The city hummed. Robots ferried crates, children laughed as they chased small maintenance drones, and the plaza's holographic displays refreshed with live population stats. The air smelled faintly of fried porridge and ozone — the result of a hundred factories waking up at once. For Takumi, it was a morning like any other: the kind where you casually remake civilization and then have tea.
Zhongli strolled beside him with that same immovable composure. Ganyu clutched her notes like a talisman; her eyes widened at the sheer scale of what she now helped govern. Madame Ping fussed discretely, calibrating the teapot's output to local atmospheric pressure, while Xiao leaned against a low column, silent and watchful.
Takumi grinned. "Alright. You're here. Ganyu, you faint again and I'll install a mandatory nap schedule into your ID."
Ganyu blinked, mortified. "I-I will not faint. I'm quite awake and—"
At that moment, a little girl carrying a stuffed beast ran up and hugged Ganyu's leg. "Miss Ganyu! The robot said my math class starts at nine!"
Ganyu's entire posture changed; she kneeled and smiled like the sun had learned to look human. The fatigue dissolved from her features.
Zhongli watched that exchange and murmured, "Humans refine one another. Even saints."
Takumi coughed. "Cute. But let's make this more efficient. I'll show you the admin center. We'll model the civic architecture so it's robust but flexible."
He led them to a building with crystalline screens rippling like water. Above the door, the emblem of the city rotated: an infinite-loop Möbius lattice, Takumi's trademark of logic folded into art. Inside, a room full of holo-surgeons — program interfaces that resembled surgeons at an operating theater — awaited. One was labeled Civic Ledger, another Skill Allocation Engine, and the largest: Education Matrix.
Ganyu's Overtime Nightmare
Ganyu approached the Education Matrix with reverence. "So this is the system you envisioned for childhood—"
Takumi nodded. "AI lesson tracks, modular apprenticeship programs, and real-time aptitude mapping. Also, teacher-principals will be able to award points for civic contributions. Points equal access to advanced schooling and—eventually—specialized grants."
Ganyu's eyes skimmed the interface. It displayed millions of learning vectors, each student a tiny comet-shaped icon with data trails. She saw abilities, emotional resilience indices, and—unexpectedly—gaps: children who'd experienced trauma, those with fragile trust. Her jaw tightened.
"I can handle counseling modules," she said. "I know how to motivate people when they cannot motivate themselves."
"Perfect!" Takumi rubbed his hands. "You'll be head administrator for education. Think of it as Ganyu Incorporated—no pay cut."
Ganyu paled. "Mister Takumi, I am a secretary. I don't—"
"You don't get to be modest here," Zhongli said quietly. "We brought you because you understand continuity. Leadership is continuity practiced compassionately."
The words settled onto Ganyu like dew. For a moment she looked elated and frightened at once; that combination made her so human it tugged at Takumi's chest somewhere he hadn't expected.
He felt the old echo in the back of his mind—the Herrscher's hunger for advancement. Building an education system was like feeding a star.
The Herrscher at Work: Administrative Reality Distortion
Takumi walked to the Civic Ledger and laid a palm on the interface. The Herrscher of Reason hums—an invisible lattice of thought that turns cognition into construction—responded immediately. He didn't merely type; he conceptualized, and the ledger self-wrote in cascading symbols.
Blueprint: social welfare. Subroutine: food distribution optimized by nutritional index and parental availability. Subroutine: counseling allocation weighted by trauma severity. Subroutine: cultural acculturation modules to reduce stigma against the rescued children.
Reality bent—not catastrophically, but with the surreal slowness of a glacier turning. Walls shivered as if catching the glow of new laws forming. For a few seconds, everyone felt the world lean toward logic.
Ganyu inhaled sharply. "I can feel it… your Authority shapes foundations. It's like… drafting the instincts of the city itself."
Takumi's smile was small. He felt the authority like cold sunlight: clarifying, cleansing, and with a prickling cost. The more he built, the more the world rearranged to fit thought. A faint pressure gathered behind his eyes — the psychological residue of godhood. It was addictive and lonely.
He forced his face back to neutrality. "We'll start with practical things. Schools, daily allowances, skill tracks. Next: resource nodes and ethical oversight."
Madame Ping arched an eyebrow. "Ethical oversight? You sound like an ancient bureaucrat."
"Don't say it like that," Zhongli said, smiling. "Ethics is our scaffolding."
Slice-of-Life: The Chat Group Explodes
Takumi's comm pinged and the group chat filled the air like chirping birds. He gestured, and a translucent ribbon scrolled in midair. The chat's personalities spilled into the administration room like a chorus of small storms.
Chika Fujiwara: [Takumi!! Will the school uniforms be cute?? I can design them!!]
Sagiri: [Can the tutoring AI draw manga? Asking for research. ]
Bronya: [I will build a server farm. It will be quiet. Respectful download. Also, I want to model the educational LLM. ]
Akeno: [If there's an opening for "Lightning Education," I volunteer. I can shock students awake. Ara~]
Himeko: [I'll provide robust emergency drills. And fireworks for opening. Not destructive ones.]
Zhongli: [Ganyu arrives. Please be respectful and bring tea. Also—ask for legal counsel from mine. I'll send a document on "Law by Contract" later.]
Megumi Kato: […Good morning. I'll help with logistics. Quietly.]
The group's chaotic warmth washed over the adults. Takumi watched Ganyu's lips twitch as she read the messages — a small smile. Even in the middle of building a nation, the chat was a thread of normalcy.
