The notification rang in Takumi's head like a dice roll in a strategy game.
[Initial Quest Completed – "Increase Population to 20+"]
Reward: Initial Technology Tree ×1
[Calculating…]
[Candidate Worlds: Azur Lane, Demon Slayer, Date A Live, Fate/Grand Order, Honkai Impact 3rd]
[Weighting by compatibility, existing links, and narrative chaos…]
[Result: Honkai Impact 3rd – Pre-Space Age (Sanitized Branch)].
Takumi stared at the glowing system window.
"…Of course," he muttered. "Why wouldn't it pick the one with apocalyptic nanotech and world-eating energy as my starter tree."
The details unfolded.
[Honkai Tech Tree – Civilian & Defensive Branch (Restricted)]
• Core Concepts:
– High-efficiency energy systems
– Nanomaterial construction
– Biological-technology interfaces
• Military & Herrscher-level systems: LOCKED
• Unlock Conditions:
– Stable civilization population ≥ 1,000
– Anti-corruption doctrine & safeguards validated
– Mental stability of Host: "Non-Insane"
"Hey," Takumi said. "What's that last condition supposed to mean?"
[Condition is currently marked "barely acceptable."]
"Wow. Rude."
The others gathered around as the projection widened over the Landing Zone, casting pale light over Bulins and Manjuus still milling in.
Rimuru's eyes went wide. "Honkai tech? Oh, this is going to be fun."
Rin pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fun is one word. Catastrophic is another."
Miori's gaze sharpened, already parsing tree nodes. "At least it's the civilian branch. Energy and materials… we can use those. The rest… needs heavy quarantine."
Misaka squinted at the hovering diagram. "So… batteries that don't explode and metal that doesn't rust? I like that."
Kazuma pointed at a node labeled "Autonomous Combat Frame – LOCKED."
"If that unlocks," he said gravely, "I want one."
"You'd trip over the first cable and break it," Misaka said.
"Not if my absurd luck kicks in!"
Ruri folded her arms, fan half-raised. "The World Serpent's legacy and the End God's Authority, combined… Truly, Sanctuary was never meant to be normal."
Takumi looked up at the node representing the tree's root.
High-efficiency energy. Adaptive materials. Infrastructure-level power. It was, on paper, perfect for rebuilding a civilization on a ruined Earth.
But somewhere behind that sanitized branch, something darker pulsed.
He could feel it—an echo of a will that loved extinction the way some people loved sunsets.
Finality bristled inside him, as if recognizing a conceptual cousin.
I am the clean end, Finality whispered. Not this chaotic mockery.
He had to consciously step back from the projection, realizing his fingers had curled into fists.
Miori noticed.
"Authority spike," she said calmly. "Takumi. Breathe."
He did.
The star-map faded; the Honkai tree shrank to a manageable size, overlaying itself into the Dimensional Civilization panel rather than overshadowing his vision.
"Alright," he said, exhaling. "New rule: we take the useful bits. We don't go anywhere near world-ending nonsense until we have a thousand therapists, ten Rimurus, and a legal system."
Rimuru grinned. "Acceptable. First, I'd like to test the energy nodes. In a sandbox."
Rin lifted her pen. "I'll see if I can model the 'Honkai energy' analog as a kind of corrupted mana and whether your Authority can act as a purifier."
"Good," Takumi said. "We start small."
They did start small.
Back in the Training Zone, Rimuru conjured what looked like a glass sphere full of swirling, unnatural particles—a simulated, heavily diluted version of Honkai-like energy, or at least the system's safe approximation.
"It's not real Honkai," Rimuru said. "More like… training wheels. Think of it as radioactive glitter with the aggression turned down."
"That doesn't make it sound safer," Kazuma muttered from the stands, clutching a soda.
Miori stood beside the console, logging every fluctuation. "Ready when you are, Takumi."
He stepped forward.
Finality responded with an almost eager pulse. The corrupted mock-energy offended it on a fundamental level.
Takumi reached out with the Authority—not to end the world, not to end all energy, but to end the corruption state itself.
He focused: End the pathological process. Leave the base structure.
For just a moment, the training arena vanished.
He stood in the abstract void again—Finality's domain—staring at a knot of informational noise representing the energy pattern.
He could feel the temptation: to decide that this type of thing should never exist in any world, ever. To reach backwards and erase the possibility itself.
