Forty Days to Tianjie

The holographic projections of the Council of the Three Realms flickered, their ephemeral forms casting dancing shadows across the polished obsidian of the chamber. Dr. Lian Xue stood before them, a solitary figure amidst the spectral glow, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Forty days. The words echoed in the vast, sterile space, a death knell chiming with chilling clarity. Forty days until the Tianjie. Forty days until the sky rained fire and the harvesters descended.

The Celestial Man representative, a shimmering lattice of light and circuits, pulsed with disdain. “Forty days,” it echoed, its synthesized voice devoid of any discernible emotion. “A mere blink in the cosmic eye. Your ‘prophecy’ is a fabrication, a desperate plea from a dying species clinging to superstition. We have transcended such limitations.”

Lian Xue’s gaze sharpened, her eyes, the color of ancient jade, fixed on the abstract form. “Transcendence is an illusion when the void itself hungers. You call Pangu-Makers myths? You call the Abyss a fairy tale? You have replaced your neurons with silicon, but have you replaced your fear? The Pangu-Makers were not gods, but farmers. And we are their crop. Now the harvesters are coming, and your precious logic will not shield you.”