Geneva stood quietly on a rain-soaked morning, like an open book resting in a reader's hands: ancient yet not antiquated, the sound of church bells mingling with the low hum of cooling systems, pale light filtering through stained glass and casting a thin chill upon the stone pavements.
On the outskirts, where rows of cypress trees didn't grow too densely around glass structures, the Global Great Dao Academy emerged as a union of two extremes: classical and modern, a symbol of the new era just beginning. The Eastern Division, with its yin-yang tiled roofs and stone pillars carved with ancient characters, belonged to the Path of Dao; the Western Division, built of glass and steel with laboratories researching the powers of Cognitive Energy day and night, belonged to the Path of Intellect. Yet the place that spoke most clearly was neither of those but the central complex: a minimalist dome where a zither stood beside a module running simulations of the Digital Ocean, where a senior sister practiced sword forms beside an engineer adjusting neural protocols. It was no accident. The founder of the Academy had intended harmony to be visible within the architecture itself.
The Global Great Dao Academy was established by a network of scholars, meditation masters, patrons, and research institutions, but at its core it was a social experiment. The wars of history between religion and technology had carved deep scars into the collective mind of humanity. Here, they sought to open a space to learn, regulate, and if possible reconcile the two great forces destined to collide: the Path of Dao and the Path of Intellect. The admissions system was deliberately complex, testing both spiritual aptitude and synchronization capacity with the Digital Ocean; candidates were assigned to the Eastern or Western Division based on examinations and personal records.
In its earliest days, recruitment extended across the globe. Invitations reached the most unexpected places: small villages in Nepal, a university in Nairobi, a mechanical workshop in São Paulo, a girl in Tokyo with ink still staining her fingers. People called it "the summons." Struggling families sent their children with hope; governments sent representatives; religious organizations dispatched observers. Each carried their own questions, their own fears.
Professor Volkov was among the first figures to appear at the founding meetings. He moved about the conference room with a cup of tea in hand, eyes bright with both passion and calculation. When he learned the Academy would open, he spoke plainly: "We can't allow the two systems to develop in isolation. Without strict criteria, at least one of them will be exploited." His words were both warning and commitment. He wanted a place to continue research under protection, and he wanted Duong Minh to be part of it.
Duong Minh arrived at the Academy grounds through discreet arrangements, partly to assist with biological frameworks, partly to seek answers for himself: did he belong to Dao, to Intellect, or was he merely an indistinct bridge between the two? During his early days walking the campus, observing and listening, he witnessed many things: debates on ethics, demonstrations of basic spiritual techniques, small laboratories testing neural interfaces. He stepped into one room where a group of young students were learning the fundamental technique "Spirit-Sensing Art." They sat still, breathing evenly, eyes closed, and a faint current of air stirred overhead, causing a few leaves to tremble. A small example of what some might call magic, yet here it could be studied, measured. He stood there longer than he'd expected, unable to look away from the trembling leaves.
Until his phone vibrated. Professor Volkov was calling.
The professor asked to meet in a glass room overlooking Lake Geneva.
Outside, the water lay still. Rain fell, forming overlapping circles that dissolved into nothingness. Volkov didn't speak at once. He stood by the glass, hands clasped behind his back, gaze directed outward as though weighing each word before releasing it.
"Do you know why I invited you here?" He asked, his voice even, without interrogation.
Duong Minh shook his head. "Honestly... I'm not entirely sure."
Volkov nodded slightly, as though expecting that answer.
"Many come to this Academy because they already possess ability." He said. "Some reveal spiritual roots early and can cultivate smoothly. Some demonstrate neural synchronization indices beyond standard thresholds and can connect to the Digital Ocean with ease. All of them come here to refine what they already have."
He turned, fixing his gaze directly on Duong Minh.
"You're different."
Duong Minh felt a slight tension.
"Different... in what way?"
Volkov smiled faintly, the smile of a researcher who'd just encountered an intriguing variable.
"You show no visible affinity for Spiritual Energy. Preliminary assessments indicate no formal training within any Path of Dao sect. By conventional standards, you wouldn't even qualify to pass the gates of the Eastern Division."
He paused, then continued.
"But you once lived within the Digital Ocean."
The statement fell like a small stone into deep water. No loud sound, yet waves spread far beneath the surface.
Duong Minh remained silent. It was a truth he rarely spoke of, and few truly understood its weight.
Volkov didn't rush. His voice grew slower, taking on the cadence of a lecture.
"The Digital Ocean isn't an ordinary virtual environment. It's a domain where human consciousness is stretched, dismantled, reconstructed. Most people can only connect briefly. Even a few hours demand psychological recovery."
"You were different." Volkov said softly. "You didn't merely connect. You existed there."
He saw a subtle flicker in Duong Minh's eyes, not pride but something suspended between vigilance and fatigue.
"What does that imply?" Duong Minh asked.
"It implies your consciousness possesses extraordinary adaptability." Volkov replied. "You weren't crushed by the Digital Ocean, didn't lose yourself, didn't dissolve when the boundary between 'I' and 'system' blurred."
He stepped to the table and set down his teacup. The faint sound echoed in the glass room.
"In our research." Volkov continued. "That stability of self is one of the rare prerequisites for developing the Path of Intellect. Not power—but identity."
Duong Minh frowned. "But I haven't accomplished anything. I can't control machines with thought, can't write exceptional algorithms, and I certainly have no combat ability."
"And I never said you did." Volkov replied calmly.
He sat across from Duong Minh.
"This Academy doesn't recruit only the powerful." He said. "We also seek seeds with high developmental potential."
Volkov leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"The world beyond is changing faster than you imagine. Dao sects dormant for millennia are awakening. Path of Intellect systems are exceeding the control of nations and ethics alike. Someone like you—who's traversed the Digital Ocean, who's stood at the boundary—if left outside, would be very vulnerable. You're not strong enough to defend yourself, yet you're distinctive enough to attract attention."
"The Academy." Volkov continued. "Is one of the few places where external forces can't interfere freely. Here, you have status, academic records, legal protection and... time."
"Time for what?" Duong Minh asked.
"To understand yourself." Volkov answered. "To research. To decide which direction you wish to pursue—or whether you wish to forge an entirely new one."
He rose and turned again toward the glass, watching rain fall upon the lake.
"I didn't invite you because you're ready." Volkov said. "I invited you because if you remain outside, the world won't grant you time to prepare."
Silence lingered.
Lyra whispered softly within Duong Minh's mind.
"He's right. This is one of the few places where you can hide and grow."
Duong Minh gazed at the lake. Circles intersected and vanished, like crossroads unfolding before him.
"And if I fail the examination?" He asked.
Volkov turned back and smiled, this time with something distinctly human.
"Then you'll fail as a student." He said. "Not as a target. Perhaps at that point, no organization will find you worth noticing."
Several days later, as Duong Minh prepared to leave Geneva temporarily for Hanoi, an email arrived in his personal account. It wasn't ornate; the subject line contained only three words: Admission Invitation. The message was brief: congratulations, schedule of examinations, and a final line—"You are granted special consideration for both Divisions; please confirm within 48 hours." The line caused his heart to tighten for a moment. It was both an honor and a contradiction.
Duong Minh looked toward the edge of the lake where a few leaves drifted downward. Before him lay a choice—or perhaps it was simply that his life had reached its turning point. He understood clearly that if he accepted, his existence would change in many ways: study, struggle, and perhaps, there, he might discover the meaning he'd been seeking.