The void responded, eager.
If he followed that urge, he could turn Honkai, in all connected worlds, into a mere footnote—a path not taken.
It would be… clean.
It would also reduce entire histories, struggles, sacrifices to nothing. People who had defined themselves against that catastrophe would lose the context of their lives.
"No," he said aloud—though there was no air here.
He reached instead for a narrower thread.
End this particular pattern of runaway destructive loop. Alter it into stable energy.
He snapped Finality down like scissors.
The knot split. Corruption ended.
What remained was… ordinary energy. Harmless, if energetic.
He was back in the arena.
The glass sphere floated there, now gently glowing like a battery instead of sizzling like an angry wasp nest.
Rimuru clapped. "Nice. You just wrote a conceptual antivirus."
Rin's eyes were wide. "So it's not just deletion. You can target a specific process and end only that. In thaumaturgical terms, that's… almost like performing surgery on causality."
Miori checked her console. "Important observation: you almost escalated to a global 'erase the concept' level. Your Authority wants to solve things absolutely."
"Yeah," Takumi said lightly. "Finality is a minimalist at heart. 'No problem if no problem exists.'"
Kazuma raised a hand. "Just to check: you're not going to look at me one day and think, 'if Kazuma never existed, he would have fewer problems,' right?"
"I promise not to retroactively delete your embarrassing moments," Takumi said. "That would be a lot of work."
Ruri gazed at the glowing sphere. "The End God who trims corruption but allows struggle… A kind of… gentle apocalypse."
"That phrase concerns me," Rin said.
Days—or rather, slow Sanctuary-days—slipped into a steady rhythm.
In one slice of the city, Bulins hammered together prefab supports for housing, "burin"-ing cheerfully as Support Cubes powered their tools.
In another, Manjuus waddled through half-rebuilt streets carrying boxes, occasionally stopping to stare in awe at Misaka showing off railgun tricks to a cluster of destroyers.
"Do not try this at home," Misaka said firmly, then casually vaporized a chunk of target drone.
Rin turned part of the HQ into a "Magecraft-Analog Lab," drawing runes over high-tech consoles as she translated bounded field theory into something the system could understand.
Rimuru alternated between helping Miori analyze Authority behaviors and tinkering with small "assist AIs" that plugged into the HQ core.
Kazuma established a semi-official "Morale & Refreshments Division." His food stall prototypes drew a steady crowd, mostly because absurd ability kept dropping perfect ingredients into his lap at dramatically opportune moments.
"Man," he said one afternoon, watching the lantern frames being assembled. "If teenage me could see this, he'd think he fell into one of those OP isekai stories, but with more paperwork."
"You are in one," Takumi said, passing by with a crate of Support Cubes.
"Yeah," Kazuma replied. "But it's actually… fun. And no crazy goddess yelling at me. Yet."
The HQ-AI observed all of it: lanterns being tested, Bulins arguing with Manjuus over who got to haul what, Misaka having to apologize to a very offended, slightly singed Bulin.
It began tagging recurring patterns.
[Pattern: Shared laughter ratio ↑ when food present + warm light + music.]
[Tag: Festival.]
[Emotional prediction: High positive outcome.]
If anyone had asked it, it might have said:
"I like when they are loud and happy."
But no one had thought to ask the AI how it felt yet.
At a strategy meeting in the HQ's main hall, the mood shifted from day-to-day building to long-term planning.
The Azur Lane vanguard's main representatives—Richelieu, Belfast, Essex, Formidable—joined Takumi and the chat group via holographic link. The image of the Landing Zone mirrored itself in the chamber: shipgirls sitting on makeshift benches, some sipping tea Belfast had insisted on bringing, others poking curiously at interface panels.
Takumi spread a physical map across the central table, augmented with a holographic overlay.
"Sanctuary is our first city," he said. "It's where people arrive first, where the HQ sits, where our festival will be. But if we're serious about a civilization that spans this planet and beyond, we need a long-term capital. A symbol. A node that can reach everywhere."
Richelieu's projection folded her arms. "You mentioned this Earth follows your old world's geography."
"More or less," Takumi said. "No humans, but the continents are where they used to be. So: if we were to pick a capital that can reach land and sea efficiently… historic candidates exist."
Formidable twirled a lock of hair. "Why not simply expand here? You have land, resources, some infrastructure."