He tapped a response, then turned to Zhongli: "They'll help remotely. I want a Liyue-style holiday calendar integrated—festivals, apprenticeships, market-days. Culture glue."
Zhongli nodded. "Culture must be sedimentary. Layer it. Festivals will bind the children to place and people."
Ganyu's First Administrative Order
Ganyu cleared her throat and placed both hands on the Education Matrix. Her voice, soft but decisive, carried old dignity.
"First order: all schools open with trauma-informed curricula. Second: assign mentors—one responsible adult per group of ten. Third: mandatory play sessions—unstructured time is as much a lesson as math."
The Matrix translated her words into code and scheduled the first wave of lessons. Robots rolled to assemble indoor playgrounds, and the AI prepared playlists for improvised music sessions. The children's icons on the Education Matrix blinked, then pulsed like embers.
Takumi watched her work and felt a warmth he hadn't expected: pride, simple and honest.
He also felt a sting. The Herrscher's reward system was tied to civilization growth; every policy she enacted made him stronger. That ought to have pleased him, but the knowledge of being fed by people's lives made something in him tighten.
He pushed it down. For now, there were schools to open.
The First Moral Puzzle: Identity & Autonomy
As the administrative engine spun, Zhongli raised a steadying philosophic eyebrow.
"We must consider consent protocols for minors," he said. "Even here, autonomy matters."
Ganyu blinked. "Yes… children should have the right to choose their mentors when they're old enough. But in early days—stability comes first."
Kisara, listening, spoke up in a rare soft voice. "Some children distrust adults. I was one. You have to earn their trust by not treating them as wounds."
The Holy Empress looked at Takumi. "You took them away from their world. They're safer, yes, but are they also free?"
Takumi paused. He had used absolute power to break a rotten system; freedom in the abstract looked pretty. But in practice, the children would grow under his rules. Would he allow them true autonomy? He realized he had to design that into the data.
He tapped the Civic Ledger and drew a line.
"Autonomy indices by age. Gradual sovereignty. No forced recruitment into militias. Basic human rights embedded in ID tokens. And a transparent appeals court run by Miori and a council of elders."
Miori barked a laugh. "You're giving politics to a loli right away?"
"You're the one who can make that meeting civil," Takumi said. "You have family skills."
She glared, but she was already smiling.
AI Learning Emotions
Bronya's server-farm node patched into the Education Matrix. Her code, austere and efficient, began to run sentiment-analysis on interactions. The AI, previously practical and cold, started to learn.
Little by little, it adjusted tutor tones. When a child looked away, it recommended gentle prompts. When another laughed, it offered playful micro-challenges. The AI's empathy model improved by iterative reinforcement; it began to mimic small human quirks. Ganyu noticed and soft-launched an emotional curriculum for machines.
"Teach them to be patient with teenagers," she said, and the AI's voice lowered its cadence for those situations.
Takumi watched the machines adopt mannerisms and it made him grin like a small child. Tools that could learn to be kind — now that was civilization.
Twilight: The Psychological Cost
As the sun slid low, the city softened. Lights came up like a thousand careful eyes. Takumi sat with Zhongli and Ganyu on a rooftop terrace and watched children practicing music below.
Zhongli poured tea from an unseen pot and looked at Takumi with that old, world-weary curiosity.
"You have built much in a short time," he said. "But tell me: what do you feel when you decide for a million?"
Takumi cradled his mug. For the first time, his voice was small.
"I feel… responsible. And a little guilty. Power tastes like salt—necessary on food but bitter on its own."
Ganyu placed a hand on his. "You are not alone. We are not subjects to your acts. We will help." Her eyes were earnest. "If you grow tired, you must rest."
Takumi shook his head and laughed, a thin sound. "Rest is a luxury reserved for those who do no worldbuilding."
Zhongli watched him shrewdly. "And yet even gods sleep when the world compels them. Do not let the earth become a mirror of your loneliness."
Takumi stared out at the grid of lights—the city's heartbeat—and felt the Herrscher's pressure diminish just enough under shared stewardship. The psychological godhood had dark undertones, but here, surrounded by allies who were not afraid to speak truth, it felt manageable.
He thought of the chat group, of Ganyu's first lesson plan, of the children eating porridge beneath a sky that no longer loomed with persecution. He thought of the ethical ledger and the vault rising like a promise.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we'll set up courts and a child advocacy commission. And we'll teach art. The world needs music."
Ganyu smiled until she glowed. "I will draft the schedules."
Zhongli stood, steady as a pillar. "Then we begin at dawn."
The rooftop hummed softly with mechanized life, a miniature civilization taking shape under a young god's careful, flawed hands. Far below, the Education Matrix scattered its gentle light over sleeping dormitories.
In chat, Takumi sent a simple message:
Takumi: [Today we learned: systems can be kind. Goodnight, everyone.]
The replies came like a warm tide.
Chika: [Goodnightggg!! I designed a mascot!!]
Bronya: [Server uptime: 99.9999%—we will increase to 99.99999%. Sleep well.]
Ganyu (via Zhongli): [I will oversee the lesson plans. Thank you. Good night.]
Takumi felt the small human glow that made the cosmic ledger tolerable. He was building empires, but tonight, he felt a softer victory: a classroom scheduled, a child's future nudged toward warmth, and a network of friends that argued like family.
Outside, the stars watched as a new polity learned to breathe.
Tomorrow: Ganyu's first official policy, Zhongli's moral treatise—perhaps a diplomatic knot with Teyvat—and the Education Matrix's first emotional bug to fix.
For now, the city slept, and Takumi allowed himself to feel something like contentment.