The Pangu-Makers' Harvest

The holographic projections of the Council of the Three Realms flickered, their spectral forms adrift in the sterile chamber of the Pure City’s highest authority. Dr. Lian Xue stood before them, the weight of her disgraced past pressing down like the poisoned atmosphere outside. Her voice, though trembling, carried the sharp edge of unearthed truth.

“This is no blessing,” she repeated, her gaze sweeping across the impassive visages of the Pure City Elder, the shimmering form of the Gene-Aristocrat Envoy, and the stark, geometric outline of the Celestial Man Representative. “The ancestors—the ones we call the Pangu-Makers—they seeded our world with life four billion years ago. Not out of love. Out of need. They were farmers, and we are their crop.”

A ripple of disbelief, a wave of barely suppressed outrage, washed over the council. The Elder of the Pure City, his face a mask of ancient wrinkles etched by generations of controlled suffering, recoiled as if struck. “Heresy!” he boomed, his voice rough with the rasp of filtered air. “The Pangu-Makers gifted us life, sustenance, the very breath we draw! To call them farmers is to spit upon the sacred vessel of our existence!”