committee Zhongli), and Eu—quiet, reserved Eu—sent a single line of support: I will come when I have points.
As twilight bled into engineered stars, Takumi sat with a cup of tea and reviewed the day: mall stocked, ethical frameworks drafted, test completed, missions posted, and the first civic currency—points—flowing into the system. He had not yet decided whether to lower the serum price. He didn't want a world where power could be bought like a meal. But he also did not want a world where power was only for the Christened Few.
He opened his infinite dimensional storage, peeking at the hum of items compiled there: the Cocoon pulsed like a heartbeat; the shotgun he'd uploaded for research purposes was a glimmering node on a shelf; ten thousand units of seeds glowed in a corner; Mame's backups blinked a friendly sequence. The vault was both tool and temptation.
His reflection in a small polished plate showed him—white-haired, golden-crossed eyes, hands that could make forests and laws. He placed the plate on the shelf and, for the first time in weeks, admitted aloud a small fear.
"I can do this," he said softly. "But I'll ruin everything if I don't make rules."
Mame—ever literal, ever curious—rolled up and projected a tiny hologram that read: Rule suggestion: Democracy?
Takumi snorted a laugh that was almost a sob. He typed to the chat.
Takumi: Tomorrow: trial simulations. Volunteers? Also—let's vote on governance types. I'll seed the options, you vote. Democracy, technocracy, council of elders, or communal charter? No "Takumiville" choices allowed.
Zhongli: A deliberative council with encoded checks would be wise. Include dissent mechanisms.
Chika: DEMOCRACY!!!! (with snacks)
Sagiri: Technocracy for wifi!! But democracy for snacks!
Eu posted a single line that made Takumi, oddly, sit very still.
Eu: I will vote after I visit.
He imagined her there—quiet, stone-faced, watching the library-tree's leaves like someone keeping a ledger of the future. He imagined teaching her the consent protocols, helped her deposit whatever heavy things weighed in her chest.
The Cocoon pulsed, impatient and patient at once—civilization's puppet-string humming in time to an orchestra he half-conducted.
Takumi closed his eyes. He could imagine the headlines in multiversal forums next month: "Transmigrator Creates Utopia" or "Man With Too Much Power Sells Superpowers." He felt the absurdity of both and chose something in between.
"Let's build a civilization that earns its power," he whispered. "Not hoard it. Not auction it. Earn it."
Outside, somewhere between the library-tree and the snack stall where Chika was already sketching menu banners, the SEEDs practiced civic debates in a patch of sunlight. Inside the vault, the serums rested in neat rows—dangerous, expensive, promising. The Herrscher of Reason watched his own hands and, beneath the ethical scaffolding and the mission gamification, he felt something slow and human: the fear that he might one day be tempted to skip the scaffolding.
He poured another cup of tea, and the town's lights blinked awake, patient and bright, as if waiting for tomorrow's votes.