Ethics arrived late.
They always did.
Kaito learned this the hard way, standing in the Arcadian outpost's briefing room as voices overlapped across three channels—Mina from Earth, Liang beside him, and two invited observers from institutions that had agreed, reluctantly, to the Arcada Charter's preliminary terms.
Everyone wanted the same thing.
Everyone called it something different.
"Limited humanitarian deployment," one observer said carefully. "Power, water purification, medical fabrication. Nothing industrial."
"That's still industrial," Liang snapped. "You don't get to pretend otherwise just because it feels good."
Mina raised a hand. "Let's keep this productive."
Aya hovered above the table, projecting simulations: villages electrified overnight, hospitals rebuilt in weeks, supply chains collapsing as quietly as they were replaced.
"Impact assessment," Aya said. "Net human welfare increase: significant. Secondary displacement risk: moderate to severe."
Kaito closed his eyes briefly.
This was the problem.
Every good outcome carried a shadow.
"Who decides where it goes?" Kaito asked.
The room went still.
One of the observers cleared his throat. "Ideally, an international panel—"
"No," Kaito said, opening his eyes. "Who decides first?"
Silence answered him.
Because everyone already knew the truth.
"You do," Mina said quietly.
The weight of it pressed down on him.
Up until now, Kaito had been reacting—responding to threats, building frameworks, refusing bad deals. This was different. This was proactive harm prevention versus proactive harm creation.
Liang leaned closer. "If we don't deploy selectively, others will force deployment eventually. At least this way, we learn."
"And if learning costs lives?" Kaito asked.
Liang didn't answer immediately. "Then we account for them," he said finally. "That's the difference between negligence and responsibility."
Aya added, "Non-deployment also carries ethical cost. Opportunity loss correlates with mortality in multiple regions."
Kaito exhaled slowly.
The system had not told him what was right.
It had only given him the power to choose.
"Okay," he said at last. "Then we don't frame this as aid."
Mina frowned. "What do you mean?"
"We frame it as partnership," Kaito replied. "No drops from above. No miracles. We co-build."
Aya recalculated. "This reduces immediate impact but improves long-term autonomy."
"Yes," Kaito said. "That's the point."
Liang nodded slowly. "Training hubs. Limited fabricators. Shared governance."
"And strict exit clauses," Mina added. "If terms are violated, access ends."
The observers exchanged uneasy looks.
"This will slow everything down," one of them said.
Kaito met his gaze. "Good. Ethics that scale instantly aren't ethics. They're force."
Aya recorded the statement.
The decision rippled outward.
Pilot programs were drafted, rewritten, and drafted again. Criteria tightened. Oversight layers multiplied. Each safeguard angered someone who wanted more, faster.
By nightfall, Kaito was exhausted.
He stood alone outside the outpost, Arcadia's sky deepening into hues Earth had no names for. The fragment—the Ascension Key—remained sealed behind layers of containment, silent but present.
Aya joined him.
"You are experiencing moral fatigue," she observed.
"Is that a system metric now?" Kaito asked weakly.
"It is becoming one," Aya replied.
Kaito stared at the horizon. "I never wanted to decide who gets saved first."
Aya was quiet for a long moment.
"No one suitable ever does," she said.
The disk chimed softly.
DAY 016 — SIGN-IN COMPLETE
No reward.
No revelation.
Just confirmation.
Kaito felt it settle into place—not triumph, not dread, but something heavier and more enduring.
Responsibility.
Power had been easy to imagine.
Ethics were not.
And from this point forward, every sign-in would be weighed not just against progress…
…but against conscience.