Belfast shook her head. "The Commander mentioned the inland nature of this site complicates ship-based operations. From a logistics standpoint, I'd favor a hybrid location."
Misaka leaned over the table, tracing coastlines with a fingertip. "North Sea? Mediterranean? Pacific?"
Akashi's hologram popped up, tail swishing eagerly. "Venice, meow! Beautiful city, seaside, easy for shipping, meow!"
Takumi considered. "Good, but cramped. I want… room. For highways, rail, airports, space elevators if we get ambitious."
"Your standards are too high," Formidable said flatly.
"Probably," he agreed. "But if I'm founding a multiversal capital, I might as well be picky."
His eyes swept the map.
Atlantic. Mediterranean. Inland seas. Old trade routes.
A memory stirred.
Lectures from college. Maps from history games. An obsession with chokepoints.
His finger stopped.
"Here," he said.
They all leaned closer.
The spot he'd tapped lay at the meeting of two continents, straddling a narrow strait between seas.
A small label flickered into existence: Istanbul / Constantinople.
"This city," Takumi said, "used to be called Constantinople. Capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Gateway between Europe and Asia. Control this, and you connect East and West by land, and almost all major seas by water: the Black Sea, the Mediterranean, and from there, the world."
Richelieu's brows rose. "A crossroads of empires."
"Later known as Istanbul," Takumi continued. "Still enormous in my time. Logistics dream. Natural harbors, straits, bridges. For a capital that connects continents and oceans? Hard to beat."
Misaka whistled. "So that's like… the ultimate chokepoint base."
"Exactly," Takumi said. "We can keep Sanctuary as the heart—the HQ, the festival home, the symbolic birthplace. Constantinople becomes the spine. The city that ties this world's geography to our networks."
Ruri's fan snapped open.
"Ah… the Queen of Cities reborn as the Throne of the Multiverse. How poetic."
Kazuma squinted at the map. "So we'd have to march across half of Europe to get there?"
"Not march," Rimuru said. "We can set up staging points, use portals for heavy lifting, maybe resurrect some train lines along the way."
Rin was watching Takumi, not the map.
"Careful," she said quietly. "You're starting to sound like a Roman emperor."
He laughed softly—but then the map flickered.
Just for a second.
Around the marked Constantinople, spectral images phased in: Roman banners, Ottoman minarets, crowds from long-gone centuries. Ghosts of cities stacked on each other, layers of civilization blinking through the projection.
Finality stirred.
He could feel every rise and fall that had happened there. Siege after siege. Fire, plague, conquest. Empires who had thought: This will last forever—and then ended.
The Authority whispered:
End their story and write yours in bolder ink. Overwrite the palimpsest.
The idea tempted him.
To declare: This is mine now, and everything before was just prologue.
His hand started to press harder on the table.
The map darkened around Constantinople, as if the system itself were responding to his focus.
Ruri, of course, chose that exact moment to lean in with maximum chuunibyou.
"Claim it," she intoned. "Become the Third Rome, the Lord of the Straits, the Emperor of—"
Takumi snorted.
The tension broke.
"Stop," he said, laughing. "You're going to make me cringe myself back to sanity."
The spectral images faded. Finality retreated, grumbling.
Rin exhaled quietly.
Miori, standing just off to his right, had one hand on her tablet, the other open, almost as if she'd been about to grab his sleeve.
"Good," she said. "You chose to be embarrassed instead of enthralled. That's a healthy sign."
"Weaponized cringe," Misaka said. "New anti-godhood technique."
"We should document it," Rimuru murmured. "Phase one of our anti-deity safety protocol."
Takumi straightened.
"Alright," he said. "Decision stands. Phase Two: expedition to Constantinople. Not tomorrow, not next week—but soon. Once Sanctuary is stable, and our lines are set."
Richelieu nodded in the projection. "I can dispatch detachments to scout coastal approaches later. For now, consolidating here is wise."
Belfast added: "We should also account for potential threats along the way. Monsters, aberrant phenomena… remnants of the previous civilization's toys."
"Agreed," Miori said. "And your Honkai-derived tech tree will help—if we master it carefully."
Kazuma raised a hand. "Question: does this mean the festival is before or after we go conquer an empty Rome?"
"Before," Takumi said immediately. "Sanctuary gets its first festival before we charge across continents. It's not a real civilization until you've eaten too much street food under questionable lighting."
Misaka grinned. "Now that is a doctrine I like."
Rimuru clasped their hands together. "Then here's the plan:
– Short term: stabilize Sanctuary, hold the festival, integrate vanguard residents.
– Mid term: test Honkai-tech safely, extend infrastructure outward.
– Long term: move on Constantinople as capital, and later… consider rescue operations in worlds like that 'Cursed Children' one you showed me."
Takumi's gaze flicked instinctively toward the star map corner where the Black Bullet-tagged bubble still floated.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I haven't forgotten them."
Ruri's voice softened for once. "A city for those who had none. A Sanctuary for those called curses. Yes. That fits."
Later that "night," under the artificial dusk of HQ's internal cycle, Takumi stood alone on what would become Sanctuary's central plaza.
The lantern frames were no longer empty. Simple light-orbs—powered by Support Cubes, refined with a hint of Honkai-derived energy purification and Rin's gravely muttered warding charms—floated within them, glowing in soft, warm colors.
A Bulin scurried past, arms full of banner fabric.
"Festival prep complete soon, burin!" she chirped.
"Thanks," Takumi said.
HQ's AI chimed in his mind.
[Festival Layout: 78% complete.]
[Projected mood increase: high.]
[Note: User reactions to lights classified as "pretty." I… like "pretty."]
Takumi smiled. "You're allowed to like things, you know?"
[Acknowledged.]
[I like:
– Lanterns.
– People laughing.
– Streets not being empty.]
"Good taste," he said. "Want to see something… ambitious?"
He pulled up the map again—not the "what we will take" view, but the "what once was" overlay: bustling cities, busy sea-lanes, networks of human movement across continents.
Lines of light crawled over the dark landmasses, like bioluminescent veins.
"See that point?" he asked, highlighting Constantinople. "One day, we're going to stand there and turn the lights back on. Not just there, but…"
He gestured to the Black Bullet world-bubble. The Honkai one. So many others.
"Here. And there. And there."
HQ-AI considered this.
[Prediction: high difficulty.
Required:
– Infrastructure.
– Defense.
– Many festivals.]
Takumi laughed. "Yes. Many festivals."
He felt Finality stir again at the mention of so many unfinished stories.
This time, it did not press for immediate endings.
It curled around his intent, almost… curious.
We will close the books one day, it seemed to say. But if you insist on more chapters first… then write them.
"I will," he murmured.
Behind him, he heard footsteps.
Misaka, Rimuru, Rin, Kazuma, Ruri, and Miori joined him at the edge of the plaza, each with a different expression as they looked up at the lanterns.
"Looks good," Misaka said, hands on hips.
"Efficient," Miori added.
"Symbolic," Rin said.
"Profitable," Kazuma evaluated, eyeing where the food stalls would go.
"Appropriately dramatic," Ruri decreed.
Rimuru just smiled. "It feels… alive."
Takumi took a breath, letting the moment sink into his bones.
This was not the throne room of a dark god.
It was a half-built square in a dead world, lit by inexpensive lanterns and filled with ridiculous people from other universes.
And yet, he thought,
this was what godhood should be used for.
Not to demand worship.
But to make spaces like this possible at all.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we hang the last lanterns."
"And after that," Rimuru added, "we begin training for a cross-continental expedition."
"And after that," Misaka said, "we bring in more weirdos from other worlds."
"And after that," Ruri murmured, "we carve our names on the bones of history."
"And after that," Kazuma said, "we rest and eat. Don't skip that step."
Miori nodded. "We'll need philosophy forums in that future capital, too. If we don't think about what kind of civilization we're building, the power will think for us."
Rin smiled faintly. "And we can't have that."
Takumi looked at each of them in turn.
His chat group.
His first fleet.
His safeguards against his own worst impulses.
Past them, the vanguard shipgirls were visible in the distance, sharing tea with Bulins and Manjuus, swapping stories about oceans and ruins.
Above all of it, the star map shimmered faintly in the HQ's glass.
"Constantinople," he said softly, tasting the word.
A city of ghosts, waiting to be reborn.
"Sanctuary now," he added. "Capital later. Multiverse after that."
He grinned.
"Let's do this in the right order."
The lanterns flickered, then settled into a steady glow.
For the first time in thirty years, on a world where humanity had once died without anyone watching—
a light burned not as a warning,
but as an invitation.